Is it enough?

I think this is what I sat down to write last week but couldn’t so I’ll try again. Sometimes things go in a different direction.  I now know why.  

Last May, I met a lady named Amy who I referred to as my mirror (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/kimberlyjessop/journal/index/2/0/desc - windows, walls, and mirrors).  She inspired me to run.  Over the weekend my mirror ran too - straight into the  arms of Jesus, cancer free.  We only met twice - that one weird awkward meeting in the “bad news room” and then at the Miles for Melanoma race.  I might have showed up at the race or walked it or I might have just gone to a football game, but I trained for 6 months because she sat in that room and told me that she did it last year and made it about 400 feet.  I was so ashamed that it took that big of a kick in the pants to motivate me.  She was at the race in October, watched me cross the finish line, I hugged I gave her a an obnoxious Got Sunscreen shirt - she wore it because she told me.  I had a medal, but she was the real winner.  Her being there was way more effort than it took for me to run those 3 miles.  I knew it and it hurt.  Our stories were so similar - she had 3 kids, I had 2, her dad died of cancer a month before she was diagnosed and my mom a year before I was, she was stubborn and some people say that about me, same sense of humor - some people say I have one, she hated scans and I do too, same doctor, same desire to do nothing but be a mother, same kind of loving devoted husband, same frustration with medical crap, stupid things people say, cancer getting in the way of life, and same comfort from the God who made us.  She was running out of options and starting on the same drug that worked for me.  She said, “It has to work.  I have 3 kids.”

In her last blog post 3 weeks ago, entitled “the brilliant new road” she was clearly at peace.  I read it and went numb. 

I started reading the latest book Glitter and Glue from an author who’s work I love - Kelly Corrigan - last weekend.  I read her first book, The Middle Place, on my way back from Chicago in October of 2010.  I don’t read much because I devour books like dark chocolate covered cashews and the laundry doesn’t get done.  But, for some reason I have a bad habit of picking ones about people with cancer, who’ve had it, or known somebody with it that inspired them to write.  (Is this where I fit?)  It’s like I’ve got some sort of radar to pick those books - I swear I don’t know what they’re about before I read them - or maybe it’s that cancer is becoming more like the latest trend - like alternating your 2 colors of scrunchie socks.  Except, very not cool.  This book was about her diagnosis of breast cancer as a mother with 2 young girls to care for.  It was straight to the the gut, hilarious, and real.  After a few ugly cries I made it through the book but so many times I was torn between tossing it in the trash it and wanting desperately to finish. I got my own cancer a couple of months later.  I was thrilled when I skimmed the synopsis of this latest book and learned was not about her life with cancer, but was not another family somewhere across the world.  And, I love glitter! Awesome.  Breaking the streak.  It turned out to be about her connection and appreciation for her mother through an experience she had as a nanny of children who had just lost their mother.  To cancer, no less.  Told ya I know how to pick ‘em.  I blubbered my way through that one too.  Again, way to close to home but so real, and I really dig real. 

Add all of this together and you’ve got a basketcase who’s facing 3 month scans in a few days, misses her mama, aches for children who’ve lost their mama, and desperately clings to each day on earth honored with the privilege of the greatest and most coveted title God grants to women - Mother.  What a hot freakin’ mess. 

The book obviously brought back painful yet sacred memories of some of the last moments with my mom.  There was a point when I realized that somewhere at the end of her illness, I had started to mother her - to protect her from the scary, to keep her from worrying - she wasn’t worrying about herself, only us.  Truth be known, she hated it and loved it too.  Loved it because it was me and she knew I’d be there and hated it because this is where we were.  She trained me persevere, to take care of who needed taking care of, to finish what I start.  She knew I wouldn’t back out.  I think she was proud and miserable at the same time. 
I remember desperately wanting to play the “not fair” card but yet desperately wanting to curl up next to her.  I put on my best poker face for small talk, followed ridiculous orders to get Chik-fil-a ice cream for us - and make sure I get money from her purse, and when she no longer responded, still read the paper or notes from friends to her or the parts I could get through, because for heaven's sakes people, tell people how you feel about them when they can appreciate it.  There was an afternoon a couple of days before she died, that I was sitting beside her at my post as usual and I looked over to see her awake, eyes wide open and looking at me, for a long time.  I scooted closer and held her hand, not quite sure what to say or do.  I think she was asking permission, if she’d taught me enough.  Enough to make decisions, to raise my kids, to do the important stuff.  I squeezed her hand in assurance that she had.  That was the last time I saw her awake.  
It was enough.  At 31 years old, I’d barely scratched the surface of life with college, career, marriage, birth to two babies, but I didn’t know that.  I’m starting to get a better idea.  I didn’t know how I’d survive the next fever my kid gets without calling her to see what to do.  I didn’t know how I’d cook a real dinner without calling her to figure out what goes where, how long, and what temperature.  But I had it.  I had God on my side, the prayer where I beg for a little more strength memorized, instincts, enough to wing it, and enough stubbornness to keep a roach alive in a puddle of Raid.  I’ve had people say how upset they were when I was diagnosed with cancer because I didn’t have my mother.  Truth is, I’ve never once been angry that she wasn’t here for this.  It was better that way.  As much as I would have loved to have her here, it would have killed her and I’ve taken down plenty of people in my path.   


