The Hallow of Hell!

Before you read today's post, please put on your HAZMAT uniform.  After you read, please DECONTAMINATE and then leave a comment at the bottome of the post underneath the bio!  Oh1  And don't forget the clothespins for your nose...you'll need them!  http://hilltownfamilies.wordpress.com/2011/10/04/fisher-28/#more-14385

I Fantasize While.....Mothering (What did you naughty people THINK I was going to say?)

The other day I ran into an old friend. As we caught up, he and I lamented about the hardships of parenting as many parents do when they get together. I told him tales of my year. "Woe is me." I bemoaned. He told me tales of his year. "Woe is me." he bemoaned. "It's just a stage." he said sympathetically trying to soothe me. "At least he's happy." I said sympathetically trying to soothe him. Each of us knowing that words, although kind, would never be able to alleviate the pain that we both had experienced on account of and for our children over the past few months.

Then, suddenly and resolutely, my friend leaned forward and said, "You are going to think that I am such a wimp. But I am going to tell you this story anyway." I nodded indicating my readiness to listen. To protect his identity (as I didn't get permission to share the story) I will modify the scene he described, but tell you enough so that I can use it as the basis of this post. In a nutshell, when his children were young he built something for them with his own two hands. While building, he imagined all kinds of scenes of how the object would be used and treasured by his children. Alas, his children are now grown and no longer in need of the object, so a few months ago this father disassembled and discarded it. As he was telling this story he revealed that he wept as he took the childhood treasure apart. He wept, wept for the years gone by, wept for the end of an era, but also wept because some of those fantasies about his children that he built up in his mind as readily as he had constructed the childhood object, were now destroyed and in pieces as was the entity that he had just disassembled.

My eyes welled up as he recalled the moment, and the fact that he was a wimp was the farthest thing from my mind. Not a wimp. No. Nowhere near wimpy. He was a parent, as I am and so I understood. I understood. From the instant we meet our children in that stark hospital bed, we dream. We fantasize. We create lives for them, only the best. We imagine our children successful, happy, healthy, wealthy. We dream of the milestones; graduations, off to college, travel, incredible careers, engagements to wonderful partners, grand weddings, grandchildren....blissful fantastic lives (in that order preferably!) We have almost two decades to ponder over these fantasies, to make them bigger, more detailed, more life-like. So it is no surprise when these illusions (or DElusions) don't happen in the exact manner that we hoped for, or worse not in ANY manner that we imagined, it feels like a loss. Hey, we've dreamed these same dreams over and over for days and months and years on end. It stands to reason that we may need some time to adjust.

I am as guilty of this as any parent. For my certifiable genius, I dreamed of an Ivy League education, of discovering a cure for cancer, of contributing to world peace. For my world-class athlete with the infectious smile, I dreamed of the Olympics, of endorsements, of world records and a successful commentator career. And yet neither child has chosen the road I dreamed for them to take--neither child. For child number one, learning is a bore and if it isn't easy...forget it! For child number two, competition is too stressful, therefore he doesn't participate in a sport at all. For both I dreamed that they'd be the ultimate gentlemen carrying bags, opening doors, clearing tables without asking and just oozing respect for the opposite sex--not because it's cool to be romantic, not because chivalry isn't dead, but because respect for those you love is most important. And well...let's just say, they haven't arrived at that realization yet.

What parents forget sometimes is that those children of ours are living, breathing, and thinking. They aren't made of clay molded and shaped in the exact model we imagined. They have their own dreams and desires. They'll choose their own paths, their own styles, their own ways of living...even if it doesn't fit with what we dreamed and desired for them. Therefore I am convinced that it'd be less traumatic and jarring for us if we decided to not be so specific in the fantasies we have about our children. Instead, we'd be less let down if we dreamed simpler dreams for and of them. And so, on this leg of my motherhood journey, I will try to remind myself that instead of imagining that Ila grows up to be a multi-lingual ambassador for world peace, a trusted advisor to the Dalai Lama, or the next Kristin Chenowith (look her up,) I will try to dream that in the future she finds happiness, contentedness, and a pure satisfaction with who she has grown up to be.

Mama Grizzly (to quote a certain politician) had to be reigned in...otherwise there'd be a skinless waitress walking around. Hilltown Column is up today. Would LOVE comments. You'll find them after my bio on the page. Please share as a status if you find this week's column worthwhile.  Click the link below to be taken to the column! 
http://hilltownfamilies.wordpr​ess.com/category/logan-fisher

Solitary Confinement

This week I am working diligently on a query for an agent possibly interested in a book about motherhood. And so, it seems to be a great week to bring out an oldy but a goody. This post resonated with so many moms, and I got bombarded with comments both private and public. Ultimately, in a society of mothers, our problems that take place in our families are ours alone. This is a small slice of what takes place in my house and leaves me feeling helpless. Please read and feel free to comment. Have you ever felt a solitary figure in a sea of mothers and advice? I am with you. Read on!

