Are You There, Blog? It's Me, Jessi.

Yep, been gone. Traveling, closing out another school year, wife-ing, mom-ing. Apparently the thing I chose to winnow for most of May was writing. Shameful.

Now I'm back.

And did I mention I am back with nothing less than The Mother Lode Of Clean-Outs to report on?

Oh, yeah. It's a doozy.

Happy Mother's Day, Indeed

It was a great day. I really did enjoy the day more this time around than in years past. This is going to sound sort of awful, but I think it was so nice because my expectations were lower. Let me see if I can explain...

I think back on bygone Mother's Days and see that I wanted some sense of recognition or acknowledgement or credit equal to the degree of which I think I "sacrifice" for the hubster and kiddos on a daily basis. There's got to be a term to use that encompasses that idea. Hmm, let me see, umm...how about "martyr"? Yeah, that'll work.

And at least in a way, a martyr I am. Now stay with me here.

One of the definitions of martyr is, "a person who sacrifices something of great value and especially life itself for the sake of principle". Let me tell you, if I thought it took great sacrifice when we were parenting one of the Us-es, I die daily to some part of me when you factor in all three; some hobby, some conversation, some thought process, some personal development, some self-awareness, some solitude, some spirituality, some spontaneity, some personal hygiene. Yeah, sacrifice is there. But coupled with it...no, the seed from which any of these sacrifices grow...is the principle(s) beneath it.

I don't have a personal mission statement for my life of parenting, but these are the principles that would have to be considered if one were ever developed:
-These kids were given to me, to us, to raise up. And though there is a tremendous amount of truth in needing a village to raise a child, they are our responsibility...and our reward.

-I have the awesome and weighty privilege of knowing these little people from their earliest existence. If I will allow myself to observe them, to assume very little about them, but rather to learn them, there will be no one better equipped to guide them in this life than me (and Ma Luffin' Mayun); to teach them when and how to stand and to bend, with the goal really being to teach them to know when and how on their own.

-I see them as on-loan. I don't mean that to sound detached or morbid or any kind of negative. I just simply believe that these little people are given to Ma Luffin' Mayun and me, within our household, for a very limited time. If this is the case then it is not my job to create miniature versions of myself...with my aspirations or talents or hang-ups or failures. The task at hand is to remember that I do not see the end from the beginning, so I am to take every opportunity I have to pour into them love, truth, authenticity, kindness, accountability, discipline, and steadfastness. I can slack off indefinitely in my housework. I cannot slack off for long in my mothering.

-The Us-es need to see living, breathing, healthy relationships between (a)Ma Luffin' Mayun and me and (b)God and me. They need to know the priority, the reality, and the prominence of these. They need to see the affection. They need to know the love. They need to know the truth that these relationships are absolutely not simple or easy or clear, but they are real and covenantal. And they need to know that there are elements of these relationships that will remain behind a veil, maintained as mysterious to them.

-They need to see me win. They need to see me fail. They need to cheer me on. They need to hear me ask for their forgiveness.

Yep. That so breaks the rules of developing a succint mission statement. But there they are, the principles that fuel the sacrifice.

Maybe in years past I wanted recognition out of some sense of insecurity in the newness of being "Mommy". Maybe I felt particularly unsung in the role (infants and toddlers don't typically give standing ovations). Maybe I needed some kind of acknowledgement because it would help me understand more of this aspect of myself, this Motherhood. I don't really know. Don't push the maybe, baby.

This year there are three. They're beautiful and funny and smart. And this year, whether I'm easy with it always or sometimes still feeling the mis-fit in my own skin, I know who I am: I am a mother, "mom", "mommy". I know it now. I don't need accolades or ceremony or applause to remind me of what I know. For such a time as this, I have the honor of parenting, with Ma Luffin' Mayun, these mysterious, remarkable little people.

So, some parts of me are dead, or dying, or will die. But I believe new will come, and rather than it just being newness in the life of myself it will be present in the lives of my kids.

It's the toughest thing I've ever done. It's the toughest thing I will ever do.

I wouldn't want to be found doing anything other.

Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own. -Marguerite Kelly

You Have Three Hundred Seventeen Unheard Messages...

So, okay...haven't written in a while...really sorry about that...don't mean to be inconsistent...so on, so forth...blah dee blah dee blah dee...

Why do I assume I need to apologize to you when I haven't written in a while? Do I really think that everyone but me is not busy AND lives and breathes by whether or not I have blogged AND stands waiting to hurl fists full of mud my direction for being a blog poser or some kind of slacker?