So, I do what every blubbering mother with cancer from a mother with cancer would do.  I love the heck out of my kids and my husband.  I’ve learned from my mistakes and God bless her, some of hers.  I’ve learned to delegate and make myself understand that people are capable.  She wasn’t good at that and wouldn’t mind me saying but I figured out how important letting other people do the dirty work can be if you want to enjoy the good stuff.  And, how much they want to do it so you can enjoy the good stuff.  I say things like, “I didn’t fall off the pumpkin truck on the way here” to my kids because she would.  I cook cornbread like nobody’s business and don’t use recipes because she didn’t either.  She had the good ones memorized and so do I.  I feel the blow in the gut when a mother with cancer loses the battle on earth or another mother gets diagnosed and I know what she’s about to feel and face.  I try to remember to say thank you, to tell people they matter, to keep the glass half full.  I send emails to authors of books I read to thank them for being real and writing about real.  I pray for strangers with cancer.  I’ve stockpiled a stash of big girl panties to choose from because I need a lot.  I keep my boots on hand and my lipstick ready.  I try to make each day enough.  

check out page 6
MRFMattersDecember2013.pdf

am I Buodfil

I was sorting through my stacks of duplicated school papers, mail, and general junk tonight - what to keep, what to throw away, what sign up date I missed, and what I actually did sign up for, what a tens place actually is, and which papers I need to sign and return, what stays home - and kind of felt the exhaustion of the last couple of weeks and the overwhelming responsibility of motherhood in general.  There's nothing like a stack of papers to make you realize what your made of - how much work there is to do, what you've already done, and a little summary of your inadequacies as a mother - however small they may be. And to think, I actually get paid to empower other mothers, with children much more delicate than my own, what a hoot.
I came across last week's homework for Kate which explained why she didn't have clue how to spell "where" or "when" because her 103 fever and what appeared to be pneumonia took precedent over practicing those 3 spelling words.  I also found the list highlighted where I was supposed to bring spoons instead of plates to the party, explaining why the room mom commented on how someone forgot the spoons.  I signed up for plates and bought the plates, but didn't realize that was a subjective list.  I thought I was doing so well for having been able to figure out how to work a full week with a sick kid, have them both decorate Valentine boxes, write names on their store-bought character Valentines, cards for the teachers for teacher appreciation week (because of course, it should be the same week), send in the party supplies before the parties, manage to show up to the Valentine parties, work, and figure out what to do with 2 kids who get out of school at 11:30 (butpleasesignthemoutafterthepartyat10:30'causewedon'twantthemanymore) with a full work day. This, my friends, did not come with the instruction manual.  I don't remember getting one, now that I think of it.  Oh, and Monday's a school holiday.  Oh, and Kate's kindergarten class will be doing individual research projects with an activity to teach the class next week.  It's to prepare them (their moms) for the higher grades.  Research?  Seriously?  For fun? I asked Kate what she'd like to research.  She said, "hearts." I feel certain not the beating kind.
I gave up on being the kind of mom who makes printed cute sayings from Pinterest stapled on ziplocs of fruity heart shaped trail mix, although very jealous of them, and resorted to "get it done."  In my mind, I know I could be her, but in reality, I can't make it happen.  I don't even try.  I also gave up on searching for fun things to entertain my children on school holidays.  I don't think I ever tried.  I know they are perfectly happy in their PJs, with me, a few legos, scrambled eggs, and play-doh.  They tell me so and why mess with perfection.
I came across several things in that stack of papers that make me laugh, stop, and think.  Amid the pharmacy bills, house note, insurance cards, tax documents, cancer clinic bills, and random loan offers were these beauties:

A picture of Kate and me.  I'm not sure where, but the sky is blue, our hair looks good, and we are happy.  And, she loves me.  That's all that matters to her, and me too. 

