About Running and Growing Up

My oldest, 14 year old Sara, is participating in her school's track team again this year. She runs the 800. Her choosing to do this again this season baffles me because running, unlike many other of the things she does, is not something that seems to come easy to her. But she's at it again, in what she has made to be a race against herself to discover how far she can push. I find this so brave and admirable.

So yesterday afternoon found the both of us at the doctor's office for her physical. Typical questions, check, check, check; breath in and out, check; lymph nodes, thyroid, abdomen, check, check, check. What about shin splints? do this and that, check; talk about her girly cycle now that it has become part of the process, check. Height? check (now officially taller than me btw); weight? check; pee? fine; hemoglobin? ok; eyes? check. Scoliosis? not to worry.

Then the doctor with such matter-of-fact calm, informed me that at this point of her development Sara's body is probably done growing. "Maybe there's another inch in her, but this is about it".

W O W

I felt like having a minute of silence right there, in honor of my daughter and all her hard work making her body grow so beautiful. A minute of silence to stare at her, take a deep breath and say, well, there you go, we've done it.

In one of those flashbacks that last only a couple of seconds yet you see decades of your life, I could see myself holding Sara as a newborn, wondering what she would look like when she grew up. Wondering about her personality, her tastes, her voice even. 

I saw myself as a rookie mom in tears over our breast feeding drama. 

I saw her as a toddler and all the many meals, all the times I told her to eat her dinner so she could grow big and strong.  

All the visits to the doctor's office through the years, weighing, measuring, making sure that she was growing healthy. 

And there she was, sitting on that exam table again, being all done growing. 

I was looking at my grown up child. This is what she looks like, this is who she is. A humbling, exciting, emotional flashback.

Although flawed, my mothering of Sara has been done with so, so much love and I find her to be delightfully fabulous.

She's so young, with worlds more to learn, discover, live, and share. So many more races to run. But the doctor's words make it feel like the foundation is done and now it is time to start building up. I hope that as a mom I did a decent job helping her with that foundation and that we made it "big and strong". 

The dice have been rolled. Is it too late for me to try to clean up my act and feed her a better breakfast in the morning?

Another one Dusts the Dust

Sofia brought home a project from school that she needed to finish. It was a paper collage of a snowpeople family: Mom snowperson, baby snowperson, brother snowperson and dad snowperson.
Baby was wearing a bonnet, had a binky in her mouth and was holding a doll. Brother was wearing a baseball hat and was listening to his MP3 player. Dad was wearing a suit and was carrying a briefcase. Mama... well, ... mama had an apron on and in her hand figured something puzzling.

I asked her if the mom was a cheerleader and she was holding a pom pom. "No", she said. "It's a duster". I cringed as I stared at the snowmom with an apron and a duster. She sensed my uneasiness and told me that she only thought of the duster because her friend had given the mom a broom. I know the friend and I know the friend's mom pretty well, and I figured that she might not be too thrilled with her assigned accessory either.

I knew it wasn't personal. I knew that although I am the mom of this household and therefore her first and foremost point of reference, it really wasn't me she was portraying. After all, how many times has that child seen me holding a duster? If it was going to be the actual me with a stereotypical tool in hand, that snowmother should have been holding a wooden spoon. Because dust I don't. Cook I do. All...the...time. I cook, they eat, and then they get hungry again, so I cook again. And again. That, she has seen me do. That, and laundry. The blessed laundry.

I didn't want to make a big deal of it so I just stepped away and walked towards my thoughts.
First thing that came to my mind were the Christmas presents she had gotten me just a few weeks ago: a citrus squeezer thingy for when I am dressing a salad, and two tablecloths. I am not complaining about my presents, just connecting mental dots. Her presents were actually very thoughtful because I squeeze lemons often and stick a fork into them to get more juice out of them, so she gave me a fancier tool to get that done. I also make it a point to have a tablecloth on for dinner, since a bare table makes me feel like I am in a fast food restaurant, not a fit place for my culinary artistry.
The second thing I remembered was a character in a novel by Chilean author Marcela Serrano. A woman grappling with her role, value, and identity as a wife, mother and individual, shares her life stories with a group of women in the same quest. One of her experiences came to my mind: when her young son earns a little money, he decides to buy everyone in the family a small present. They all got something special, something that in a way represented them. She got a box of laundry detergent.

Anyway, tracking back: The gifts, the story and the snowmom made me wonder about Sofia's perception of me. Is that what I do? Dust and make dinner?
I wished she had made snowmom hold a book,  or sheetmusic (I've been practicing piano so much lately), or for that matter, a paint roller, because heavens knows I have painted more walls in this house than dusted a shelf; hasn't my daughter noticed that? Or maybe a laptop, or a phone, or a purse and car keys, cause goodness, I get to drive them to plenty of places. Or even better yet, a super hero cape.
Sigh.
A duster it is.

Oh, the problematic of stay-at-home moms everywhere. Performing all sorts of life-supporting duties that have no glorified image in the simplistic eyes of this go-getter society. What kind of accessory would represent that? what would you like to be portrayed holding?

Fast forward to bedtime: Sofia is helping Joanna read a story I have read to her a billion times within the last three weeks. Joanna knows most of it by heart by now and she is beaming as she shows off in front of her big sister.
That, right there, is what I do, it is what I have been doing for the past 13 years. Raising little girls and helping them be happy people; and as long as my daughters sense that that is my purpose, then I am good. Am I doing it perfectly? Heavens, NO, but I think I am on to something.

I confess that there are times when I wish I had used these past years to build a career with a paycheck. Something awesome that would make anybody know right away what my representing tool in hand should be. But in my case, for what I want and need, I still choose this. The career can wait a bit longer.

I don't need modern thinking to tell me that there is more to motherhood than an apron and a duster. I have mothered with nary a dust (although plenty of grimy work) for over a decade and I have been the beneficiary of all the joy that it has brought in return. I do need to remember though, that as a stay-at-home mom I don't need to prove anything to anybody other than to myself that what I do is awesome and it makes me feel complete.

I have good and bad days. Some are wonderful, some downright disgraceful, but in all, I have really enjoyed my turn in this ride.

In retrospective, at least Sofia didn't picture the mom chain-smoking, yelling at the kids with a bottle of liquor in hand;  she didn't picture her as a prison warden holding a club either. Those would reflect a bit poorly on me. She didn't picture her  laying on the couch watching TV and binging on chocolate, although I must say that this last option sounds pretty good right now. I guess I'll go see if there are any brownies left.