“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? 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 :)
