Thought Pirates

“I cannot wait to think my own thoughts.” Author and blogger, Jen Hatmaker (http://jenhatmaker.com/blog.htm) coined this phrase, and when I ran across it the first time, I thought, “Good God, she understands my soul.” How many of us parents cannot finish a thought without an interruption? And if you cannot start and finish a single linear thought, how on earth are we supposed to complete real, grown-up tasks?

Children are Thought Pirates. They attack and rob our minds of thoughts with both aggravating and darling little words.  

Words. So many words and questions emitted from mouths. The words can feel like Chinese-water-torture-like droplets in my head. Are some children are scared of silence? Does conversation mean love to them? It’s (usually) not the quality of the words that makes me batty; it’s the quantity. In the car, I’ve played the worst children’s music imaginable with the hopes that my passengers fall silent and listen. The last time I tried this, S simply began talking over the music.

“Right, Mom?” “Did you hear me, Mom?” “Mom, is that a good idea? “What did you say, Mom? Mom?”

I am not proud that I hide in the bathroom or tip-toe in the opposite direction when I hear them call my name. (I call it “stealth mode.”) I hate that I want to put them to bed starting at about 5:00 p.m. I’m ashamed that I sometimes feel a strong urge to flee their rooms when they ask for more nighttime snuggles and chats. Bedtime whack-a-mole. That is what author Glennon Doyle Melton (http://momastery.com/blog/) calls the act of ping-ponging from one child to the next as heads pop out of bedrooms for another request. If our only job was to be their mamas maybe we could afford the luxury of long bedtime rituals? But at least a dozen responsibilities await us after bedtime. And the times that all three kids are asleep may be the only moments that I’m alone and the first opportunity B and I get to speak without interruption.

I believe that this constant state of disruption has permanently altered the neural pathways in my brain. After ten years of round-the-clock parenting, I’m institutionalized—like the inmate who finally earns her freedom only to realize that she has no earthly idea what to do with it. And who inexplicably misses the confines and structure of her imprisoned life. When the house is quiet and I am gifted with a pocket of “me time,” I’m often paralyzed. I don’t know how to function in the void. Who am I if I’m not answering questions and filling needs? I don’t know what I need anymore. I’m not even sure what my inner voice sounds like. And I sure as heck won’t be hearing it in the upcoming 81 days we call Summer Break :)