Best.Mom.Ever? I’m Banking on “Great Mom, Usually”

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In honor of Mother’s Day, and, more specifically, motherhood – the greatest job you’ll ever love and  sometimes still fall short in. … Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms, keep on keeping on, and, most importantly, keep on laughing at yourself:

I’m banking on the fact that my indulgent, but unabashedly honest, temper tantrum  last night in front of my son and husband, while disgusting, is at least relatable.  And, I’m banking on the fact that my follow up performance from this Mother’s Day morning is the sign of a healthy, though perhaps slightly dysfunctional, mom.

I wince when I think of my crestfallen son’s little face as he watched me carry on last night, wailing about when I’d get the chance to sit on the couch and zone out for a mental break.

The details are fuzzy, but I do recall my tantrum involved some stomping and over-exaggerated slamming of various kitchen items, as I bitched through the evening clean up and bedtime routine.  There may have been some yelling too – and possibly an overly-dramatic proclamation to the effect that perhaps in 18 years I might be able to sit on the couch and watch a television program and finally –finally - rest my mind.

All this nonsense performed much to the horror of both my seven year old and husband, a husband who sat there in his recliner, mouth agape, attention momentarily turned away from his beloved Sportscenter.  To be fair, he was taking a much-deserved break after a day’s worth of household projects.  But the problem was, why wasn’t I?

It wasn’t my finest moment, certainly not something to wail on and on about in front of my children.  The truth be told, Billy could have cared less, too engaged in his five year old shenanigans to worry over some “minor” family discourse.  But Eddie, my sweet, faithful pal, was another story.

And, on the night before Mother’s Day, the very day when the stars annually align and all the men and children in your life revere you, kowtowing to your every whim…theoretically, at least.  The shame of it!

So, I guess I’m also hoping  that it’s not so horrible if I followed last night’s performance this morning with a cleverly-executed plan to plop the boys in front of the television for a movie and shutter myself in my bedroom for a café mocha and writing time on my far-too-often neglected blog.

While other moms were likely out brunching with their families, I, instead, choose to put my headphones on full blast, loud enough to drown out Emilio Estevez yelling at his Mighty Ducks, and the occasional scream match my boys seemed to resurrect every couple of minutes.

The truth is, the break was long overdue, and, unfortunately, the meltdown too.

My world rises and falls around my family.  If I do one meaningful thing in my life, I hope it is to raise happy, well-adjusted boys who grow up as loving, respectful and functioning members of society.  If so, I will have done my job here on earth.  It’s a simple truth.

Still, with the chaos and general busyness of life – and despite loving every moment with my boys – I have craved a break for quite some time, a break I rarely take – even when I have the opportunity.

Most moms can relate; it’s the mother-balance conundrum.

So, when you look at the bigger picture, this behavior – even the occasional and inappropriate meltdown  – are normal, perhaps even dysfunctionally healthy.  Possibly, the only thing healthier would be to actually take more breaks when those occasional opportunities arise in the first place.  Surely, it’s something to strive towards.

In the meantime, these few  moments of selfishness are a lifeboat meant to maintain any semblance of sanity.  Better yet, perhaps they are not even selfish at all.  Moms, after all, are notorious for actually being too selfless.

Best mom ever? Maybe not.  But, that’s okay.  I’ll settle for great mom, usually.

In My Defense, I Can Only Get Better From Here

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Nothing – nothing – is more humbling than needing the teacher and administrators to triage your second grader for you at 7:30 a.m. because you are too out-of-touch to figure out for yourself whether he is, in fact, sick or just playing you like a fiddle.

The fact that the “triage” lasted less than five minutes before our informal committee determined Eddie was too sick to be in school, and that my little preschooler, Billy, also started getting sick with this today, is perhaps even slightly more humbling…if that’s possible.  I’m pretty certain I may never be able to shake the reputation at school that I’m sure I’ve earned from my latest escapade.

But, in my defense, my son did somehow manage to break the thermometer in half with his teeth while I took his temp at 6:30 a.m., prompting a panicked call to poison control to verify that mercury is not in the model of thermometer I used.   And, in my defense, despite his sobbing that he was too sick for school, his flair for drama and penchant for pulling one over on me is legendary within our household. How could I know for sure?  Add to that, my preschooler’s knack for jumping in with his own tantrum, which he decided to do this morning, simply to best his brother’s meltdown.  If Eddie is the devious puppet master, my charming mastermind, then Billy is his devilish enforcer, and they both expertly execute their roles. It was 30+ minutes of mayhem, and when I finally got us all in the car, my head was pounding and I was already spent.  And, although the well-being of my kids is always first priority, the ticking of the clock kept reminding me that every minute of meltdown at the house was one minute more I would be late for work.

