Guilt, Cookees & The YMCA

Loggy Bear holding cookies he made for Santa, Christmas 2012

"Hi, my name is Joanie and I am addicted to guilt."

Now you say, "Hi Joanie, welcome."
 
First of all, you should know I am a recovering guilt addict. I've tried to ween myself off it's intoxicating pull, but I still get the shakes pretty bad because I crave it like candy; my days filled with sugar highs, and the tell tale signs of impending insulin shock. Maybe I should explain:  I am a mother. Enough said?  I have three sons, two of whom you might recall have autism, which we agreed is partly due to my DNA (but mostly I like to blame my husband! Blaming him works in almost all aspects of my life). Maybe you don't quite get the picture because you are one of those mothers I secretly despise (not really, because I would have too much anxiety to function if I actually voiced my disappointment in your perfection) whose children are well behaved, who never, say, knock down your ceiling fan with a light saber, or climb the giant pine tree during church  until they are so covered in sap you can stick the picture they colored of Jesus right on their shirts, then again, at least it frees up space on the fridge. Yes, you who know you, you queens of order. Curse you! (Sorry I didn't mean it!) I am not one of those women.

            I am one of those women who seems to compel complete strangers in Wal-Mart to ask, “Sugar, are you all right?” Yes, I recognize my very presence in polite society prompts kind old ladies, to squeeze my arm encouragingly and say, “Boy, you need all the help you can get, don't you honey?” To which I want to answer, “Yeah, do you do windows?” But, truthfully, I'd have guilt over accepting help from an eighty year old, because what if she accidentally sprayed herself in the eye with Windex, and blinded by chemicals tripped over the roller skates by the couch and broke her brittle bones!  Then I'd have a blind lame grandma to worry about. No thanks! Besides, if I could see out the window, I'd probably see my boys throwing mud at each other, so I'll just keep my windows the way that they are- covered in finger prints- thank you very much.

Christmas Eve = Happy Boys! Posing in front of their cookies.

Spencer & Logan, December 2010

 

            Now, don't get me wrong, I don't share the general public consensus that my boys make me a menace to society…I love my boys, and it's not like I'm immune to the ways of testosterone, I grew up with four brothers, which of course means I have been shot in the butt with a BB gun. And yes, my mother really has said, in our house, “Jared! Stop shooting your sister!” So, I guess truthfully, it's not guilt over my son’s behavior that plagues me. But rather, the mother source of my guilt comes from the tangled root feelings of inadequacy that stretch throughout my veins. I worry I'm not enough, I don't do enough, I can't be enough I'm not teaching enough, cleaning enough, loving enough, disciplining enough, reading enough, playdoughing enough, homeworking enough, stopping volcanoes from exploding enough, making volcanoes explode enough.  I am my own worst critic. Senior citizen’s, Wal-Mart employees, congregations, teachers and quickie mart cashiers can't think of or say anything to me or about my children, that I don't already think or say to myself.

Spencer & Logan showing off the snowman cake they made. January 2008

And it was in this toxic mind frame of guilt that I found myself one day in Arizona. I had recently started working part time after a -six year-have-three-kid-finish-college-hiatus- when Russ returned to school to get his master's degree.  Going back to work (which consisted of a carefully constructed schedule so my kid's were never alone, and Russ and I were never together) was causing an enormous oozing abyss of guilt the likes of which I had never experienced, I seemed to be dog paddling in all hours. I worked in the evenings, so some nights Russ would put the kids to bed and I would come home to them already sleeping, (which normally wouldn't be something that would cause me stress, that emotion would be labeled: elation) and feel tortured that I hadn't tucked them in.

Spencer the Lizard holding his hastily made birthday cake, July 2009

I had balanced school and kids, but as a new working mother I was learning that some things had to give, there just wasn't enough time to accomplish all I used to accomplish, but I wasn’t willing to let anything give, which meant I would stay up until three in the morning making heart shaped sugar cookies for the Valentine’s Day party. Russ would come out to check on me at two in the morning and ask, “Couldn't you have just bought a bag of candy?” which would have been the smart thing to do, but somehow, I couldn't, because that would have meant some ritual had changed, I wasn't the same as before, and in my demented mind that would mean my children were paying the price for my absence. And so, I continued to work, and pile need upon need onto myself stretching to accommodate everything I thought needed accommodating.

