I choose to be a mom

*This post was adapted for entry into Scribbit's Write-away contest. Original is here.

Everyday, I choose to be a mom... I choose to devote my time. I choose to set me aside. I choose to bite my tongue when I am angry. I choose to give us all a time out when I feel like I am losing it. I choose to play hide and seek. I choose to sing the same 3 songs every night at bedtime. I choose to push through my fatigue and smile and give hugs. I choose to listen to my children's little concerns.

I choose to give them hope. I choose to teach them acceptance. I choose to let them explore. I choose to let them learn.

I choose to protect them. I choose to worry about them. I choose to check on them in the wee hours of the night. I choose to get teary when they accomplish their firsts. I choose to submit to them. I choose to take charge. I choose to relish the things in their little world.

I choose to empower them.

I choose to be an example. I choose to say I'm sorry. I choose to teach them responsibility. I choose to challenge them.

I choose to care for myself. I choose to share my passions with them. I choose to let them be part of my life. I choose to be part of theirs. I choose to receive heavenly guidance. I choose to show them my weaknesses. I choose to give myself a break. I choose to give my husband experience. I choose to give them independence. I choose to give them dependence.

I choose not to give up, I choose to love them.

What memories are made of...

This post was written for and submitted to Scribbit's Write-away Contest.

Her first obsession (that I remember) was with the color purple. It did not matter what the object was, she always bought a purple one. There was a store at the mall called "The Color Purple". When she discovered it, I remember thinking "Holy crap, there are other people out there who have a color fixation?" Never in one place have I seen so many people decked out in purple - purple shirts, purple jewelry, purple handbags, purple socks. Purple hats.

Her collections evolved over the years. Magnets, Coca-Cola memorabilia, watermelon arts and crafts, and cherub angels adorned our house. Regardless of what the current trend was, her interest in it grew exponentially, and she just ended up with a lot of junk. We lived in a modest sized home,and when she ran out of room to display all these things, they'd get stashed in a corner somewhere in her room. Eventually, she had piles upon piles of bags with unopened items in them, tags and all.

I was oblivious to the rise of this problem until she passed away. I was the first one to go through the house and begin to organize and sort through her things. I've known several people to enjoy "collections"... but to find garbage sacks full of receipts and Christmas cards dating back 20 years? That was a sign of something more like a compulsion. It turns out that she met the criteria for a psychological condition called hoarding.

When collecting "stuff" becomes a hobby, few things hold any real value. I discovered picture albums of my children, jewelry and art work that I'd given to or made for her, still in their original box. This caused me great sadness, to know that all the piles of junk comforted her and kept her company, while things that were thoughtfully picked out by those who loved her left little impression. Hoarding gave her a false sense of security... it helped her fight off the loneliness she insisted upon.

I've never had an ongoing collection of my own. I have a strong aversion to the whole idea. I know that collecting things is not unhealthy, but it was taken to such an extreme in my home that I'm leary of it. There have certainly been things I've liked well enough over the years, though.

When my mother visited us after the birth of our first son, she brought me a willow tree angel in the shape of a little boy hugging his dog. It was a perfect addition to the puppy themed nursery, and I loved its simplicity. It now sits on my secretary with a few others that have marked special occasions, and has become part of a tradition. They represent our ever growing family.

I bought my first antique bobbin at a tiny second hand store in southern Utah. The significance of it was that it was the first real decorative item I'd purchased for our tiny apartment. I loved the aged wood and the different shapes and sizes they came in. I loved that something old could become something new, as I'd chosen to use it as taper candle holder. I now have a bundle of them on top of an antique chest I inherited from my great aunt. Such unique and beautiful objects that hold a bit of history as well.

The first water pitcher I bought was for the top of my cabinets in the kitchen of our first home. I was bound and determined to stay away from those fake silk plants everyone else was buying, and it looked so elegant up there. It just didn't make the statement I wanted all by itself. Suddenly pitchers were catching my attention in every store I entered. But I bought only enough to fill the space I'd designated, and I think they say a little about who I am - eclectic and creative. Each pitcher is completely different from the next... one has polka dots, one has stripes, another a toile pattern. One is white, another is blue, a few are multi-colored.

I am content to have just a few of these things. I remember the circumstances under which I bought or received each one of them, and they are of value to me because of this significance. I love the idea of them getting passed down, generation to generation... of becoming heirlooms and telling stories about me and my life, my personality and my interests... of representing real memories.

Childhood Memories

*This post was awarded an honorable mention by Scribbit in her March "Write-Away Contest".

I stare at the faces peering back at me. I smell pizza. The lunch bell is going to ring in 30 minutes. I repeat the word I've been given to spell in my mind a couple more times. Goddy. Gawdy? Seriously, how hard can it be to spell gaudy? I feel weak in the knees. This word does not ring a bell. Images of late nights, homemade spelling tests and a variety of dictionaries whiz through my mind. My mother encourages me with her eyes. Although the butterflies are clearly about to fly right out of my mouth I take another minute to compose myself so that I do not stammer. "Goddy, g-o-d-d-y, goddy".

"I'm sorry, that is incorrect."

All the butterflies flop back down into my stomach with a hard thud. I take a step back and sit down. There are only 4 students left. I'd won the 4th grade spelling bee and made it past 40 some odd 5th graders only to lose to the word "gaudy". And now I wouldn't be representing the school in the district spelling bee. Great. Just great.

I avoided my mothers eyes now. I'd disappointed her. And embarassed her. And I wanted nothing more than to disappear and show back up sometime next week when this was but a distant memory.

I don't have a lot of "fond" childhood memories. I came from a home where perfection was demanded and the repercussions of not attaining perfection were what I did not realize was "child abuse" until I was in my 20s. I've used what memories I have left (many have been stifled) to define my approach to motherhood. I feel that the best measure of how well I do as a mother is going to be what my children remember of their childhood. So, I am constantly asking myself, "Do I want them to remember this?" Do I want them to remember losing sleep night after night to the point of nausea to win a spelling bee? Or that I was the fun, spontaneous mom that let them have a camp in?

Thankfully I've chosen not to let ill childhood memories consume me. I am not bitter and I have forgiven my parents. I have instead chosen to find the good part in it all and use it to my advantage. Because of my mother's demands, I have interests and strengths to suit any fancy. And when I'm in desperate need of an outlet, I can choose to dance it out, play it out, or paint it out. I figure that in turn encourages my children to work hard to become good at what they love for themselves.

The curse that was my childhood has become a rare blessing, and because of that my memories have helped me hold onto the things I love. And I can wear them "around my neck like a rainbow, instead of a noose." (Hortense Calisher, Queenie, 1971 )