So, yes, by the time I lugged the two boys to school on this freezing morning, I was, a bit, frazzled. … In my defense, of course.

Perhaps the triage was my lowest point of a pretty low-grade day.  But, truthfully, it’s a pretty close call.

The moment when I dragged my little guys to work with me, seeking a childcare solution while they trudged alongside obviously craving the comforts of home, doesn’t elicit a feeling of pride either.  Perhaps the lowest point was actually facing the shame of my earlier decision to steal my kids’ treasured bag of change to use for the parking meters.  I’ll never forget the looks on their faces when they caught me red-handed digging through it for meter money.

Or, earlier in the morning after the thermometer “incident” when, in a lapse of judgment, I recklessly announced to Eddie that he may have poisoned himself, sending him reeling into panic.  Perhaps I could have played that situation a little more discreetly.

Then again, the moment you witness your preschooler finally figure out how to best you is also quite sobering.  As I watched him stand at the toilet with his pants around his ankles, stubbornly holding in his morning pee, I witnessed in him the exact moment when he realized the power he holds by taking control of the one thing I cannot control.  And, I glimpsed a future of a new type of weekday morning trouble… all in the spirit of mucking up the morning routine.

Still, it’s possible the most damning part of the day actually occurred after my dad came to work to pick up my boys.  Being caught sitting alone in my office, rocking – only slightly – back and forth while holding tightly to my temples, does not inspire confidence, at least not in the immediate wake of traipsing my downtrodden children through the office corridors, a half hour late at that.

In my defense, I recovered quickly from today’s disastrous start.  The rest of my day went off without a hitch.

Unless you were one of the countless people I cornered to retell the tale of my morning woes, you’d never even know there was an unprofessional bone in my body.  And, once I left for the day, I promptly arrived at Eddie’s school, like a responsible and rational parent, and gathered his homework.  A visit to the pediatrician’s, a trip to the market for their choice of ice cream, and a snuggle on the couch rounded out the afternoon.  Home cooked dinner on the table and adult conversation (that was not simmering with suppressed fury despite the crazy day) rounded out the evening.

Overall, I call the rest of the day a win.

I write this now as I cuddle between the boys while they sleep.  It’s the mark of a worried mother, wanting and needing to be close to them in their time of need.  It’s also the mark of an exhausted mother who played a bum hand today and needs some rest so she can try again tomorrow.

I may not have been Superwoman today, or most days for that matter, but I give it my all everyday, and my family knows how much I love them.   That’s going to have to be good enough.

At any rate, after hitting rock bottom today, one thing is certain…I can only get better from here.

Gramps…

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When I went to visit my Gramps today, I expected to see him sitting by the sunny window in his wheelchair.  But, instead, I found my beautiful, 94 year old grandfather lying under his covers in his nursing home bed, writhing in pain from his long-time aching back.  True, he was feeling more confused than usual and looking smaller than he really is, but he was still as stubborn as always.

It was 1 p.m., but with the shades drawn, the room was so dark it seemed like night.  Because the cranky Irishman had refused to get washed and dressed, he missed breakfast and lunch in the dining room, the social heart of his universe, and his cold lunch was still sitting on a tray in the corner.

I’m not used to seeing Grandpa when he wakes up in the morning, without his teeth, with extra-watery eyes, and in a confused, bed-drowsy state.  So, seeing him like that at this hour was even tougher.  Of course, I did not live with Gramps like my brother did.  He’s seen it all, and probably wouldn’t have flinched had he walked in on him like that.

Who’s that there?” he asked when I came to his bedside, though I was inches from his face, stroking his hair.

Grandpa is always confused these days.  He’s 94, so it’s expected.  But, he also has late-stage cancer and, lately, his confusion is getting worse.

It’s Brenda, Gramps. Why aren’t you up yet?”

Oh, hi Bren…my back hurts too much, I told them I don’t feel like getting up today.”

Come on, not even to eat?”

I don’t want anything,” he said with an air of defiant dismissal.  “But stay here and visit me….”