No, not really. Except for the slacker part. And I don't really think you think I am, but I think you will think I am and that stresses me out.

I don't answer my phone. Like, ever. In fact, I DAILY lose (at least temporarily) my phone; in couch cushions, under the bedspread, in the car, shoved down in one of what seems like five bags that accompany us at any given time.

I think this looks is slack.

I also don't always get back to people in a "timely fashion" with emails or messages. I even mark them "unread" so they'll stay bold and grab my attention, propelling me into response mode.

It doesn't. That seems is slack.

Last week my phone spent two consecutive days at KakiBlackBarry's house, forgotten twice. Poor dear friends, hearing it ring incessantly while Ma Luffin' Mayun and I tried to find it by listening for the tone. Once it was recovered Ma Luffin' Mayun lovingly said, "You've got to tighten up on that. I know you hate talking on the phone, but you've GOT to tighten up".

Hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuu. Yeah. I know.

There's a lot that can be rightly concluded about me from my aversion to phone calls: I'm generally pretty content with solitude (if you call me plus a seven-month-old plus a two-year-old "solitude"); I'm trying to focus my attentions towards the FabFive and Costa Cottage and don't carve out much time for anything else. There's always a meal or a hiney or a project or a mountain of laundry that's being prepared, consumed, wiped, winnowed, or tackled at any given moment. By no means am I self-deluded into thinking this is my plight and mine alone. Everybody's busy, busy with something. It just is what it is.

I really do strive to live this life...this wife-mommy-full-time-ministry-daughter-sister-friend life...well. I was the baby growing up. It was just me and SisterFriend. And growing up I was regularly admonished for being "irresponsible". Never berated, just corrected. I hated that. In a whole lot of ways I was, I was irresponsible, and I hated that. I think because of that sort of general notion about myself I have tried really hard as an adult to "make up" for having been thoughtless or irresponsible as an adolescent. I am a responsible adult. I have been in a beautiful, healthy marriage for thirteen years, we're raising three great kids, I manage a home, keep a budget, prepare bills, stock the shelves, feed the family, yada yada yada...

So why do I still feel like I have to apologize? A LOT?

Well, because what my not answering the phone conveys is that the people trying to reach me aren't worth my time. It gives the appearance that I can't be bothered; not by my mother or father, sister or friend. It raises more questions in the hearts and minds of the callers than it answers. "Is she okay? Is she busy? Is she talking to everybody but me? Is she depressed?" It suggests that I don't need the community of the people calling, that I'm an island.

Some days I feel like an island.

I love my life, I really do. I love my husband. I love my kids. I love my family and my friends. I love who I have grown to be (mostly), what I know about myself almost thirty-three years into this thing, what I am now and not anymore. But I'm telling you, it kicks my butt some days. I think my golden friend said it best when she left me a comment a couple of years ago. She wrote, "Becoming a mother may be the most wrenching, identity-forming/altering event in our lives." Two more kids later from when she first posted that and I can say, "few truer words have ever been spoken".

I get lost under all this sometimes. I get lost in the functional. I get buried underneath the daily minutia. Sometimes I'm treading water; certainly not for survival or peace or even joy, but treading water just to remember my whole person, my integrated self. And a lot of times it's from that place that I don't answer the phone. How do I break off and have a conversation when I can't even carve out a time for me to pee in private?
Boy, that sounds melodramatic, doesn't it?

The reality...the truth... is I don't have time not to connect and commune, in small ways and in big, with the people I so dearly love in my life. My Touchstones. My Battle Friends. The People Who Knew Me When. I realize that they remember exactly who I am in those times that I can't even spell my name. I understand that they seek not to drain but to draw close. And there isn't one among them that couldn't handle a fifteen-minute phone call versus the hour I think I have to carve out to connect with each person in my life.

One more apology...

I'm sorry that I presume myself to be busier than you, if not in my thoughts most certainly in my actions (or inactions). I'm sorry I forget that the name that pops up on my phone isn't a "contact", but rather a comrade or a confidant.

I'm not irresponsible, and I'm not an island. And there is slack.

I guess that leaves me with nothing more to do than follow a bit of wisdom and "tighten up".

Thank God for messages awaiting replies and calls to return.

By yourself you're unprotected.
With a friend you can face the worst.
Can you round up a third?
A three-stranded rope isn't easily snapped.