Arrows and Flowers

On my right forearm is tattooed an arrow with its tip encircled by cherry blossoms.  The image is inspired by a story in a book by Buddhist nun Pema Chodron, in which she discusses the ability of mindfulness (being fully present in each moment) to transform evil/difficult/ugly things into beautiful things – in other words, to “turn arrows into flowers.”  The “turning arrows into flowers” story is one that has stuck with me, and its representation on my forearm is intended to remind me of the value of embracing whatever “the moment” can throw at me, particularly where parenting is concerned.  Admittedly this is usually way harder than it sounds (and I think it even SOUNDS hard).  There are a lot of Arrow stories – bad moments in my life as a mom – and plenty of Flower stories.    

Arrows

·         When Ellen was 2.5 and Cecilia was 6 weeks old, Dave took his close-to-annual trip backpacking with Pat and left me to fare alone.  If the post-partum depression, extreme newborn colic/incessant screaming, and slow-going adjustment to two children weren’t enough for me to deal with solo (and I assure you, they were enough), during that same time Ellen suffered a bowel obstruction which caused her to throw up in her sleep in the middle of the night, over the course of several nights.  I’ve known very few people (sober ones, anyway) who sleep through throwing up but for some reason, fast asleep is the only way I’ve seen Ellen do it, excepting the one time which also involved Cecilia’s rolling off our bed.  It’s not good.  Awake throwing up leads to immediate cleanup and therefore saves the parent from the confusion that I suffered on the morning after the first time this happened, when I found a perfectly content and clueless Ellen sitting in her bed with a mysterious dried substance in her hair and on her pillow.  I examined quizzically, touched, and sniffed before figuring it out.  Gross.

·         Since we’re on the subject, the following pregnancy Arrow counts as a parenting Arrow, since while I was dealing with the effects of Cecilia on the inside of me, I was also dealing with Ellen on the outside of me.  One morning at about six months along, I left Ellen to play in the living room while I went to take a shower and brush my teeth.  When a hard kick to the ribs caused me to inhale sharply, some toothpaste flew back into my throat.  I should’ve gotten a glass of water right then, but since I was already completely undressed, I did not go to the kitchen to retrieve a cup.  (I’ve made this mistake before, and our lack of kitchen window treatments combined with my lack of motivation for bathrobe retrieval has resulted in more than one accidental show for our very close neighbors).  No, I figured I’d be fine for a few more minutes, and I stepped in the shower.  The intense minty-ness of the ill-lodged toothpaste became more and more irritating as I lathered, rinsed, and repeated.  A coughing fit ensued.  Finally, the heightened gag-reflex of pregnancy bit me in the ass.  And so began a cycle of gagging, purging, and repeating, which lasted long enough for me to bail on hair-rinsing and step out of the shower, where I continued the purging, naked and dripping wet.  As my sister would say (sarcastically of course), “[Pregnancy] is a beautiful journey.”

·         See these sweet faces?  This was five minutes before Ellen decided she wanted to continue browsing through the greeting cards that sing when you open them, against my firm directive to sit back in the cart so we could leave.  She had a public tantrum so loud, and so great, that we bailed on our completely full cart in the middle of the store and tried to ignore the stares of everyone around us as we walked out (I guess I basically dragged her out while carrying Celie).  Of course I couldn’t remember where we parked when we got outside, so it all continued for much longer than it should have.  When we finally drove away, I started crying too.  It’s an irrefutable truth that if you have children, you will someday be “that” mom.  And then you will cry and momentarily dream of your life without children while a maniacal voice inside you says “mwah-hah-hah-hah…it’s too late…you can’t give them back…” and a maniacal voice in the back seat screams “all this cryin’ is makin’ me hungry, and I NEED fruit snacks!”     

Flowers

·         Ellen says so many things that make me laugh.  Yesterday, out of the blue, she told me that she would LOVE to be able to fly.  “Where would you fly?” I asked.  “Everywhere,” she said.  “Okay, where would you fly FIRST?” I asked.  “To the bank,” she replied.  I thought to myself, “That’s a good plan.  If you’re going to fly everywhere, you’ll need some cash.”  I said, “The bank?  Why?”  Her answer – “To get a sucker.”  And at the hospital the other day, after meeting one of Dave’s colleagues – “What an interesting doctor.  Some doctors are interesting.  Daddy’s a doctor.  But he’s not very interesting.”

·         My girls showing their love for me, which at these ages they do both willingly and often, is a great big Flower.  I love when Cecilia reaches out her arms and shrieks for me when I’m the first person she sees in the morning.  Her hugs are the best, bar none – they last forever and her head rests on my neck while both arms hang on.  A few seconds in, she’ll start doing “The Pat” – rubbing and patting my back very gently.  I’m sure “The Pat” is a genetic inheritance from my mom.  So adorable.  Ellen can show her love with words now, which is so fabulous.  One night when Dave was putting her to bed, she came out and gave a goodnight hug to Uncle Pat, then headed back to her room.  “Hey, what about me?” I said.  She turned around and said “MOM, I could NEVER forget about YOU!” as she ran over.  Lately she’s been trying to think of ways to quantify her love – “Mom, I love you as big as that building.  Mom, I love you as much as I love Thomas.  Mom, see that huge cloud?  I love you as big as that.”  And yesterday, an All-Star moment, while singing along to a Kindermusik CD – “Mom, I think you are a LOVELY singer.  You are the best singer in town.” 

·         I love how my girls love each other.  Often, while we’re driving down the road, I’ll look back and find both of them stretching their arms so they can hold hands across the middle seat.  Other times, I will see them playing together and hear Ellen saying things like, “Celie, that’s the GREEN crayon.  Watch Big Sister use it to color leaves.”  Ellen is a natural protector and teacher, and Cecilia has such a loving and trusting nature that she would follow Ellen to the end of time.        

Before I had kids, or even knew for sure that I wanted them, I would hear parents relay their own stories, so similar to these.  I would think to myself that the horror stories sounded so horrifying, and the good stories so lame, that the scale was clearly tipped to the “No Kids” side of the debate.  I mean, if a few hugs and cute comments are all you’ve got to redeem waking up to puke all over a bed, then those toddler and preschool years are just not worth living through.  But here’s the remarkable thing – when these stories are about your own children, the Arrows are the ones that seem lame and ridiculous.  And the Flower stories are so wonderful that they change your outlook on the world at large.  They are a garden.  And the scale tips over to “I Can’t Imagine This Not Being My Life.”