Becoming the Mother of an Adult or Coping with Being Half Baked

Becoming the Mother of an Adult or Coping with Being Half Baked

I tried to make chocolate cupcakes today. I failed. Our first-born turns 18 tomorrow and the previous few weeks have thrown me into a bout of soul searching and a general feeling of dismay that I am on the precipice of becoming a mother of an adult. Late this afternoon I remembered a suggestion I had read once that advised a potentially laboring woman to bake a chocolate cake from scratch and supposedly by the time the cake was baked, cooled and frosted the woman would be ready to birth her baby. I thought what better way to not only celebrate our daughter’s birthday but also to create a ritual to birth myself into this next stage of parenting. I began to rummage through the cabinets to determine if I had the necessary ingredients. For some reason my desire to bake blinded me to the fact that I lacked what I needed to actually, well, bake!

This lack of preparedness and blind determination has actually served me well these last 18 years. Despite the warnings that my baby might, “catch the death of cold” because she wasn’t wearing socks in June in Phoenix, the angry woman who insisted I was abusing my child because I took her to a college football game after she received vaccinations, the advice from my fellow play group mom friends who frantically insisted that we not nurse for too long or co-sleep at all because of course the child will never wean or sleep on their own and my favorite of all, the admonishments from friends and strangers that the absolute worst thing I could do was to hold my baby too much lest she become, “too dependent,” I somehow managed to get here; a mother of an adult. Although society’s recipe called for all the things I didn’t have or rather refused to add to my own parenting recipe I have been able to fully bake an independent, healthy, smart, beautiful, compassionate human who is ready to be launched into this world and the world will be a better place because of her. 

Our daughter might be fully baked but the cupcakes, like my role as a parent are only half-baked. As I enter into this next phase of mothering I realize that each stage is new especially with the first-born and that as I grow I will need to rely again on my own recipe (mixed with some sage advice) to move through the stages that are to come. It will be interesting to hear what the societal peanut gallery will dole out to me next. But as they say, the proof is in the pudding, uh hum…cupcake?

Spiritual Pollution

Spiritual Pollution

We started out Sunday morning at the BART station unloading from our friend’s SUV. My teenagers had to exit from the hatchback due to car seat configurations that relegated their seating to the third row. As they rolled out from the back of the Volvo, my friend noticed my daughter was wearing fishnet socks with her tennis shoes. My older children are past the point of me advising them on their wardrobe choices and any poor clothing ideas are theirs to own and live with the consequences of. I wondered about the fishnets because I know how many miles can be walked during a day trip to San Francisco but I have learned that advice given about trivial matters only dilutes any clout I might have with situations that carry more weight and thus I chose to keep my comment to, “We may need to get to other socks in the city if those become uncomfortable.”

Despite the impractical hosiery, my daughter was a trooper and I heard no complaints until later in the day as we hiked along a beachside trail in search of a labyrinth purportedly jetting out over a visit on the Bay with an incredible view of not only the Golden Gate Bridge but also the Pacific Ocean. As we walked along the vista, she finally gave in and stated, “When we get there I am taking these socks off and throwing them into the ocean. They can be spiritual pollution!”

Fishnet socks as spiritual pollution. Well, of course! It makes sense. What better metaphor for things that do not serve us in this life? Uncomfortable, senseless, irritating, irrational and useless things, feelings and beliefs we continue to hold on to and often go unnoticed until others point them out or we ourselves are mercifully able to realize they need to be relegated to pollution and disposed of.

It has been my experience that I have worn and disposed of many fishnet socks over the years but frustratingly they keep showing up and manifesting themselves as that spiritual pollution that I never seem to be able to permanently throw away. Self-loathing, lack of compassion, impatience with myself and others, and existential disdain all show up feeling like fishnet socks worn with sneakers while walking the hilly streets of San Francisco. Painful, embarrassing and frustrating that I continue to return to this spiritual pollution even though it doesn’t serve others or me.

My daughter never threw those socks in the ocean.

I guess my spiritual pollution remains as well.

I Forgot Your Name When I Saw You

I Forgot Your Name When I Saw You

I forgot your name when I saw you.

Was it Smith?

The pang of shame that I remembered was yours.

The child is older now.

I forgot that name too.

Andrew or Mark?

Neither of those.

His glances seem less strange now.

At the rail I remembered the ash you became.

Putrid smugness I thought was gone.

How have you resurrected?

Just to remind me of how far I’ve come.

