TIME Magazine: Jamie Lynne Grumet of Los Angeles and her son, age 3

In a way, I want to write about the TIME Magazine Cover that has my little corner of the world buzzing. You know, because no one has. Or rather EVERYONE has. And I’m a little over it.

It feels like the question “Are You Mom Enough?” is added to the tap water with the fluoride already. I didn’t really need someone to essentially sky write it. But there are two particular pieces I’ve read this week that I liked. They were thoughtful and non-hysterical.

Lisa Belkin writes:

And the shame of it is that the article accompanying the photo and headline has moments of nuanced exploration of the global social questions raised by the attachment theory of parenting. “The arguments for and against,” author Kate Pickett writes, “mirror questions about family and work that still divide America five decades after the advent of modern feminism, when nearly half the U.S. workforce is made up of women.”

So, let’s talk about that.

Rachel Held Evens makes the point:

But the way I see it, TIME gave us a something of a gift. By stripping that cover of all pretense, it revealed in plain language the lie behind so much of the media’s messages for women: If you aren’t a sexy, put-together, powerful, super-mom, who breastfeeds her kids until they’re four while baking apple pies, making crayon art, and investing in a successful career,  then you’re a failure. You will always fall short. You will never be enough. 

 Such an idea is so absurd, it should elicit laughter, not groans.  It’s like millionized lashes and fortified fruit science—too stupid to take seriously!

And yet a small part of us believes it.

I don’t actually know what being “mom enough” is. It’s like I don’t know what it means when they ask me at church if “God is the center of your family.” I mean, it sounds good and seems like a thing I should want, but what does that look like? How does is sound? What’s the smell and taste of it?

And isn’t it all just a little too absurd that “it” could be boiled down into something I cross stitched for my wall or a photo a magazine could publish for a week?

I think I look much more like a Susan than a Kathleen. But when I’m a spy, no one will know.

It shakes my unshakable faith in the post office. And I adore the post office. This is not my only issue with the mail. See, I’m throwing a party. It’s allegedly for my friend, but it’s really for me. I need to have a deadline to unpack the new version of the old house, and the threat of guests are about the only thing that will make me do it.

The pyschocrafter took over and I made the envelopes and it’s all ridiculous. But now, some of the people on the list are telling me they didn’t get the invitations. That obviously led to pacing and swearing and panicking.

And what I don’t understand is why the post office would turn on me this way. I love mail. I’m kind to postal workers. I enjoy stamps. I’m the best thing they’ve got going for them. They should hand deliver my parcels with joy. I think it’s clear, I’ve lost all perspective on the world.

And yet, I’m compelled to plead: Please, Mr. Postman, deliver de letters. De sooner, de better! (See now you’ve turned me into a bad version of Motown Act!)

Things have been strained for a while between home and work. Last week, my little family broke down (emotionally, anyway). None of us can take it anymore. I really like my job, but it needs more hours per week than my family needs me to work. There was no more give in either situation. In the past six months, I’ve had the flu, serious migraine issues and my team of doctors all recommend the same thing: less stress.

Some folks have talked to me about other jobs that have more flexibility. I’ve talked to others about freelance work. I’ve got a couple of projects I really want to work on, but haven’t made the time before. Not sure what’s gonna happen with any of those for sure, but it’s all gonna be fine. I’m going to get my family back home and situated and probably spend some time at the pool this summer. No matter what, we are going to be quieter and healthier.

There will be less dining and drinking out, but I’ll have a FABULOUS entertaining space at the house. I fully expect my friends to drop by and bring some wine for some proper porch sitting.

Courtesy: Megan Clemence Photography

Some of the photos from Listen to Your Mother: Northwest Arkansas are available. Photographer Megan Clemence spent the day with us, and she took beautiful shots. They make me happy. The videos won’t be up for a while, so I decided to put what I read here.

Six years ago, I was a really good parent. Six years ago, I knew things. Six years ago, I had my act together.

My kid is five. Now I’m just trying to get through the day.

I’m probably ruining his life. No, I’m definitely ruining his life. Everybody says so: books, television, mommy blogs, school, family… even the voices in my head have turned against me. Fine, the voices in my head were never really on my side. They’ve always suspected I was a total screw up. “You’re doing it wrong!” is the billboard I see everywhere.

I wasn’t always like this. I was a clever girl. I was in the smart kid-classes. I went to a good college. I did good work. I won awards. I was confident in me.

Then something primal happened. I wanted a baby. I needed a baby. I would burn my house down if I didn’t get a baby. That’s when things started to change.

