Reminder: I blog to stay balanced aka Introduction to the Family Series

I think I might get a little mushy this morning. I’m not privy to mush and goo and all things cutesy and sweet; however, many of my posts thus far have hinted that I am not happy with my life, with my role as the mother of three, as the keeper of chaos. That is not the case at all and I need to remind myself of that on days like these when I wake up and everything seems just right. The baby slept through the night. The middle (problem) child is happy and positive. The oldest child is entertained, and not at my side or in my face, in fact, not even in the same room. My husband is playing Sunday morning tunes and recklessly singing along. The light outside is a bit dim, but the rain has not started yet, so good news all around.

The job of motherhood is often overwhelming. In the land of mom bloggers, this is an obvious theme, and one which brings us back day after day to share our world and our minds with people sitting miles away at their own computers, people we don’t know, and we’ll never know. It is also somewhat obvious that we feel guilty sharing our feelings of how overwhelming it can be, and thus we throw in ooeygooey material about our kids and their beauty, their accomplishments, the awe they strike without hesitation, every day. It’s hard to find the balance of being real that is caught between mentioning all that is hard and makes us want to quit, and all that is good and compels us to keep going. Ultimately we have no choice to quit of course, but we could certainly withdraw, even while performing the daily mundane chores of parenting, and keeping the family safe. In coming back to the written word everyday we show signs of a refusal to quit. To find meaning in what we do everyday is like a mission in motherhood. I know my purpose is to raise strong, healthy boys. To keep them safe. To teach them well; to see them grow. But that is too vague to justify my life some days. I need small accomplishments, less meaning, shallow depths to feel I’m surviving this and, moreover, my kids are surviving this. This me. That is. A mother.

I shouldn’t speak “we” or “us” or “our.” I apologize. I should only speak “me” – of me, of mine. But it’s nice, that feeling of generalizing. It makes me feel less alone in the every day. During the moments when it’s just me and the kids: a mountain of laundry, dinner plans undone, bedtime too far away to look forward to, yet.

But I do intend to speak of me, of mine. This family of boys. Where I am the only mother, the only female in the house. The only one who will write about all that is little and all that is big about the hearts that beat here in this house. And for whom my heart beats: loud, rhythmic and strong.

I’ll start at the beginning.