A note from Bailey after I let him have it for his intolerable laziness when he half does what he is supposed to sending me into a complete tirade and then him yelling back because he has to have the last word and me sending him to his room.  Two wonderful things that could only be decoded by me: 1) He realized I was mad enough to write the note to his daddy to give to me to apologize instead of telling me himself and 2) He knows exactly what he needs to be sorry about - we've rehearsed this many times and since it doesn't change with really any new or different situation, it applied beautifully.  I do realize the need to review the spelling of "rude" but I'll tackle that another day. I also like the face with the straight line mouth.  Nice touch. I love him and I'm assured that somewhere under there he gets it.

Love this one.  "I dot wat to."    I've said this so many times.  More in my head than out loud, although the out loud became much more frequent beginning about 3 years ago.  I want a big poster board with this on it to hold up or a t-shirt - maybe in glitter letters.  I found this on the last page of a stapled booklet of activities to complete.  She said she was tired of it. I think Kate sums it up perfectly for many things in life.  How great would it be to draw a big old "X" with a permanent marker and then scream, "I DON'T WANT TO!"  I can make a list - cancer clinic, the alarm clock, figuring out what to eat for dinner, wearing a bra, CT scan, MRI, clean out the dishwasher, super glue the toy, super glue the bleeding lip that really needs stitches but it's just so freakin' late and he's a boy anyway, etc. I know it's toxic, but he was breastfed, right?  What if, at the end of the day, when you're just tired, it would work to hold up the poster or put on the t-shirt?  The problem is that the "need to" in spite of the "don't want" never ends, but I love that it works for her right now.  There's plenty of time to learn the "you have no choice."
Now, over the past three years, my mothering mode has ramped up to hyperdrive.  When you are told that your job as a mom might be cut short - which I came to realize all too early that a mother's job is never finished, no matter how old they are - you get with it.   By that, I mean that if there is a first time for anything, you make sure you're there - with a camera.  When you try to explain that you may have to work at Valentine party time and a tear appears, you say, "just kidding," rearrange your schedule to get it all done and realize that you will take the day off next time.  When your son has a bad day because he might have actually started to come out of his shell and talked too much in class, you pick him up put him in your lap and talk him through it, explaining that "G" is for good, and he's really good - nobody's really "E" for excellent in life.  You make sure they "get" the lesson out of the mistakes they made, or you made. You let your kids decide whether to wear PJs all day on a school holiday instead of trying to plan some memorable experience because that one will be just as memorable and have no guilt about wearing yours too. And at the end of the week, when you really want to hold up the sign and REALLY wanted a hotel for the weekend with no washing machine or kitchen, you'll completely settle for a Starbucks and 20 minutes in the Anthropologie sale rack.
I've realized that I'll always be one-upped.  There will always be the mother who sells 300 boxes of cookies to your 38, the one who took her kids Disney World over the school holiday, the one with the cute printed paper Pinterest sayings - we got some, so thank you.  The kid who got that "Terrific Kid" award but you have no idea how or you would darn sure make sure your kid is terrific enough to quit hearing about it again.
But, in the eyes of my own kids, they won't remember my inadequacies, or the pieces of paper I overlooked.  Well, except for that one time with the picture with the baby kangaroo.  But, heck, how was I supposed to know that if you didn't pay $7 you couldn't even see then dang things.  The form was not that specific.  And, I won't really remember in the morning how exhausting it was to discuss why "hurricames" occur around water and why we just can't get a fire-bellied toad because I draw the line at live bugs in my home and they eat crickets.
Truthfully, it's pretty much all erased every time those freshly shampooed heads snuggle up against me or I get the very first glimpse of those sleeping faces before they greet the day every morning.   The magnitude is exhausting but I certainly would trade it.  I wouldn't trade the bruises on my feet from the Lego bricks, changing a vacuum cleaner bag full of rainbow loom bands, the bowl of crayons sitting on my coffee table for decoration or artistic expression, the watermelon toothpaste on my bathroom counter, or the fingerprints on every light-switch in my house for anything in the world. This is definitely what I signed up for.  I want to.  THIS is ALL the instruction manual says.  The manual was wrapped in a blanket - one blue, and then one pink, and handed to me, to write myself.
Here's the best one - hidden among the ABCs and some other random jargon, as the real stuff so often is:

Yes, you are.  Inside and out.