And then, without missing a beat, “…Hey who are you?  Are you a nurse?”

No, Gramps, it’s me, Brenda. I’m going to sit here with you, okay?”  I love this man so much. I can feel my heart break.

In blessed few seconds, an aide scrambled in, obviously relieved for back up.  It’s not one of the regulars.  The regulars know my family. One of us is there every day, especially my parents and brother.

He tells me my grandfather wouldn’t listen to him this morning.  “Maybe he will listen to you though?…”

You betcha he will.  That tough old goat knows better than to refuse any of us.

Without as much as a grunt, Gramps allowed himself to be washed and readied for the day.  And, soon enough, the room was bright, the bed made and he was getting ready to sit in his sunny spot for a late lunch.

So…uh…are you here alone?” he asked me for the tenth time since I arrived.  He is fishing for the whereabouts of the boys.

Even when Grandpa is so confused he doesn’t remember any of our names, he always – always – remembers Eddie and Billy.  The boys adore him too.  He is their special treasure, their “Grandpa Red.”  They don’t see him as a frail old man who struggles to get around and can’t remember things.  Instead, they see the man I have always known – the tough-talking, big-hearted grandpa who never pulls a punch, yet somehow always managed, as we were growing up, to practice restraint with us whenever we needed the unconditional love of a grandparent…even when what we really deserved was a smack on the butt.

They’re spending time with Papa today, making their own special memories, just like we did with you and Nana,”  I tell him for the tenth time.  The boys are luckier than they realize.  Someday, they will fully appreciate the blessing of having two sets of grandparents, grandparents who are crazy about them and move mountains to ensure they are a regular and constant part of their lives.

I did not fully understand what I had as a youngster and young adult either, until I lost almost all of it.

Ten years ago, we lost my 56 year old aunt, my mother’s only sibling, and then, a year and a half later, our Nana, leaving only Grandpa behind.  Our biggest fans at the ball field, the school and anywhere else we may be, they were always there.  No occasion was too small.

You know, Bren, I knew when one of you guys came up here today you weren’t going to let me get away with staying in bed all day, but I wasn’t gonna let THEM make me get up,” he said, with a gruff nod toward the staff station.

Yep, that’s our Gramps.  We call him a punk, a big ol’ grump.  And, even though he is anything but, he does enjoying putting up that front.

You know Bren, you and the rest of the gang are always running up here, making a big deal over things, taking care of me…I don’t want you to have to make that kind of fuss.”

Flashes of all sorts of seemingly mundane moments from years past fly through my memory. He’s been a part of so many.  I think of all the ways he made our lives better, safer, and filled with love.

Gramps, you’ve done it for us the whole of our lives. Please let us do it for you, okay?”

I think he’s forgotten our conversation as he settles into his chair for his lunch, because he doesn’t say anything in return.

And then, “Well, you know what that’s called, don’t you, Bren? It’s called family,” he says.

Yes, Gramps, it is.”

He may be increasingly forgetful and confused, but he is still sharp about the things that count.

Game. Set. Match….They May Be Good, But I’m Better.

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Sometimes, my kids can snooker me something fierce. Although, I like to think I’m always “on,” when they do catch me operating on autopilot, they pounce. I admit it.

Today, for a few brief, victorious moments, Billy made me his puppet.

It started like any other Sunday afternoon, preparing for end-of-the-weekend errands with a little five-year-old in tow. I was spending way too much of a chunk of time inside the house trying to corral my lollygagging, happy-go-lucky, oblivious boy, and eventually I, admittedly, got a little irritated.

Come on Billy! This has to stop! Let’s go! Nooooow!” I may also have used the two-beat clap for effect.

I most definitely startled him back to reality.

My sweet and rambunctious little boy flashed his sad eyes my way and mumbled, “Were you always like this?

I admit, he made me stop in my tracks. My heart clenched. “What? What do you mean, honey?

Well, did you always yell? Before us? … Because you make me scared and sad.”

There are no words for these moments.

I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to his words. Was my boy showing wisdom far beyond his years? Or was he yanking my chain?

My knee-jerk response was to feel the former, and I launched into full-out explanation mode, desperately fighting to clear my name, and campaigning to regain his affections. Like a classic sucker, guilt briefly consumed me.

But, thankfully, logic finally prevailed. I had hollered for Billy to speed it up because I was, frankly, tired of repeatedly trying to herd him out of the house.

