I often wonder why I don’t remember my own Mom hunched over in exhaustion and frustration trying to juggle it all.
It’s not that I don’t believe she didn’t struggle at times as a stay-at-home mom, but I just remember a really peaceful home. I remember her calming presence. Her steady, never-hurried pace. Her pause whenever I asked for it.
During the day, my older sister was in school while my Dad went to his job, so it was just my Mom and I at home during my pre-kindergarten years. While I absolutely loved playing with my core group of neighborhood friends, I was also an introspective, introverted kid who liked to look at books, play make believe in the corner of the playroom, build hideaways outside, do gymnastics and make art.
I don’t remember my Mom “teaching” me any of that, but I DO remember her giving me the freedom and the space to do it. She wasn’t over my shoulder all of the time, but she was never further than the next room. We didn’t do an activity every day, but she did take me for social trips to the library to get a new movie or a book.
And all of that was more than enough.
I’ve been thinking about those times a lot lately. The memories bring a peacefulness that my mind usually welcomes in the midst of a presently chaotic world of navigating motherhood and adulting.
But leave it to my mind to also find negativity in these memories too.