Day 19: Glendalough to Austin

Day 19: Glendalough to Austin

It started several days prior to the morning of our departure; the sadness crept into my stomach and moved up to clinch my throat until finally my body needed to release the knots through quivering lips and streams of tears. My heaving sadness had been presenting itself here and there but the night before we left it was on full display. After toasting our vow renewal and sharing stories of how Rob and I met, I looked around the table and was struck with grief that this leg of my pilgrimage would be closing. I was advised to feel as sad as I possibly could. So, I did.

The morning we left, I was still sad but the grief was mixed with a feeling of fullness; fullness from the love of our group, fullness of gratitude for having the time and resources to have had this experience and anticipatory fullness of being able to see our children. It’s funny how sadness can be mixed with hope and excitement.

By the time we saw our kids we had been awake close to 24 hours. I was exhausted and happy. They had so many stories to tell us and we had so much to share with them. I felt whole and wonderful with them snuggled around me.  What a great way to end my very long day.

Something changes internally while on pilgrimage. I have a sense that life will not be the same and the apprehension this causes is outweighed by the potential of newness. I am left wondering how to renegotiate this new, “normal.” I noticed when I saw our children that they too had been changed through their own pilgrimages. They interacted slightly differently with each other. They seemed more cohesive and separate from Rob and me. I think this is the best gift I could be given as a mother because they will need the support of each other as Rob and I age and die. I am sure they will also need time to renegotiate their new, “normal” as well. I can’t wait to see how they do it.

Day 18: St. Brigid

Day 18: St. Brigid

When we completed our walk of the Wicklow Way, two of our fellow travelers departed and three others joined us to begin a different sort of pilgrimage. Our days in Glendalough were spent participating in a spiritual retreat called Sacred Cauldron. I knew several of the participants very well but some were new friends. There is something seemingly magical when a group of people come together and thoughtfully engage with one another at a deeper level. This group in particular was quickly able to be vulnerable, tell stories, laugh and cry with each other. The group facilitators made us feel safe and it was apparent that we all felt held in a sacred space.

Our group went a field trip of sorts and visited the city of Kildare. This is where St. Brigid, one of Ireland’s patron saints, began her monastic community.  We were able to enjoy the first part of the day exploring the St. Brigid’s church, tower and fire pit. After lunch, we went to Solas Bhride Centre, an amazing new building with programs focused on linking the legacy of St. Brigid to our modern culture. The building itself was incredible with open, clean spaces for education, talks, meditation and prayer. It was awarded for its ecologically friendly design and construction. The space reminded me of what I might think of heaven being, if heaven had buildings. It even had a cafe!

Our final stop was St. Brigid’s well. Our group milled around the grounds quietly offering prayers, blessing spiritual tokens and soaking up the holy space. I knelt at the well and immersed four items: a rosary from Jerusalem recently given to me by a dear friend, a brass Ganesh from one of my soul friends, a sheep’s tooth I found on my last pilgrimage and a string of wooden prayer beads from a Goddess church that used to belong to one of my mentors. As I blessed them in the small pool of water I realized they perfectly represent my spirituality at this point in my life. My Christian roots anchor me, I am enriched by engaging in interfaith practices, I am inextricably linked to the earth and all creation, and finally as a woman I appreciate my own feminine gifts and power as I try my best to be a meaningful mentor to other women.  I hope St. Brigid would approve.

Days 16 & 17: Glendalough

Days 16 & 17: Glendalough

Glendalough is an ancient medieval monastic city situated in a gorgeous glacial valley. The ruins of the city are well preserved, as is much of the cemetery that surrounds and intermingles with the stone structures. St. Kevin founded this monastery at some point in the 6^th century.

St. Kevin had given his life to God. He lived bouncing between a stone beehive structure on a ledge overlooking the Upper Lake of Glendalough and in a cave also over looking this body of water. St. Kevin, as most saints, was kind of a strange dude. There are stories of him standing in the icy cold lake up to his neck and praying for hours. And as legend has it, a woman who was in love with him (supposedly he loved her too, but wait for the end of the story and you be the judge) made romantic advances toward him and his response was to throw himself into a bed of nettles and then beat his would be lover back with nettle branches. Like I said, a weird dude.

It is also said that St. Kevin befriended a monster from one of the two lakes in the city. Some have wondered if this befriending of a monster was metaphorical to embracing or accepting his dark side. So, ultimately accepting his strangeness or perhaps his humanness. This is why I love stories about saints because they are hardly ever what we commonly think of as saintly. I love that the stories of saints challenge the concept that a holy person must be pious, as it is my experience that piety is the enemy of holiness.