A few days ago I dropped by a nail salon that recently opened up in our neighborhood to take advantage of their $10 manicure offer. I brought Babs with me, who ended up being a gigantic hit with the manicurist, who couldn’t get over how pretty she is. “She’s so beautiful,” the manicurist told me. She then scrutinized me closely and remarked, “She must look like your husband.” Despite this blow to my sweet little ego, she did a very good job with my nails, painting them a nice, modest peach. The color looks quite pretty with my skin tone and if it weren’t for the bitten-off, swollen cuticles rimming the base of each nail, my fingers would look lovely indeed. I’ve been struck by moments of contrast like this lately, something as ridiculously simple as a manicure launching my mind into a theological comparison of beauty versus pain.

On my walk late this afternoon, contrast was everywhere. I live in a unique part of the Northwest, just on the verge of civilization. If you look at my house on a map, everything to the left of me is densely populated, suburbs rolling into towns which brush shoulders with large cities. Everything to the right of me is wilderness, lush and beautiful forests that lay at the foothills of the great Cascade mountain range. Living here, just on the edge, gives my neighborhood an almost bi-polar personality that feels at once tame and rebelliously wild. Strolling along the trails near my house you can almost convince yourself that you’re completely alone, tucked away in the trees and bramble where no one can find you. Then you come around a bend and you’re faced with someone’s meticulously manicured back lawn. But as I walked today, I tried to lose myself in the bits of wildness that surrounded me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the thick, pungent smell of almost-Spring, that deeply mysterious odor that only mud can create. My nostrils prickled and twitched with pleasure until I was suddenly accosted with a breeze that was laced with someone’s artificially fresh dryer vent smell. My clean, responsible neighbors were just doing their laundry but I felt poisoned, and I sneezed.

I tried again, focusing in on the staccato voice of a frog who was singing somewhere nearby. His croaks echoed in the quiet, mingling with the gentle rustle of the pines and a distant robin’s melody. It was perfect, primal and beautiful. And then a semi truck tore down the road from which my path had branched off, growling and roaring and silencing the timid forest creatures. Deeper into the woods I was startled by what appeared to be the most enormous snake shed I had ever seen. We’re talking Anaconda-sized here, and for a brief moment I was delightfully terrified at the thought of such a fierce creature. Looking closer however, it turned out to be nothing more than litter- a long strip of plastic netting half submerged in muck.

Considering the countless hours of therapy I have devoted to allowing myself to see the “gray areas” in my life, suddenly being aware of all this contrast surprises me. I’m supposed to be finding my comfortable middle, to stop defining my life with harsh contstants like good or bad, right or wrong, success or failure. The middle is a kinder place to be, so much gentler and more forgiving, so much more flexible. But lately I have been faced with some particularly painful choices, and I’m frightened by the middle ground. It feels unsteady and dangerous. I find myself wanting to stand firm on one side or another as long as the answer, whichever side it falls on, is clear. But I think my recent fixation with contrast is more than just a desire for clarity. One of my favorite scriptures talks about the necessary transgression in the Garden of Eden. It says Adam and Eve would have “remained in a state of innocence, having no joy, for they knew no misery; doing no good, for they knew no sin.” I find that immensely comforting. Because I know my life will be filled with misery and the pain of wrongdoing. And if I wasn’t so absolutely sure that this suffering would make the good times feel even better, and the happy times seem more beautiful, I think I would just about lose my sanity. I need to know that if I’m down there in the muck, stuck with fraudulent snake skins and horrible diesel engine rattles, and the air smells like a laundromat and my cuticles are all torn to bits, after all that, there is something seriously wonderful on the other side.

I think it’s called hope. Or maybe faith. Whatever it is, I need it.

That need drives me to look for grace in dark and sour places. And it turns out I would rather live the kind of life that drags me through those frightening places so that my breath can be taken away by something unexpectedly beautiful, than wander through the middle untouched.

reflection in a mud puddle

[Before you read this entry, if you haven’t already heard about what happened when Melissa from Suburban Bliss was on the Today show, check out the video, and read up on it here.]

A week or so ago we were putting Babs to bed and dealing with the required nightly whining. “But I’m not tired!” (Giant yawn.) “I’m the kind of girl that doesn’t need to sleep!” (Stumble YAWN stumble.) As always, we read her some books and gave her some kisses and tucked her into bed despite her sleepy protests. I had barely closed the door behind me when I heard her calling me back into her room. Opening the door again I saw that somehow, in the few seconds it took for me to leave her bedside and walk out into the hall, she had taken off all her clothes below the waist, stripped her bed of all covers, toys, and stuffed animals, and peed. Intentionally. When I asked her what the heck she was thinking, she told me, “I thought that if my bed was wet you would let me come sleep with you and Daddy!”