I’m a yeller, but not a screamer – and about as scary, and cuddly, as the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. I parent with affection mixed with firmness, and cuddle my kids every chance I get. Sometimes, I fear, I’m too soft. Regardless, they know they are loved and cared for. At some point, the kid’s got to learn how good he really has it, I think to myself.

Or, did he already know? ..Wait a minute, what just happened? And, that’s when it hit me: My sweet little love bug was playing me. I’d been snookered!

He had me exactly where he wanted me. I was his toy. Maybe it was the flash of whimsy in his eyes that finally made me realize that my little baby was smarter than he appeared.

My yelling did not make him sad. It made him annoyed, hassled, and, generally, miffed.

Miffed enough to try to turn the tables…

And, so, for a few split seconds today, I was stricken with guilt about over-zealous haranguing, the kind that simply comes with the territory of being a parent. Small potatoes in the land of greater evils.

The irrefutable truth is that kids have a knack for inducing guilt. They know how to get under our skin and take control before they know how to read and write. Claiming minor victories like seeing a parent quiver at their whim provides more amusement and satisfaction than even their most cherished toy.

The opportunities for folly are endless. It must be in their genes. They are creative – and clever.

Meltdowns from Billy upon being dropped off at daycare instantly stop the second I leave his sight. Sometimes I’ve gotten caught in his trap and have spent the morning commute in a state of anxiety and despair. But, I’m getting wiser to his ways. Eddie’s tantrums over struggles with homework mystify his teacher, who watches him confidently problem solve the same curriculum in the classroom. To his dismay, I’ve recently caught on to his whiny ways. And, stomach pains of an immeasurable magnitude instantly vanish upon the presentation of a fun alternative to whatever had originally induced the phantom illness. (This one, I’ve learned to master after countless stunts by both).

Yet, they still persist to run their scams.

What my kids don’t count on is that, despite a healthy dose of Irish guilt, always ready to be deployed from the coves of my conscience, their mom is one tough nut, and as sharp as a tack.

Once in a while, they may win a game, like Billy did today. But, I’ll always win the match.

They may be good, but I’m better.

Wild Bill and the (Almost) Empty Nest…Will I Be Ready for the Real Thing? Not If Today Is Any Indicator…

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I’m usually pretty rational when it comes to parenting, but, sometimes, the very love and attachment you have for your kids can be what does you in.

Once in a while, with no prior warning, my neurosis escapes before my rational alter ego can contain it. That happened today, when my little guy clued me in once and for all that he has no intention of remaining within the loving embrace of his mommy’s nest once he is old enough to hit the road.

That, of course, sounds crazy. He is only five after all. But, all too often, parents learn the bitter lesson that time slips by without notice. He’ll be grown before I know it.

Still, why am I worrying about this? How could he possibly know what he intends to do? How could I know what he intends to do?

I know because my “Wild Bill,” my sweet little love bug, is exactly like me.

I spent my youth loudly counting the days until it was time to leave for college. Billy began the same refrain when he was only three. I dreamed of becoming a free spirited cross-country vagabond, eventually settling in California to pursue an acting career, or in the alternative, charting overseas adventures and pursuing careers plagued with a lifetime of intrigue and danger. Billy often talks of motorcycling off into the sunset, traveling to far off places. No matter the scenario, his sight is always set someplace beyond the horizon. The more extraordinary and precarious the adventure, the better.

To my parent’s credit, they did not balk when they realized I was serious about my wild plans. A short stint in a studio apartment in Washington D.C. was followed by a longer stint overseas in Budapest, Hungary. They did not flinch when I told them that the reason I wanted to study in Budapest was to experience getting off a plane and knowing neither the language nor a soul. I imagined the very occasional postcard or collect call from the countries I visited as I wandered across Europe was enough contact to please them.

And, most importantly, they did not protest when I began searching for far off career opportunities upon college graduation. Looking at it now, from a parent’s perspective, I’m sure that they must have feared they were losing their girl.

Years later, when I finally settled close to home, the choice was thoroughly mine. They never tried to stop me or, worse, guilt me into staying.

…And now, I’m the grown up with the adventurous child. Will I fare as well? Will I do the right thing by Billy?