 Anyway, on this particular day, in the blaring Arizona heat, I had just come from the gym, and let me assure you, I am not one of those girls you see in leotards, that don't even sweat, and have my hair and makeup perfectly done, just waiting to try out for an excise video at a moment's notice. First of all the YMCA I went to faced McDonald's so on most days I went to the gym, I would stare out the window at the golden arches, knowing my forty five minutes on the treadmill had just bought me five French fries. So, generally, I'd finish my workout, get Spencer and Logan from the childcare area and I'm sorry to report, often cross the parking lot to go for a happy meal. Before you judge me, let’s just all remember they have apple dippers and low fat milk!  As I crossed the street I would try to block my guilt over going to McDonald's, guilt based solely on the fact that people were tracking my YMCA progress. No, I'm not just paranoid, because in case you haven't heard, I am a YMCA poster child. No lies! I was in a YMCA commercial, (I didn't realize they were filming me or I might have objected) I think I exemplify the perfect woman they were looking for, the red faced, sweaty, out of shape house wife, who would inspire people to think...well if she can do it, then I certainly can. It seemed like everyone was monitoring my YMCA journey. “The camera adds ten pounds!!” I would rant irrationally when someone would say, “Hey…. didn’t I see you on TV?”



Me and Logan posing with friends at our anual Polar Express Christmas party, Jackson, WY 2010

 So, There I was, post gym, a.k.a. sweaty mess, my once white shirt covered in spilled orange, my hair caught up in an awkward pony tail, no makeup, red faced, (of course just waiting to randomly run into the boy I had a crush on in eighth grade or something) speed walking -because we were late since Logan got stuck in the hamster tunnels in the play land, and guess who had to crawl up there and get him?- down the long hall of the elementary school to drop off Spencer. We paused at the doorway; I wiped the sweet and sour sauce off Spencer's face with my thumb, then gave him a hug and a kiss, and sent him on his way, his Star Wars back pack sagging on his little back. But on this particular day, with my three year old slung awkwardly on one hip, my mind was racing through the enormous list of things I had to do, turning to leave, I stopped,  face to face with a display of kinder art work, under an umbrella of  bright construction paper letters that read, “What can my mom do?” And all of the kindergartener's had written their sentences and drawn pictures of their mom's many accomplishments. “My mom can vacuum” the first picture read, and there was a drawing of a woman vacuuming. I thought of my floor, covered in fruit loops and bits of paper from Spencer's confetti cutting project. (Not to mention enough macaroni, fruit rolls, toast crusts and hot dog to feed a family of four for a week) I don't think Spencer would have written that... no, this piece of art belonged to Alana. The next paper read, “My mom can do the dishes.” If my carpet could feed a family of four, my pile of dishes could feed an ant colony through the winter. Nope, not mine. “My mom can wear makeup.” It took one look at my reflection in the kindergarten window to know that was not what I was being remembered for by my five year old. “My mom can drive” I could drive, but that was written by John. “My mom can work.” Then next six papers read, I held my breath, but they belonged to Spencer’s classmates. My mom can read,” more guilt because that picture was from Jack. But then, I saw the last one in the row, marked with Spencer's backward S “My mom makes cookees.”  And me in a pink dress stirring something in a bowl with one hand, and holding Spencer’s hand in my free hand… lopsided hearts framed the scene.  And I think, for a second I couldn't breathe. There leaning into the concrete wall of Desert Mesa Elementary school like death, I felt, for one tiny moment validated. Vindicated. Victorious. I make cookies. My son felt loved.  Logan and I left the school, with me bouncing him all the way to the car, and I didn't even care that I ran into three people I knew, all with perfect pedicures, and of course one lady had to say, “Didn't I see you on the YMCA commercial? I just smiled and said, “Yep. I’m up three pounds this month.” Who cared? I made cookies.

Logan turns five; his friends help him hold his rocket ship birthday cake I made him, Preston ID, 2007

 

My next cookie experience gets fast forwarded two years to a school in Jackson Hole Wyoming; we’d traded melting temperatures for frigid ones. On this particular cold day, Logan was having a mother's day celebration at his kindergarten class. Still a fan of guilt, but I'm happy to report, not a Super fan, I mean, I don't paint my face, or wear foam fingers anymore, but still own season tickets. Our family was in the middle of a move between houses, and I was hard pressed to find a pair of jeans and a jacket to wear. I arrive at the school, forgetting my umbrella, and thus making my attempt at doing my hair look like a deflated mess. For Logan's program the teacher had invited a drumming therapist, (because nothing says happy mother's day like a good therapy session beating drums). We all sat criss cross applesauce in a circle on the alphabet carpet, our children seated in front of us. The therapist, who believes the only way to do therapy for children is through drumming, and she does, incidentally, have a few spots open on Thursday if anyone is interested, -and yes she can accommodate all fifteen parents who immediately raise their hands- starts passing out drums and drum sticks to the parents and their children (I resist telling Logan it's not a light saber or a sword, and I'm not Darth Vador, so no fighting, like I would at home) then, the new age therapist stands in the middle of the circle, takes a deep cleansing breath and asks the children, “What would you like to beat?” I can't help but wonder if this is a rhetorical question, is this how the therapy goes, children start pointing their accusing fingers at their mothers screaming, “You didn't let me wear my Dora underwear this morning, and I asked for juice and you gave me milk. I want to beat...  YOU!” and beat their drums, or their mothers until all the anger drains out through the rhythmic sticks? One little boy wants to drum his mom's name. One child wants’ to say she loves her mom in French, another wants to repeat a memorize poem in beat to the drum, “she's written it in syncopated time,” her mother whispers –of course she did. 