As a mother, you sometimes come across moments where you are at such a loss that you would pay any amount of money to have someone come and get your child through whatever incident transpired while you are somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away. Eating chocolate. A calculated, pre-meditated bed-wetting is unquestionably one of those moments. I do not like cleaning up pee. I do not want to figure out how to explain to her, in a voice that is gentle enough so that she’s not shamed but firm enough that she knows I’m serious, that she cannot control where she sleeps by deciding to pee in her bed. But I have to. I’m her mother. And if I mess it up, I’ll be dealing with repeated episodes of calculated peeing, not to mention the fact that she’ll probably grow up with some kind of peeing complex and cost us thousands of dollars in peeing therapy. (However unlikely that outcome may seem to you non-parents out there, all mothers will tell you that we are constantly overwrought by the thought of how much therapy our children are going to need because of us.)

My point here is that no matter how small, annoying, mundane, or unsavory a task presents itself with our children, not only do we not have a choice whether or not to deal with it, but we aren’t just dealing with it to get through the moment. We are actively parenting during that moment to ensure that our children learn from this experience and use it to grow into a good person. And that, Ms. Viera, is why being a mother is nothing like being a babysitter. How dare you imply that my parenting is worth as much as a fourteen year old’s part time job. Finslippy and Izzymom have both articulated this better than I ever could, both bringing up what I consider to be the core issue here: that mothers are held to an impossibly high standard without ever receiving the respect that should naturally follow from achieving that standard. Why? Because other women are jumping on every opportunity to pick their fellow mothers apart.

I do not drink. And even so, I have absolutely no problem with a mother having a glass of wine at a playgroup, just as I have no problem with a dad indulging in a can of beer as the kids scurry around his feet while he watches the game. I have many reasons for this opinion, but I honestly don’t think that drinking vs. not drinking is what has gotten the internet up in arms about this interview. The fact is, one well-spoken and responsible mother was judged and attacked on national television by two other mothers, just because they don’t agree with her. There were no alternatives offered by Meredith Viera or Dr. Taylor when they gave their opinion that mothers need to find “other ways” to relax and socialize. No solutions were given to something they obviously considered a problem. And I think that’s because the point was not to present a rounded, well-informed piece of news. The point was to judge.

No wonder mothers feel isolated, alone, and unsupported. To become friends with another mother is to risk being cut down by her. And to be honest? I’m not sure I really want the “village” raising my child if the village is full of women like that.

When I was little, one of my dad’s favorite ways to get me out of bed quick in the morning was to look out my window and say, “It snowed last night!” Without fail, even if it was mid-August and I had slept with a fan on to ward off the heat, I would pop out of bed wide awake to see if it was true. (His other favorite way to wake me up was to hold a glass of water over my head and threaten to dump it if I didn’t wake up. Granted, I have never been a morning person, but I strongly believe that these early morning traumas contributed to my great need for therapy later in life.)

Living in the Northwest, our winters have always been wet and mild. I can count on one hand the memories I have of waking up to a white Christmas. On the rare occasions that we got a snowfall heavy enough to allow sledding, every child in the neighborhood would be outside as long as their cold little toes could take it. You had to pack every fun snow activity you could think of into one day, because you never knew if the snow would still be there tomorrow. Every yard would be littered with snow angels and the remnants of a furious snowball fight. Tracks from twenty different sleds led from the homes to the one tiny slope in our neighborhood that could be used as a sledding hill. A proud, dilapidated snowman held a frozen vigil beside every front porch. Snow was magical. Our world shut down completely, as drivers who were unaccustomed to snowy streets all decided to stay home, and schools closed their doors for the day. Everyone was cheerful and full of energy, and neighbors who we hadn’t seen or spoken to for months would be out in their yard calling greetings to the passers by. At the end of the day, I would fall into bed exhausted with red cheeks still burning from the cold and a belly full of hot chocolate. Nothing has ever felt so perfectly satisfying.

When the snow started to fall yesterday, I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to take the girls sledding and teach little Zibbit how to make her first snow angel. But I noticed some other thoughts creeping in that I hadn’t expected. I found myself praying for the snow to please please be melted in time for Babs to go to school on Monday. I mean, not only do I look forward to that little break, but I also pay good money for her to go to class!

Ugh. What a horridly adult outlook.

I was also concerned about driving safely on the slushy streets, and since my mom’s power was out my mind was fervently cataloging all the candles and extra blankets just in case ours went out too. In a way, I felt like the responsible mommy in me was betraying that innocent child inside who wanted nothing more than to run out and catch snowflakes on my tongue. The fluttery anticipation I remember feeling at watching the ground turn white when I was little was overshadowed by the obligation I felt to think ahead and prepare and make sure the kids’ noses were warm enough. The responsibility took away so much of the special magic of our first snowfall this year. As I nervously watched the temperature drop and the streets turn from slush to ice, I thought (not for the first time) that sometimes it really sucks to be a grown-up.