On most days, I embrace the notion that Billy is like me. When he is old enough to choose, I do not want to guilt him into staying either. I imagine him launching an endless series of quite possibly dangerous but terrifically exciting escapades and, perhaps, never actually settling anywhere near the nest at all. Though I’ll miss him terribly if he leaves, I hope he satisfies his every curiosity and fills his soul.

So, today, when I temporarily lost my sense, it was a surprise even to me.

It started like any other afternoon walk, with Billy by my side, coaching me as I narrated another tale of his wild adventures in far off lands. On this day, the setting was the California Gold Rush, and when his adventure ended with a train ride back home, he protested. “No mommy, now I go somewhere else. I don’t go home. I never go home.”

And, just like that, his imaginary story took a very real and serious turn.

Before I could rationalize a more appropriate response, I blanched…and laid down the guilt.

It’s true. I planted a seed I never thought, or intended, to plant. I tried to guilt my sweet little five-year-old into abandoning his carefree wandering ways and staying with his mom. I know it’s awful.

In reality, there is no more important job than to help prepare a child for all that life can send his way, and then set him off to live it well.

Still, “send me somewhere else mom..I never go home,” rang in my ears. I felt dizzy, cold with sweat, my heart racing. Hot tears stung my eyes. …My lord, it’s true, my baby boy will not be contained.

For that split second, it was as if we were not mother and loving child, walking down the neighborhood streets hand-in-hand, but rather a mom saying goodbye to a grown boy chomping at the bit to be set free. And rather than rejoicing in setting him free, my first impulse was to hold him back.

And so, I said it. “No, no Billy, you come home. Don’t you want to be back with mommy, daddy and Eddie? Mommy needs you.

Thankfully, I quickly recovered and masked my momentary lapse. “Oh okaaaay, go,” I joked. And off the story went, onto his next fantastic imaginary journey, this time across the ocean.

Eddie, our seven year old self-professed homebody called it years ago, when Billy was but a toddler. With his arms around us, he looked adoringly at little Bill, and sighed contently. “Hey mommy and daddy, when Billy gets older and moves out, it will just be the three of us again.”

Maybe so…though you never really do know. By then, however, I hope I will be ready for anything.

Staking a Claim and Tossing the Guilt

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It’s easy to unwittingly slip into an alternate dimension, a place where almost every moment is dedicated to something or someone other than yourself. This is particularly true when you become a parent.

Inevitably, you realize that you’ve actually forgotten how it feels to have oodles of “me time,” time recklessly taken for granted before the kids, and wistfully recalled after them.

And then, just like that, before you know it, a little bit of “me time” magically reappears. It can seem strange, and perhaps a bit unsettling, to slowly emerge from this fog and finally recapture at least a slice of that time again.

Maybe that is not how it goes for everyone, but that’s how it’s been for me.

The other day, this issue of having a little extra time for myself got me thinking. And, before I realized it was happening, I had decided to chase after a dream that has eluded me for 20 years: to once and for all become a real runner…and celebrate with a marathon. Viola! My new diversion instantly became mentally all-consuming and tremendously exciting.

Still, although I should be on cloud nine, guilt clouds my otherwise childlike giddiness.

I could preach to mothers all day about the importance of taking time for yourself, but in my own unguarded moments, guilt sneaks in and whispers accusingly in my ear before reason prevails. Allegations of selfishness hamper my euphoria. It’s selfishness of the worst kind imaginable too – mommy selfishness.

As unrelenting and judgmental as mothers can be to each other, in our unguarded moments we are still our very own worst enemy.

By nature and because of the significant and worthy tasks bestowed upon us, mothers are actually quite selfless. We are the keepers of our children, the sentries of their well-being, and the directors of their lives.

We do this willingly, with boundless love and care, while still juggling countless other household, personal and family responsibilities and, often, a career as well. It’s no wonder looking inward to our own needs can seem foreign and uncomfortable if we allow those feelings to fester.

The truth is, to be a great mom and role model to your own children, it’s vital to be a complete person. And, that means following your own personal path – especially when time permits.

My path is taking a terrifically exciting – and terrifying – turn, as I pursue a dream that is as long-standing as it is fearsome.

I have one year to become a runner, someone who is not daunted by running great distances, and can run a long race with focus, determination, and minimal windedness. It’s a dream I’ve often abandoned in favor of far less daunting endeavors.

But, life is too short to allow time to slip by unlived, and so the time has come to conquer this goal.

