“Being a mother impresses itself powerfully on women; it can be fulfilling and devastating in like measure…” Juliet Miller

holga with fisheye, tri-x film negative scan

  I had a full-on breakdown today.  Old ladies and scrapbooking soccer moms bore witness to my sobbing ramshackled-ness in the Hobby Lobby parking lot.  (Ramshackled.  The thesaurus offered that one up as a synonym to “broken down,” and oh, yes, I do love that word.)  It was pathetic, thankyouverymuch.  Pathetic.

Not that it wasn’t valid.  GOD, was it valid!  If I would’ve asked them, later today: “kids, would you please validate this insanity ticket?” they would have stamped it and signed it and killed the fatted calf with it.  As it were, I did get some heartfelt apologies (two out of four ain’t bad).  They truly were sorry for their relentless rottenness.  Because I scared the shit out of them, that’s why!  Because I cried like a lunatic baby and told them that they were killing me!  Suffocating me!  When they fight against my every breath!  And sully my every joy!  (Just kidding.  I didn’t use the last one, but only because I didn’t think of it.)  It is sometimes as if they all four stand in a line and take turns hurling ungratefulness and anger and all things draining and needy at my broken, foundering soul until I am gasping for air…

Oh, yes.  The drama.  I am very well aware of the drama factor here.  Where do you think they get it from?  Yes.  I know.

Anyway, my breakdown was short and sweet bitter.  A momentary lapse in my I-am-centered-and-present Zen-ish approach.  Nice-me won the battle against Meano-me (who wanted to spitefully cancel my plans to surprise them with a picnic at the park and a hike and ice cream), and we had a wonderful time.  We smiled and hugged and discovered forest wonders and threw sticks for a dog and slid and swung and made merry.  No, really.  It was all sweetness and happiness and perfection.  Really.

These emotional extremes, pendulum swings, are intense, to say the least.  And there is a tension there, between the two.  It is that tension that pulls at my heart.  It is that paradox that makes their misbehavior my poison, and their joy my gold.  And despite how emotionally difficult it can be, I think I am addicted to that tension.  There is beauty in it.  Fleeting, contrasty beauty.