Last night as we were lying in bed, my husband turned to me and said, “What do you think is the most important thing in the whole world?”

Without hesitating, I answered, “Love.”

“What kind of love?” he asked.

“Every kind.”

I believe that the only required life experience is love. Love is the root of happiness, joy, fulfillment, and peace. I think that we were given the gift of life on earth in order to experience and learn and grow. With that growth comes a stronger sense of who you are and what your place is in the world. The better you know yourself, the easier it is to give and receive love. When you give someone real, true, honest love you are adding a chapter to the manuscript of their life. There isn’t a better gift to give someone who is important to you than the gift of your love. Everyone wants it. We’re all looking for it in our own way. We read about it, we sing songs about it. Even the media portrays cryptic advertisements that are meant to trick you into thinking you can find love through food or cars or meaningless sex. The thing about real love, the kind that changes you, is that you can’t find it anywhere but the outstretched hand of the person who wants you to have it.

Think back on who you have loved, who has loved you. For me, my life is broken up into segments defined by love. The unconditional love I felt from my grandmother, the chaotic and intense love for my little sister, the passionate love my husband and I feel for each other. I picture my life like a color wheel, each love assigned its own unique color and everything coming together to create a rainbow of something beautiful. Even the painful loves, like that stupid boy in high school who left me without looking back and the friends who have had to move on and away, I wouldn’t trade those experiences of love for anything in the world. Each time I have offered and received love it has given my life more texture, more depth and meaning.

My hope is that when I am closing my eyes for the last time, I will have story so rich and colored with every kind of love that I can die knowing my life meant something important to this world. Something that could never be replicated or analyzed or filed away behind the casserole recipes in your mind. I want you to remember me in your heart.

Every once in a while, Ammon and I will get into a discussion about whose job is harder. He always talks about how lucky I am to spend so much time with the kids, and that I don’t have to worry about making enough money to support the family. I bring up the fact that his job doesn’t include people hanging on his legs while he goes to the bathroom or throwing chicken nuggets at his head and screaming incoherently. His boss always tells him what a great job he’s doing. In fact, a couple of months ago he even got a raise and a promotion. My bosses like to show their appreciation by splashing me in the face with bath water and taking turns waking up before dawn.

I would kill for the kind of work environment he has. Can you imagine? He gets to eat lunch whenever he wants, without first taking orders from tiny irrational people who yell at you when you refuse to give them ice cream. He gets to spend time talking to people about interesting, intelligent subjects instead of asking them if they have to go potty or explaining the various alternatives for cleaning one’s nose other than picking it. I suppose that’s the very nature of being a mother. It’s a job filled with mundane, repetitive tasks, severe under appreciation, and no breaks. None whatsoever. I work seven days a week, on call twenty-four hours a day, and I don’t even bring home minimum wage.

So why in the world do I feel guilty about wanting to get away from it all?

It’s not like I’m asking for a month long cruise in the Bahamas (although hey, if anyone is offering, I’ll totally take you up on it!) I just need a night to myself once in a while. Maybe a weekend without any responsibilities. A few hours to go shopping alone so I can actually look at the merchandise instead of chasing two crazed little monkeys all over the store. But when I admit those needs to myself, I am always suddenly filled with shame and guilt. I mean, what kind of mother would want to get away from her precious babies, the people she loves most in the whole entire world? It feels like some kind of failure, like I just can’t take the heat. And as much as my head tells me that I’ll never be able to take care of anyone else unless I take care of myself first, I still can’t escape the whisper that crawls up my spine telling me what a terrible mother I am for wanting to get the heck out of here.

There are times when my kids just fill my heart with pride and pleasure. First of all, they are the cutest kids on the planet, and even when they’re grumpy they look beautiful. And sometimes I get a glimpse of what’s going on inside their sweet little heads, and I just can’t believe that I am the one they call their mommy. We went trick or treating at Ammon’s office on Halloween, and Babs was in sugar heaven. Most of the employees had already gone home, so the long hallways were lined with bowls of candy sitting outside empty offices. As she filled her bag, Babs looked up with this darling little mischievous look on her face and said, “It’s like stealing, and saying trick or treat!” Seriously. Who would not want to hang out with a kid who comes up with stuff like that?

I know that those cute moments are always sandwiched between moments of limit pushing and selective hearing, but again I hear that whisper telling me that if I was a “good mother”, the happy times would be enough to slide me effortlessly through those not so happy times. It’s not true of course, and it’s a stupid, irrational thought. I just have to figure out how to stop listening to it.