Before 2013 is over, I plan to run a marathon. I’ve already begun my training program and have stuck to it with steely determination. Over the course of this year, I will diligently train for a gaggle of upcoming races as benchmarks before “the big one” – rain, sleet, snow, ice, and heat be damned. And, in doing so, I plan to finally – finally – lose all of that darn lingering baby (and ice cream) weight.

Imagine overcoming something I have always secretly suspected was insurmountable! Imagine how it will feel to finally be the healthy and fit person I’m meant to be!

…Imagine what my boys will learn about their mother as they see me train and watch me cross a finish line…

And so, I ask myself: how can this goal be selfish? With very little time taken away from them, I am finding my way back to me after emerging from the fog of early motherhood.

That sneaky, cruel whisper of guilt can slither away now and return from wherever it came. I’m too busy for it anyway. I’ve got kids to love and care for – and a marathon to run.

Losing Control and Learning to Live

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For this little control freak, going with the flow can be an excruciating experience. But going with the flow is exactly what you need to be able to do when dealing with busy little boys. This I know, that’s for sure.

Having control is my little crutch- the only way I know how to run a tight ship with my family and house, and so I lean on it like never before. Although I was always a bit of a control freak, when I became a mother the obsession with control actually spiralled out of control. It began as the only way I thought would help me maintain some semblance of balance and sanity in my hectic life. So, I’ve clung tightly to my methods.

I control family and household responsibilities like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Things must get done; they will get done – distractions be damned! Each of those crumbled, dozen sticky notes lying around the house have a purpose, as does the business center set up on most days in my kitchen, and the incessant clock watching I usually find myself doing as I knock things off my to do list with alarming efficiency.

In the sorry little world I’ve built up around me, success is measured by whether the massive to-do list gets done in clockwork efficiency. I’m not bragging. I know it’s not a pretty picture. But, it’s true.

The other day, Billy said he liked being with all of his grandparents and with daddy because they like to play. Gasp! “What about mommy??” I asked in shock. My mind traveled over the countless hours of knocking around with my boys through all parts of our days – taking them to practice, supervising homework and play dates, chatting through afternoons of snacks, errands and…tasks.

…And, that’s when it hit me. Good Lord, I don’t play!

Sure, I am completely present with my guys. We chat and joke through our days. I know every detail of their every movement. But, still… Steve can sit for hours on the couch throwing the ball to the kids in an impromptu game of “living room catch,” simply because that is the very thing the kids want to do at that time. But, I’ll spend my time chatting with them as I wash dishes, prepare lunches, answer emails, and otherwise man the ship.

The ugly truth is that it’s just not in my nature to put the routine aside and kick back and throw a ball around. When would the chores get done if I’m not doing them?

Billy did not realize he said something that pierced my heart. But, really, he did me a favor. He had unwittingly put a mirror in front of me and I didn’t like what I saw. Eddie did the same thing earlier today when he sauntered into the kitchen to retrieve me. “Come on, mom. The Patriots Party isn’t a party without you,” he said. I had gravitated away from them in order to complete tasks on my weekend to-do list when I was supposed to be enjoying a day in the living room with them watching Sunday afternoon football.

The afternoon started off great. We cuddled on the couch and watched our beloved New England Patriots. But, somewhere along the line, the unfinished tasks on the weekend to-do list called me back. And, that’s when Eddie called me out.

My kids don’t know, nor do they care, about the myriad of tasks worthy of superwoman that I attempt to achieve in one afternoon. They don’t know about the precious half hour I sometimes pencil in for myself in the event the stars happen to align and the to-do list magically gets done, “me time,” incidentally, that I am prepared to protect at all costs, but that I only occasionally see.

My friend once mused that she’d love to live one day of her life through her husband’s eyes and with his devil-may-care perspective.

Upon seeing life through Steve’s eyes, maybe I could better learn to ease up on the “list” and just play. Maybe I’d realize that the list, in its entirety, really does not need to get done at all. Maybe then, I could ease up on my compulsively tight grip on control.

Nothing tugs at the heartstrings quite like my boys’ big eyes and pleading voices as they tug at my side and ask me to play.

Begrudgingly, I must admit that Steve is right once again.

When I became a mother, I tightened my grip on control in order to be able to get work done and have time to enjoy life’s fleeting moments, but it seems the opposite has happened.

I now realize that it’s time to throw up my hands and play. Life is too short to do anything less.