Happy Mothering Day

Happy Mother’s Day!  Happy Mother’s Day to every one of us who practices the verb, mother, whether you call yourself one or not. Mothering has been one of the most elusive and powerful endeavors of my life. One that is redefined almost daily, but in ways I rarely recognize consciously.  It gives me strength to mother; it breaks me down to mother. It is the role that plays into my gemini constitution with such annoying accuracy that it sends me spinning into a Neverland far from the beloved Darling’s.

Mothering has given me an opportunity to take a fresh look on lifespan. To revisit what it means to begin, to meet newness.  To witness fragility and vulnerability, to feel these things through a synergetic connection with my child.  To feel the flutter of heartbreak but the necessity to demonstrate and nurture resilience.  It reminds me that fear is learned and that we set examples every day for children, whether we know they’re watching or not. But let’s be honest, they are always watching.  Mothering reminds me of cyclical natures, of phases go on forever, and of endings.  Mothering puts the preciousness of life right in front of me — extended from my own subtle body to the one that runs across the grass and into my arms.

I honor you, mothers, whatever your story. Because not only do we each have one that is unique and important, we hold the stories of our unique children too.  Goodness, we hold so much.

You are all champions.  Superheroes.  Saviors because you consistently put others needs and interests before your own. Truthfully, I think we should celebrate mothers much more frequently than once per year.  In fact, mamas, let’s celebrate ourselves and each other every chance we get.

With love, admiration and respect,

K

 

Two years and two days

Change brings things to the surface.  It reveals beauty, strength, beautiful mistakes, shortcomings. It creates a kind of amnesia too. A new present erases old presence.  And of course, change cannot occur with the passage of time.  How do you measure time? When the hours creep by but the days zoom? I sometimes measure in moods. When I begin to get anxious, it must be nearly A’s nap time. When I get cranky? Mealtime. When she gets cranky? Outside time. Fractions of me-time, holistically her time.

In the last two years and two days I have felt more deeply than I can understand. I’ve flipped from depression to sheer smitten joy in a matter of moments and then suffered emotional whiplash as a result. I spent over a year with a misaligned pelvis after childbirth and had headaches for 3 consecutive days. I’ve adjusted to (stop reading here if you’re easily disgusted) showering only 2 or 3 times per week and using natural hair grease to my advantage.

In the last two years and two days I have fallen completely in love again. Twice again. I no longer hear sappy love songs and think of boyfriends; I hear them and think of A. My daughter.  Bob Dylan must have written “Make you feel my love,” for his daughter. Right Dad? And James. I’ve fallen again for the man who stole my heart when I wasn’t looking. The guy who patiently waited until I noticed. To see him love our daughter is to see truth.

She runs wobbly with straight knees and I am gleeful.  She finishes our sentences when we read her favorite books and I’m so touched that she enjoys them.  That she absorbs them.  She tells me what to do and when to “stop Mommy.” Yes, many of the toddler bits are annoyingly bossy bits.

Two years of nursing. I was done, so done.  Months ago. And we kept going because I didn’t have the strength or courage or wherewithal to stop.  I wasn’t confident I had any other adequate tools to soothe her.  So many what-ifs, too many changes afoot. We moved from the home she was born into and I was worried she wouldn’t adjust well.  But the worry was all mine.  She is thriving, and so — so are we.

Hey, I’m here again.

This is about accountability.  I remain an artist, and thanks to a recent date with my father to a ballet performance, I’ve realized I would have been an artist whether I danced or not. Whether I moved to New York or not. Whether I left New York or not.

So I’m here to tell you, I’m now an artist working in Durham, NC. I’m a transplant and it’s lovely, odd, easy, uncomfortable – it’s so many things. Different. It’s so different and I’m grateful. I was ready for a change of pace, a change of scenery. More space for my body, more time for my brain.

There are trees outside my window as I type. There are at least three birds singing at once. There’s a wasp’s nest on our deck (we have a deck!) There’s a pool next door at our apartment complex and a trail behind it that winds and splits in more directions than we may have chances to explore.

So, if you’re local — come see me exploring all of these things live in the flesh next Friday, June 23 at 7:00pm.     untitled work-in-progress @ The Carrack Modern Art

Cheers, friends.

xo Kristin

 

Because it’s really about IMbalance

More than ever, I find balance through imbalance.  We can assign so many parts of life to their own spectrum. And as a way to find value it seems that we often seek just slightly to the right or left …

Just right

I find myself wondering already, have I messed up? Is this really what is best for my daughter? Is she being difficult? Why am I getting flustered? Did I really just scream into my pillow? I haven’t written in a while and this is a bundle of thoughts and emotions that desperately needs untangling.

This is the battle. Will I ever be good enough? I hope Ayla never wonders that for herself. She will be enough and more. Perfect in her imperfections. As a recovering perfectionist, how do I teach her this?

We’ll teach each other. I will always fight to protect her from negativity, I will work to be strong and confident and hope she picks up on it and if she doesn’t, we’ll dish over ice cream and complain together. We’ll nurture the patience it takes to untangle that complex cocktail of ambition and self criticism. Goodness I hope she likes chocolate; a savior and mediator of my internal conflicts since grade school.

I am enough because I am meeting her needs through each day and night, however many minutes it takes to decipher those needs. We’ve entered a new phase, a new set of needs, and with that come new skills and new discoveries. She is amazing. She is just right. Perhaps we’ll adopt “just right” in our house as an updated “that’s perfect.” Take a hint from Goldilocks.

Because isn’t perfection always changing? Fleeting? How can one thing be perfect when there are so many versions of every one thing? Perfect is unattainable, especially in the heart of a perfectionist. Perfect is modeled after something external that we decide is perfect and has little to do with listening to ourselves. So what’s the point? Working toward perfection is like cycling down a bumpy dirt road for the insatiable. Painful, slow and distracting. Let’s hop off our bicycles and play in a mud puddle. That will be just right.