We didn’t get pregnant right away. Then we did. Then there were miscarriages. We splashed around in the shallow end of fertility treatments. We decided to adopt. It took a long time.

It was subtle at first… the questioning… the judgment… the doubt. Are you sure you want to do these treatments? Are you sure you want to stop? Is there nothing else? Don’t you want to have your own baby?

I tried to explain our decisions to our friends and family. Some got it. Some didn’t. Sometimes I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince.

Then there were more questions. This time from strangers. How much money do you make? Where do you live? Have you ever committed a crime? What is your parenting philosophy? What is your childcare plan for a baby who hasn’t even been conceived yet and for whom there is no due date? What do you mean you didn’t already know infant and child CPR? Is your child-free home baby proofed yet? What are your thoughts on God?

It seemed like there were supposed to be Sunday School answers. I gave them the best I could. I projected a level of confidence I didn’t have.

Then the questions came from birth moms. Will you love this baby? Do you promise? What kind of life will he have? Can you really promise? Is your life actually better than mine? What makes you so special?

I was running out of answers. Maybe I wasn’t as remarkable as I liked to think.

Then we were matched with a birth mom. The week after our son was born, I nearly had a nervous breakdown. My husband took me by shoulders and asked me the hardest question yet… What is it exactly that you’re afraid of?

I’m scared she is not going to sign the papers… and I’m scared she is… because then I have to raise this baby!

He hugged me. We can do this, he promised. After all, crack whores do it every day. We have to be better than that.

Really? Are you KIDDING me?!? That is not the standard! But then I laughed. Although sometimes I secretly wonder if the crack whores might be doing it better.

Some days, my pluck is gone. I doubt every decision. Does he eat enough vegetables? Should I have made that craft on Pinterest for his class? Why have I never written a book? I really should lose weight. Could I find a way to sit with my friend while she has chemo? Will I lose my job if I miss another day because my kid’s school closed for a non-snow event? Should I even be working? Do we love Jesus enough? What is my theory on parenting? Do I pay enough attention to my husband? Am I ever going to get anywhere on time? Why can’t I park legally?

I was once a capable enough person to assert I could be mother. I used to know things for sure. Now, I feel like an ignorant slut who should never be left in charge of a lemonade stand, much less another human.

If I say all this out loud, what will people think?

I have a finger and I will point it at you! /Courtesy: Megan Clemence Photography

Lela has hands, and she knows how to use them. /Courtesy: Megan Clemence Photography

Jasmine is just freaking funny. / Courtesy: Megan Clemence Photography

Ladies, here’s how it’s gonna go./ Courtesy: Megan Clemence Photography

The Mothers /Courtesy: Megan Clemence Photography

My dear friend Stephanie, who encouraged me to audition. /Courtesy: Megan Clemence Photography

I cannot say thank you enough to the amazing audience who came out to the Listen to Your Mother Show in Northwest Arkansas. Such sweet women Lela Davidson and Stephanie McCratic did an amazing job of pulling this all together. I now plan to stalk and harass them until the put on another production that I can participate in.

I’ve been thinking about this for some time now. I think beauty is tough. I think beauty holds on and won’t let go. I think beauty happens often where you least expect it and in places you’d given up on.

A tree fell on my house last year. In one mighty crash, everything turned upside down and inside out. The roof caved in. Our safe place, wasn’t. I have been sad, angry and unsettled every day since then. I have not been beautiful.

A few weeks ago, I was checking how work was going at the house. Our yard has been demolished in the most literal sense. Bulldozers, cranes and tractors have scraped every bit of life from the property.

That’s when I noticed them: flowers in bloom… not really anywhere close to where they used to be planted. But they were blooming all the same.

They didn’t get the memo that everything was a wreck. No one told them they weren’t expected this year, so don’t bother. They missed the meeting on being discontent and angry.

I remember after Hurricane Katrina hearing the story of a woman who noticed the woods around her doing unexpected things trying to save itself. She called a friend crying, “What are we going to do? The trees are confused. They think it’s spring.” He told her, “Nature is never confused. It knows what to do.”

My yard flowers were not confused. They knew what to do. Beauty is tough.

I think there are more stories like this all around me: tales of nature being beautiful without any help from us and people who are not confused because they know what to do. I’d like to hear them.

Would you be so kind as to tell me your stories of tough beauty? You can comment here, post links or email me. kerri [at] mudrain [dot] com. Send photos, and I’ll post them (with your permission, of course.)

Talk pretty to me.

There is something so clean and perfect about egg cups at breakfast.