Finding Moments to Breathe

(reposting from the Fall 2010 edition of Women on the Move, http://momsmoments.ca/) 

 

“Mama?
“Yeah baby.”
“Mom?”
“Yes sweetie.”
“Mama?”
“What is it love?”
“Mom!”

Seriously? I turn to see her, my almost 2-year-old, who has now turned the entire carton of goldfish upside down on the couch and is dancing on the tiny pieces underneath her feet.

“Mama. Yook.” She points at the scattered yellow crackers, grinning from ear to ear. “Uh oh, Mom.”

This is typical for me, a working, stay-at-home single mom. It’s times like these I really wish I could call on someone else to have an extra measure of grace. I search for the teachable moment, but instead my pure exhaustion is just under the surface, grating against my nerves.

“You’re kidding.” She blinks. “Do you realize how tired I am?”

The dancing stops and she blinks again and points at the mound. “Mama, yook!”

You know that old saying, “Don’t cry over spilled milk?” I’m pretty sure it exists because we all know it’s inevitable the milk will spill and we will find that it is the one thing that makes life feel simply unbearable. It will be that spastic moment we’re weeping and not even sure why.

I bend low to help pick up the pieces. She watches me, and in a moment follows my movement. One goldfish at a time.

Being a single mom is hard. Anyone who says otherwise must be paying a Nanny. It’s hard work. It’s wearisome. Being the only one in the game without a relief will wear anyone down fast, and sometimes without warning. I don’t think any single moms imagined that this would be part of our story. I had dreams. Hopes. Plans.

But things happen. Our dreams scatter into stormy gales, and we’re left grasping at pieces of what we once held so dearly.

Next thing you know, you’re standing in a kitchen, looking at blinking eyes and a pile of goldfish, wondering how you’re going to breathe deep enough to get through the next moment.

I don’t know much, but I know it starts with bending low, and starting with one fish. Putting one thing back where it belongs. In the bowl. In the garbage. In your heart. Before you know it, those little people who watch quietly at your side, will bend next to you. They’ll pick up their pieces. You work together and teach.

“Mama?”
“Yeah baby.”
Her tiny arms wrap around my neck, and I breathe.

The mess will disappear. Hurts do heal.





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