Five Things

thoughts on silence and trying to mother

one.

The story I’ve told myself is that I’m terrible at fixing hair. It’s mostly a true story. I can barely operate my curling iron, let alone do the girls’ hair. For most of Allie’s life, her daily hairstyle could be described as “At least it’s brushed.” (Although, honestly, that’s not even true some days.)

In kindergarten, I attempted to put her hair in ponytails before school and the occasional braid, not even a French braid. Over the years, each time we visited my family, the girls spent the weekend with cute hairstyles, thanks to my sister or mom doing their hair. My sister can quickly whip my girls’ hair into different hairstyles, making it look easy. Her skills mostly lie dormant as the mother to two boys. But then, we go home, and we’re back to lumpy ponytails and quick braids. 

Last week, I randomly searched on YouTube for “easy girl hairstyles.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I guess it’s because the story I told myself was I wasn’t good at it and just threw up my hands—not even willing to try. 

Now, in the dimly lit kitchen, the sun still not up, my laptop glowing on the kitchen table, Allie sits in front of me. I pause and start, pause and start the videos, tugging her hair this way and that. She sometimes cries, “Mom, you’re pulling my hair!” I apologize, wishing I was better at this. 

Afterward, she hugs me, patting her hair, unable to see it’s not perfect.

She knows I’m trying. 

two.

Most days, the soundtrack of my life is Paw Patrol, requests for snacks, and Nora chattering, sometimes to me but often to herself. I open and close my laptop countless times. Just when I think she’s entertaining herself, she wants me. My mind ping pongs between, “Next year, she’ll be in Pre-K and gone for a few hours a week! I’ll be able to string together two sentences and two thoughts at a time!” Quickly followed by, “Next year, she’ll be gone for hours at a time. The house will be so quiet.”

I’ve wished for whole days to myself for years. I envision checking things off my list left and right. The countless essays I’ll be able to pen! The book I’ve been dreaming of writing! 

But the silence that looms ahead also feels terrifying. (This feels ironic considering how often I’ve complained to Rich that I’m overwhelmed and overstimulated.) She’s the last one to call me mama and is my buddy most days—tagging along to Target (“the red store!”) and grocery shopping. On the rare days she’s not with me at Target, the dark-haired cashier asks, “Where’s your little one?” 

When we cross a street, I put my hand down, and without asking, she reaches up, clasping her chubby hand into mine. The distance between my outstretched arm and hers just right. 

What I’m trying to say is, “I don’t know how to be a mom without kids at home.”

three.

I deleted Instagram three months ago, and now I’m not sure how to go back. The break wasn’t planned or intentional. In early June, on a day I cannot remember, and for a reason I cannot recall, I deleted the app. I thought the break would be for a few days, maybe a week. It was summer—the days run together anyway. A week turned into two weeks, and by the end of June, I knew I wouldn’t go back before we harvested our crops and put them in the bins. 

I’ve started and stopped writing a post to go back. Do I roll in there like I’ve never been gone? Or do I make it obvious that I left for three months, and now I’m back? (And suffer the likely comments of, “Oh, I didn’t even notice you were gone!”)

I’ve enjoyed the silence of not scrolling, seeing the countless ways to live a life.

I wish I could say I spent this unplugged summer being perfectly present with my family.

I’m still trying, not for perfection, but for them. 

four.

In June, I took photos of all the baby clothes stored in our basement. I lined up the high chair, bouncer, and baby exercausuer, putting price tags on them in my mind. How much do you ask for a used high chair where three babies learned to eat and throw their food? 

This past weekend, after walking past the totes and piles of clothes for the hundredth time, Rich asked, “What are we doing with all of this stuff?” He let the question linger in the air. 

In the silence, what it felt like he was saying was, “I thought we talked about this. Let’s move on.” 

Instead, he quietly shuttled the totes and gadgets to a back corner. 

five.

Nine years ago today, my life changed forever. Not to be dramatic, but in a ninth-story room, I watched the sunrise while a son rose from an idea, a burgeoning belly, to a real-life baby in my arms. He came out crying, red-faced, open-mouthed, and surprisingly, a boy. 

Just hours before, I rode with Rich in a tractor in the pitch black evening, him trying to put in a few acres of seeds before there was a clear mark in our lives of before and after. After an hour or so of bumping through the field, I couldn’t take it any longer and opted to sit in the pickup parked on the edge of the field, timing the contractions.

I watched the tractor lights move up and down the field in silence. I don’t know that I’ve experienced such silence since that night. Sure, there have been vacations we’ve gone on without the kids. Date nights with them back home with grandparents. But even then, I’m never able to completely silence the thoughts of what they are doing. Are they okay? Do they miss me? I think of the piles of laundry and cleaning I’ll have to do when I get home. 

This morning, I woke before the kids, trying to squeeze in a few quiet moments in the silent house before the rush and chaos of a school morning. Soon, I’ll walk downstairs to wake Rhett. I don’t know if he’ll wake easily or be a little cranky, his eyes adjusting to the light. I don’t know if today he’ll ask me a hard question, one I wasn’t expecting. Or if we’ll argue after school over his spelling list. We have the whole day ahead, the sun still waiting its turn. 

Last night, he filled his backpack with tractors and combines. Entertainment for the long bus ride to and from school. Fitting, given I spent hours in a tractor, waiting to know it was time.

Most days, I still ask myself the same questions I wondered in that well-worn hospital gown. Am I doing this right? How will I know what to do next? 

I don’t know yet how to parent a nine-year-old. 

But I’ll try, one day at a time. 

This post was inspired by “The Five Things Essay” by

Summer Brennan

. I loved Ashlee’s take on the prompt too. I didn’t set out to write about Rhett’s birthday, but it came out during one of my five things.

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