Motherhood Should Come with...

I'm joining the Gypsy Mama today with a Five Minute Friday posting.

The rules are to finish the sentence she gives you in 5 minutes. No editing, just stream it out.  Post it to her site. That's it. Oh, and let the person who told you about it know you're in.

Set the timer and here we go.

      Motherhood should come with a time machine. That way a new mom could travel into the future and see the gifts and talents this precious baby will have and not waste a minute trying to get him to do interpretive dance. Not waste any time on requiring them to learn to do finite math when the basics will suffice. Going to the future would make it easy to know how to pick your battles.
     And speaking of battles, a time machine would reveal which friends were really a negative influence and which among them were truly worthy of spending time with that precious child you've been given to watch over, train and care for. You could go forward to the time that first person wounded your child and flatten them! Or you could see how harmful your current habits might actually be and stop them. Get help. Whatever it took. And sooner.
   And then, of course, with a time machine, you could also travel back into time to re-experience the wonder of them sleeping safely in your arms. Or the comfort of a hug from that tiny, trusting soul brings. Or remember his shining smile. His pride at tying his shoes. His first tuxedo. Those road trips, just the two of you, exploring. But then, perhaps that is what grandchildren are for?
Ding! Done.
Motherhood is holding on...

and letting go...

I love you, son.

Get On With the Rescued Life

I navigated my childhood, a world ruled by a steroid-powered, asthmatic mother and an um-medicated, bi-polar father. by becoming adept at reading body language. Becoming invisible at the twitch of impending "Roid Rage" or keeping an encouraging expression in the face of manic rantings became  well-honed skills. At the ripe old age of 25 months, I was painfully aware of the dangerous atmosphere of my household. So my little sister's arrival as a helpless infant gave my life a higher purpose. It catapulted me into the role of mentor and defender of the weak.

I became adept at monitoring her growing abilities and taught her what my young mind saw as the skills necessary to succeed in our household. For example, as soon as I saw she could do it, I taught her how to grasp bars of confinement and climb out of her crib. Years later I taught her to drive, sharing with her the power of automotive escape. Most of her life I parented her as my own and was given positive reinforcement for being a thoughtful and loving sister. I honestly thought loving someone meant parenting them.

Childhood survival skills shape our lives. They can become the stick  driving us to success or the chains keeping us anchored to failure. My toxic combination of skills kept me imprisoned until my fifties: the habit of using the smallest body language cue to guide my responses, the necessity of being aware of and defending the weak even at my own peril and pattern of denying my own needs in order to meet the perceived needs of others. These skills were what made me a much-desired team member, who was incapable of defend herself while also being an incredibly arrogant, pushy person.

I was in my fifties before I realized my helpful demeanor actually belittled others. Talk about a wake up call with a slap in the face! The parenting I was lavishly doling out to others was really really something I was sorely lacking. I had to realize that I am the weak who needs to lean on the strength of God. And much to my surprise, the God position was already occupied by One stronger and kinder than I!  I needed to pay attention to internal cues for my own defects and quit taking the inventory of others. (Ouch!) And that I needed to get on with the business of actually living this rescued life I've been given. Quit the blaming and making excuses and let the adventure begin!

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

I'd be a remarkably accomplished woman if  I  had I gotten over  obsession with my weight earlier in life. It's amazing how much time I filled with worrying over how much I weighed, what size clothing I wore, or whether I looked fat. I bring this up to simply remind us all that how we spend our days is truly how we spend our lives.  If I had painted or drawn or sewed or danced or kayaked or walked or written or sung or basically done ANYTHING for the same number of years, I would be an expert. However, the time spent has left me with nothing. And I have no one but myself to blame. Bother.