Lately, I am a lonely mother. I know--even in a world with millions of moms and mom-blogs and mom-circles and mom magazines, even though my closest confidants are parents: I am a solitary figure with solitary problems living in a deep dark solitary vacuum. What about those social networks you ask? Well, amongst 143 friends on my Facebook page only 20 of them aren't parents. (Mostly my former students, others who have made conscious choices NOT to be moms and dads, and one priest.) I suppose I could turn to the remaining 123 friends for parenting companionship and mutual begrudging, but somehow it feels fruitless.

It's a funk I'm in, and I'm not talking about James Brown and George Clinton. I am talking about one heck of a "woe-is-me-black-cloud-over-my-head" funkadelic funk. I just get tired sometimes. I mean, this mother stuff...it is endless. I once read that women during the Salem Witch Trials would be subjected to something called "pressing" where rocks would be piled on the "witch's" chest one after the other until they confessed out of sheer panic of being crushed under their weight. I think my funk is due to a sort of emotional "pressing" where issue after issue has piled up crushing my mind. Trying to figure out solutions to all the problems that plague my children in various ways is exhausting. How to help one son find confidence and work to his potential, how to squelch one son's seemingly endless conceit, how to keep a son with stitches in tip top shape so he is able to keep up with the varsity cross country team that he has been asked to join, how to not throw one son over the South Glens Falls Bridge the next time he sasses...which will probably happen before I finish this next sentence... not to mention the constant refereeing that takes place every time the boys are in the same room together.

I know that every family has its own set of "stuff." I know I am not alone in that. But is there anyone else out there that just feels beaten every once in awhile from the never ending bag of do-do that seems to be thrown at us mothers constantly and consistently? Take last night for instance...

Aidan was at a party. His curfew is 11:30. But as 11:30 came and went, he didn't show. I texted him three times only for him to ignore them. I called his phone and the phone of the boy with whom he was supposed to get a ride, all to no avail. So at five after midnight, Aidan's step-father went to the house to get him. Ten minutes later as they arrived back at the house...all holy hell broke loose. Let me remind you it was 12:15 AM. But no matter. Aidan comes in to the house blustering about how unfair we are and how embarrassed he was. This blustering is done with Aidan's full voice which of course leads to his little brother waking up and coming out to see what all the fuss is. Once he realizes that his brother is in trouble, he begins to gloat openly. Saying things like, "Mom you won't be able to trust him anymore!" (Parroting a discussion that I had had earlier with Gannan who is the "great exaggerator.") He continues, "That is it! Right mom? No more parties for Aidan. That is what you'd do to me."

Aidan then becomes indignant and much louder at his brother's goading. I now have to deal with the curfew issue and the fighting issue. I send Gannan back to his room, where he waltzes down the hall singing "He's in truuuuubbbllle.. He's in truuuubbbllle" I turn to Aidan who now has slipped out of the kitchen and exits to his bedroom in the finished basement punctuating said move with a fierce slamming of the door. The slamming of the door (OF COURSE) wakes up the baby who begins to wail at the scary noise that jolted her out of her sound sleep. Predictably and understandably, my husband is livid at the commotion caused by my two boys who have now woken up his daughter. A commotion mind you that is still continuing. Gannan is taunting loudly from his bedroom. Aidan is blustering boisterously from his bedroom. Jeff is fuming in the living room. I am trying to sooth a ten month old who clearly would rather have her father-- indicated by a stiff back arch that keeps her as far away from me as humanly possible, the finger pointing to the closed door and the incessant "da da, da da, da da," that is coming from her quivering lips.

Her father, after trying to compose himself, finally comes into the baby's bedroom. She instantly stops the heavy heaving crying she has been doing with me and...do I dare say it???? Well...she smiles...sigh. I leave daddy and daddy's girl to go back to the sanctuary of my bedroom-beaten and battered, angry and anxious, resentful and rageful. An hour later (that's 1:30 AM for those of you keeping a tally on the time) I am still feeling all of these things that come in the form of a mish-mashed rounded heavy ball in the pit of my stomach. If I could categorize the chunks that make up the spherical agony-it would be self-wallowing and jealousy due to the fact that Ila really and truly prefers her dad to me and an absolute fiery fury directed at the boys
who in their need to be contrary and ornery forget that their anger and contentiousness causes chaos and misery to innocent bystanders like a ten month old sleeping baby.

Around 2 AM desperately needing to sleep, I walked to the kitchen for a glass of milk hoping it would bring on the needed zzzzzzz's. I am incredulous at the quiet. Husband sound asleep on the couch in the living room. Ila tucked away in the corner of her crib. Aidan's basement teen palace dark and silent. Gannan's long legs hanging off the side of his bed in sleepy angles. Only me awake with my thoughts, awake with my anger and frustration. A solitary mother bathed in the light of the refrigerator.

