The Water Lily

Wife, friend, daughter, sister…Identities are made up of so many experiences, relationships and histories. Our present-day selves informed by past incarnations. Each layer building on the last, like the ruins of a city unearthed in an archeological dig.

Yet, some changes to our identity are so dramatic that metaphors like this are no longer adequate.

Mom…Becoming one is such a cataclysmic shift that life is divided into a “before" me and an “after" me. A more apt metaphor for birth is an earthquake that changes the shape and look of the landscape.

Everything is still there, but different.

When I write about being a friend, a wife or a daughter now, I filter my thoughts through the lens of being a mom. Or I write about how these different identities inform who I am as a mother.

The daughter, the sister, the neighbor, the parts that exist outside of me as a mom have not gone away. Sometimes, it takes someone else to remind you of the “before” you.

Special Needs Teacher...My years in the classroom definitely have an impact on the kind of mother who I am, but in subtle ways that are less accessible from day to day. You probably don't even know about this identity. I haven’t written about this past on my blog.

But Kristi of Finding Ninee wrote a post called I Don't Know Who I'm Crying For that touched me so deeply that I had to respond.

She wrote about Kelly, a mom who tried to kill herself and her 14-year-old daughter, Issy, who has autism. Kristi’s reaction was filtered through her own experience as a mom to her son, Tucker, who has special needs. I venture to guess that such a brave and honest post could have only been written by a mom, and a mom as amazing as Kristi. I doubt that the "before" Kristi could have written it with such raw candor and vulnerability. Here are some of her words:

…I don’t know who I’m crying for. Am I crying for Kelli? For Issy? For Tucker? For me?

Yes, I guess. But I’m not sure.

I am sad. I am mad. I’m mad at Kelli. I’m mad at the situation. I’m mad and scared and hurt and worried that, in some cases, special needs people are SOMETIMES violent. I think that the fact that special needs can include violence is the hardest thing of all for me.

I keep erasing my words. I have to ask myself what bothers me so much about this.

What I’ve come up with is that I don’t want you to think that Tucker is like Issy.

I don’t want Tucker to be like Issy...

Kristi goes on to wonder how violence fits in our world. I am grateful that she has agreed to publish my response to her query. I'm grateful for Kristi's many identities -- my friend, mom to Tucker, writer, passionate crusader for children with special needs, compassionate carer of us all.

I'm honored to have my post on her blog. It's called The Water Lily, if you would care to take a look.

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Photo Source: Flickr, Donna Sutton

Unhappy Homemaker

Source

My husband did our taxes this year. All I had to do was sign the bottom to make it official. Simple enough. Until, I saw what he had listed next to my name as occupation. Evidently, I am a "Homemaker". Indeed, the top of the form indicated that it was the 21st century. For a split second I thought it was 1952 instead. Then, I remembered that I'm not at home making meatloaf, shining silver or adding just the right amount of starch to freshly-washed shirt collars, as I imagine the happy homemaker did in her day.

Anyway, I went ahead and signed the form because a) the IRS just wants our money, b) I was much obliged to my husband for doing the taxes, in the first place, and c) I'm just as confused as George is about the nature of my newfound occupation.

In my mind, the term "Stay-At-Home-Mom" and it's less-than-appealing acronym aren't exactly progressive alternatives to Homemaker. Contrary to the connotation, I have been known to venture into the world with and without my child, since I left the 9 to 5 world behind. I'm not a Victorian shut-in, for crying out loud. Of course, "Housewife" sounds terrible -- I'm no longer merely stuck in my house, as SAHM implies; I'm married to it. I'm certainly not a "Domestic Goddess" either. I don't define myself by my domesticity, nor could I call myself a goddess with a straight face.

On the flip side, I'm not considered a "Working Mom", which seems to suggest I sit at home watching talk shows all day. Or that I need to get paid for what I do all day, in order for it to be considered a meaningful contribution to society. Still, I wouldn't call myself a Working Mom, even if I could get away with it. Yes, caring for children is work. But Claire is a human being and my daughter, not a job.

Nothing's just right. We need to rebrand people.

I like to think of myself as "a woman who left her paying job to care for her child". That description represents my reality more accurately, but it certainly isn't very PR-friendly. My brain hurts trying to remember it or give proper consideration to an appropriate acronym. The term would not have fit on an IRS form either.

Claire calls me "Mama". I've become quite partial to being identified by that term. I think next year I'm going to put "Mama" on the tax return. Done. I'll leave the rebranding to the career women out there...


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This Time is Ours

I am composed of decades of history. Claire's history starts with me. 

I possess many identities. "Mama" is the only one Claire knows.

I struggle to remember being so young. Claire lives fully in the present without reflection.

I'm in awe of these distinctions. We see one another across a divide of time and experience.

Yet, we share an intimacy begun in the womb. Singularly, I am her mother. She is my child. I am humbled by such grace. I am overwhelmed by the weight of its responsibility also.

Parts of me have become neglected, the ones other than "mama", the ones from before her. I feel them flicker inside, exhorting me not to forget them.

But Claire began inside me too. She grows, still, in my gaze. It reflects back to her who she is and who she will become.

This kind of love only a mother knows, only she can give. It means that pieces of me lay fallow, for awhile. Claire won't be little for long. A day will come soon when I'm not the center of her world. 

Then, Claire will have her own mix of identities. They will have grown out of the relationship we are building now. 

This time is ours. I wish to savor it greedily.


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