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My journey to find my writer's voice and the lessons I have learned on the way. |
| Last night, I dreamed of my children. Not as they are but as the were. And in my dreams, unlike my memories, I was a happy mother. I didn't feel harried, or anxious, or stressed. I saw them when they were happy to be home with me. I played with my baby and cleaned my kitchen. And In my dream, it was enough. When I woke, I was happy. Glad that perhaps there was a time when I was the affectionate mother I should have been. That I only remember the hard times in my waking hours. I was secure in knowledge that while my memory forgets, those good times are still there. Thankful that God remembered those moments for me and showed them to me. As I slowly woke, content with the happiness of those long lost memories, I remembered that today is Halloween. As my youngest has just begun middle school, this means big changes for me. I was relived that I no longer have the craziness of past years. No school parties, no costume parades, no Halloween make-up to do, and children to run after. I can finally relax and enjoy the day. Halloween has always been one of the most stressful days of the year. And a small thought wiggled through. A small melancholy as I felt the new position of my life. But, as I looked out the window, I saw a young mother with her costumed child skipping with excitement to school. All of my joy and contentment crumbled to despair. Suddenly I realized that not only had this day changed, but I had missed the whole point of it all these years. My dream no longer served to remind me that there were good times, but to show me how it should have been. How I should have enjoyed it more. How I was so discontented and busy, I forgot to look at the big picture. I was wracked with heaving sobs. Tears began to flow before I had even realized why I was crying. All those years, I was complaining about the stress and difficulty of small children. I was waiting for the day when they were self-sufficient. I spent so much of my time waiting for the next moment rather than enjoying the one I was in. And now it's too late. I feel as though I was never the mother they deserved. The mother that found joy in those frantic moments. That waited for them to come home and tell me all about their day. How could I have ever been what they needed? And as that wave of despair receeded, I am left feeling spent. Was last night a beautiful memory reminding me that I really did have times of happiness in parenting? That I was enough for them and that the haze of my depression has hidden them from me? Or was it a foil to show me what I have lost and what I did wrong and will never be able to change? It is a haunting melody from my past, a discordant collection of notes, and a reminder that I must find the tune beneath the chaos. |
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