 

Loggy Bear at the Mother's Day celebration, Jackson Wyoming 2008

A child does an interpretive dance, called “Thank you Mother Earth” then there is a drum solo by a five year old  rock star, his mother beaming, “He’s been in private lessons since he was two” she confides. Up until this point, I was just glad Logan had stopped eating paste, his perfect ordinariness was endearing, I pulled him closer, dipped my head to smell his soft hair, then, finally, it was Logan's turn to pick what he wanted to drum for his mom, I was hoping for something like, “My soul offers thanks for life, oh great and wise mother, nurturer of my being” What I got was, “Uh..., Thanks for the cookies!” And I just know some mother behind me wants to know if those are organic cookies we are thankful for. The therapist divides us into two groups, she hops from foot to foot, she sways to the drumming, and I can see her belly button ring each time she stretches. She directs the first group, “Thanks for the cookies” “drum, drum drum drum drum.” Logan and I hit our drums. The next groups starts in “Thanks for the cookies, drum drum drum drum drum,” Logan uses his drum sticks on my drum, he smiles his crooked smile, his dimples deep in his cheeks, so pleased to be six, so pleased to be leaning against me, so pleased that I make him cookies, and that he remembered to say thank you. It's another good day. And no, they weren't organic. And yes, I will check my schedule to see if I can squeeze drumming therapy in on Thursday.

Alex, Spencer & Logan made me this heart pizza for Valentine's day 2011

 And then there was the time I was sick, and Alex kept his cookie he got for someone's birthday at school, and brought it home to me, all crumbly and covered in lint from his back pack. He was so proud he thought of something to make me feel better.

 I think the bulk of life consists of just getting through it, but, in the getting through it, here is what I've learned: Guilt is overrated. Guilt does not move you towards you goal, but keeps you stagnant, and alone, wringing your hands, and in truth, it seems that if you are like me, you worry and worry and worry, and things turn out okay anyway and even if they don't, was it really worth all the anxiety? I've learned you can bend over backwards trying to create perfection in your children, trying to never let them miss a moment of something stimulating or skill building, or beautiful, but that offer's no guarantee for happiness.

 

Loggy Bear (aka bat-a-man) turns 6! Celebrating with friends, Jackson 2008

My friend was telling me, that after planning the trip of a I've lifetime at Disneyland for her girls, including breakfast with Belle, that when she asked her daughter what her favorite part of the vacation was, she answered, “Swimming in the hotel pool.” I'm sure Carrie thought she could have just saved herself three thousand dollars and checked into the Motel 8, six blocks from her house. I guess in the end, what I think I've learned from being a mother, is it's okay to cut some corners, to not be it all, have it all, want it all. My children don't remember me for all the things I've not accomplished, (except for maybe the laundry) my children remember me for my presence, love me for the ways I show them I love them, for the times I have held them, pulled them from the brink of despair over an argument with a friend, brushed their knees free of gravel after a particularly bad bike crash, given them popsicles for their sore throats, and made spy costumes for Halloween. My boys are grateful for ramen noodles, help studying for spelling tests, stories about Captain Underpants, a walk by a river,  a push on the swing, and even sometimes for telling them “No. You can't go. I want you here with me.” They've come to expect that I expect something from them. And yes, I am, apparently remembered for cookies. For all those magical Sunday afternoons, (I miss those days when my boys crowded the counter top for a chance to crack an egg, or hold the mixer, or dump the bag of chocolate chips into the metal bowl). I am remembered for warm sweet morsels that slightly burned their little fingers and soft lips, because they're too impatient to wait for them to cool. I am loved for the times I've left the crumbs and chocolate smears pooled against their smiles, for their pink tongues to find later. After all of the guilt, after all of the worrying, I am remembered for cookies, but most importantly, I am remembered.

 Thank heaven I'm not remembered for my YMCA commercials, and I have no guilt whatsoever over that.

After opeing this present Logan said, "Santa must have really loved my cookies!" 2010