OBSESS.

I know, I know . . . working mothers obsess, too.

But they have less time to do the real, hard-core obsessing us homers can manage.

Usually, I obsess over my child.

Is he eating healthy enough?  Maybe I should start growing all our own vegetables.

Do I spoil him?  Am I not spoiling him enough?

Is that cough turning into the flu?

What about that book report that’s due?

Well, ladies and gents, I think I’ve outdone myself this time.

My latest obsession, which I can only now begin to acknowledge is

GRASS.

You know, the kind that grows on the earth.

The kind we painstakingly mow (or pay someone to mow) each week.

We edge it and fertilize it and pull each and every weed from it.

Well, my grass rebelled this past summer.

In fact, it completely died on me.

I was dismayed and felt utterly betrayed.

How could something I so lovingly cared for desert me that way?

(Does this hint at how I will deal with the college years?)

So began the obsession with finding the perfect grass that will never ever treat me that way again.

You know, the grass that’s weed-free because it’s so dense and lush.

The grass that needs no fertilizer so we can have healthy lakes and rivers.

The grass that loves sun and shade equally.

I met with several lawn “experts”.

I told everyone about my quest, often.

I surfed the web instead of sleeping and eating.

I ignored the cooking, cleaning and child rearing.

In short, I obsessed like I have never obsessed before.

The end result is a beautiful lawn.

The same lawn I could have had weeks earlier with far less stress.

A lawn that will in all likelihood get cinch bugs next year.

But I grow and I learn, even in spite of myself.

I learn I cannot research and obsess my life into perfection.

And who needs perfection anyway?  How boring is that?

So, I’ll tolerate (dare I say, appreciate?) some dead grass and uneaten vegetables.

I’ve never had a girls’ weekend.

I probably should.

It’s only fair.

◊

But when I think of leaving, even for a night, I experience a vague sense of panic.

Is that guilt?

Uncertainty?

Fear?

◊

No.  None of those.

The excuses I make for not leaving emanate from contentment.

I am happy in my life, in my skin.

This is where I belong and I feel no need to escape.

◊

Don’t misunderstand.

Life is not all rainbows and unicorns.

There is pain and frustration and doubt.

Usually all three, daily.

◊

However, I enjoy a peaceful familiarity

That I can nestle in amongst the love of my family

Or turn to the compassionate embrace of friends

Or pen a modest poem.

◊

Gone are the youthfully awkward days of my 20′s

And the driven, control-freakish 30′s.

40 ushered in a new, calmer era

Where I can love a simple life, warts and all.

I’m desperate for company.

So I accept.

Conversation swirls around kids, husbands and housework.

I am bribed with food.

The (blank) is shiny and new.

I am compelled.

I buy.

I leave with a full heart and an empty wallet.

A few weeks later,

I send out my own invitations for a (blank) party.

They come because they are lonely.

I serve food.

We chat.

They buy.

We are full.

My roots ground me.

My branches reach for the heavens.

They lift my children so they may float away on the breeze.

My rough, craggy bark encases wisdom and strength.

I am a mother.

◊

This poem was inspired by my neighbor’s oak tree (pictured above).  It must be very old and I feel lucky to have it as my view.  I just hope I look as good when I’m that old.

If you looked closely, I’m sure you’d find an actual pig.

But it has seating for six or more,

And we can all pile in through the magical sliding door.

Once inside our living room on wheels,

We nestle in among the books, toys, and discarded banana peels.

We pop in a movie or listen to some tunes

And off we go, zoom zoom ZOOM!

Every belief I hold dear is questioned.

Every action I take is closely examined.

Every trait I embody is reflected back to me.

◊

Sometimes it makes me proud.

Sometimes it makes me cringe.

But always it makes me look inside and reflect,

On the person I am, the person he sees, and the person I want to be.

 ◊

There is nowhere to hide from the innocent eyes of a child.

I no longer shrink from his penetrating gaze.

I embrace the lessons I am learning,

And realize we are raising each other.

She now has a family and a virtuous career in homemaking.

She knows she is not the sum of dishes, laundry, chores and mothering.

She is buried but not yet dead.

She implores with every pot and pan washed, every shirt crisply ironed, each runny nose swiped. . .

See ME!  Know ME!  Respect ME!  Love ME!

Let ME free!

But her pleas are transient and evaporate quickly.

She is trapped by choice, restrained by propriety,

Buried by necessity with the loose change beneath the cushions.

But not yet dead.

This poem was written in one of those “moments” we all have.  (At least I hope we all have them.  Please tell me I’m not the only one!)  However, when I shared it with a friend, she reminded me in her very eloquent way that there are always two sides to the coin.  I don’t feel this poem is complete without her addition.

Even when you are in cammoflage,

in your cloak of cook, cleaner, tutor, supporter, enabler

Your powerful essence shines through.

 ♦

Creator of life, creator of words that move,

Compassionate, smart, competitive

I am so glad to call you my friend.

Because my child will exhibit that same behavior tomorrow.

 ◊

I will never mention that you’ve worn the same thing three days in a row

Because I have, too.

 ◊

I will listen while you complain about your husband

Because I know you love him.

 ◊

I will support every crazy idea you come up with

Because we have to dream.

 ◊

I will love your children even when they are naughty

Because they are a part of you.

 ◊

I will be your champion when you need me

Because I know you’ve got my back, too.

 ◊

I will always be available for retail therapy.

The stove flame ignites.  It bursts to life.

The kettle sizzles and begins to warm.

The beans are ground in a flurry of shiny whirling blades.

The pure bubbling water releases the beans’ potential and fills the still kitchen with an awakening aroma.

The clock ticks on the wall.

My time is short.

Soon the house will stir.

My peaceful morning will slowly begin to hum and then quake.

There will be breakfasts and lunches to make, places to be, appointments to keep.

But for now it’s just me and the modest bean.

Reveals the dismal truth.

The stained T’s and cropped yoga pants

Have replaced the haute couture of my youth.

How did this happen?

And why didn’t anyone shout,

“Hey, you, Lady!

Back away from the discount T-shirt rack.”

I have a good idea when I went astray.

It was the day I made the discovery

That the one who loves all things dirty, grimy, and buggy

Meant more to me than any finery.

My garments are comfy and practical.

They reliably stay the course.

And when they finally cave under the pressure,

It’s into the rubbish bin with no remorse.

I take heart knowing the day will come

When I can again look my best

Someday all too soon

When those filthy angels finally flee the nest

Until that day arrives,

I’ll wear my uniform with pride.

For every sticky fingered hug

Makes me feel like a super model inside.