VOTE FOR MUDDLED MOTHERS!!!!!!!!

Hey Everyone!  Just a quick note to share with you the good news!  Muddled Mother has been nominated for Best All Around Blog for Parents.com's contest.  I am so excited about this!  Please help promote the blog by voting and sharing the link on your social media websites!  You can vote by clicking on the Parents button above this post.  If you aren't a registered member of the mag, then you'll have to do that first.  I know that is a pain, but please find time in your busy day to vote.  Spread the word!

Thanks so much for your loyal readership Mudders!

*Hugs*
Logan

New Hilltownfamilies.org Column up Today.

I hadn't seen my son, Gannan, in over 5 weeks.  He had refused.  His year of rebellion still holding strong.  So it was a very big surprise when he called me up one day last week and asked if I'd take him to his brother's play.  Read about how I handled this first meeting by clicking the link below:

http://hilltownfamilies.wordpr​ess.com/category/logan-fisher/

I Fantasize While---Mothering! (What did you Naughty People Think I Was Going to Say???)

The other day I ran into an old friend.  As we caught up, he and I lamented about the hardships of parenting as many parents do when they get together.  I told him tales of my year.  "Woe is me."  I bemoaned.  He told me tales of his year.  "Woe is me." he bemoaned.  "It's just a stage."  he said sympathetically trying to soothe me.  "At least he's happy."  I said sympathetically trying to soothe him.  Each of us knowing that words, although kind, would never be able to alleviate the pain that we both had experienced on account of and for our children over the past few months.

Then, suddenly and resolutely, my friend leaned forward and said, "You are going to think that I am such a wimp.  But I am going to tell you this story anyway."  I nodded indicating my readiness to listen.  To protect his identity (as I didn't get permission to share the story) I will modify the scene he described, but tell you enough so that I can use it as the basis of this post.  In a nutshell, when his children were young he built something for them with his own two hands.  While building, he imagined all kinds of scenes of how the object would be used and treasured by his children.  Alas, his children are now grown and no longer in need of the object, so a few months ago this father disassembled and discarded it.  As he was telling this story he revealed that he wept as he took the childhood treasure apart.  He wept, wept for the years gone by, wept for the end of an era, but also wept because some of those fantasies about his children that he built up in his mind as readily as he had constructed the childhood object, were now destroyed and in pieces as was the entity that he had just disassembled. 

My eyes welled up as he recalled the moment, and the fact that he was a wimp was the farthest thing from my mind. Not a wimp.  No.  Nowhere near wimpy.  He was a parent, as I am and so I understood.  I understood.  From the instant we meet our children in that stark hospital bed, we dream.  We fantasize.  We create lives for them, only the best.  We imagine our children successful, happy, healthy, wealthy.  We dream of the milestones; graduations, off to college, travel, incredible careers, engagements to wonderful partners, grand weddings, grandchildren....blissful fantastic lives (in that order preferably!) We have almost two decades to ponder over these fantasies, to make them bigger, more detailed, more life-like.  So it is no surprise when these illusions (or DElusions) don't happen in the exact manner that we hoped for, or worse not in ANY manner that we imagined, it feels like a loss.  Hey, we've dreamed these same dreams over and over for days and months and years on end.  It stands to reason that we may need some time to adjust.

I am as guilty of this as any parent.  For my certifiable genius, I dreamed of an Ivy League education, of discovering a cure for cancer, of contributing to world peace.  For my world-class athlete with the infectious smile, I dreamed of the Olympics, of endorsements, of world records and a successful commentator career. And yet neither child has chosen the road I dreamed for them to take--neither child.  For child number one, learning is a bore and if it isn't easy...forget it!  For child number two, competition is too stressful, therefore he doesn't participate in a sport at all.   For both I dreamed that they'd be the ultimate gentlemen carrying bags, opening doors, clearing tables without asking and just oozing respect for the opposite sex--not because it's cool to be romantic, not because chivalry isn't dead, but because respect for those you love is most important.  And well...let's just say, they haven't arrived at that realization yet.

What parents forget sometimes is that those children of ours are living, breathing, and thinking.  They aren't made of clay molded and shaped in the exact model we imagined.  They have their own dreams and desires.  They'll choose their own paths, their own styles, their own ways of living...even if it doesn't fit with what we dreamed and desired for them.  Therefore I am convinced that it'd be less traumatic and jarring for us if we decided to not be so specific in the fantasies we have about our children.  Instead, we'd be less let down if we dreamed simpler dreams for and of them.  And so, on this leg of my motherhood journey, I will try to remind myself that instead of imagining that Ila grows up to be a multi-lingual ambassador for world peace, a trusted advisor to the Dalai Lama, or the next Kristin Chenowith (look her up,) I will try to dream that in the future she finds happiness, contentedness, and a pure satisfaction with who she has grown up to be.