A couple of weekends ago, Brent watched the kids for me so I could get out of the house. I had no plan; I just knew I needed space between me and the continual onslaught of noise and need. I left while the kids were resting, around 3:00. I didn't come home until their bedtime.
I drove in a bit of a daze to the bookstore. Since jumping from two kids to four, this feeling of fog in my head has never really lifted. Some days I fight through it; some days I lean into it and let everything go. It has taught me to stop being concerned about everything being "just so" - Sadie's hair is usually a mess; I have been unable to host any get-togethers; this blog is terribly vacant lately; I have lost the bandwidth for maintaining well-organized details of any sort. And while this lesson in imperfection is one for which I am grateful, it has cost me the ability to maintain my side of a coherent conversation - and the public loss of my train of thought is sometimes rather embarrassing; unless I'm one-on-one with someone, I generally refrain from talking.
I was only in the bookstore about six minutes before my eyes began filling with tears. I almost started sobbing. The solitude (in the midst of strangers, yes), the instrumental music playing, the chance for my mind to quiet, the peace of the moment overwhelmed me. That hollow, starved place inside me swallowed the solitude and spit out tears.
So I wandered around, picking out a few gifts for people, drinking a fancy coffee drink, and splurging on an Imogen Heap CD. By the time I left, a damp darkness had fallen.
I was not ready to go home.
Putting on my new CD, I drove to the top of a hilly street and parked. The small town lights twinkled and I absorbed the music. I think I was there more than an hour.
This is the thing - solitude is necessary to creativity. Solitude is necessary to good thinking. Solitude is necessary for my mental health. And solitude is the hardest thing to find when mothering a large family.
Something deep within me just split open while I sat in the car. It split, and all the grief of missing my old self overflowed. The self that lit candles and sat alone and created. The self that read hard things and had the attention span to ponder them. The self that went out and walked in the dark. The self that loved being alone in a crowded coffee shop. This noise, this fog, this constant refereeing of ear-splitting squabbles, this never-ending sense that a gazillion things need to be done right now, this incessant multi-tasking sucks the creativity - one of the things that brings life - out of me.
And, oh, sitting alone in the blackness and listening to music was so good. So good.
I don't know what the answer is - I don't anticipate consistently getting more of this time until the little people are older, in school, and easier to care for so that others can relieve me. But I do know that it's OK. This is a season of life. This is one of the costs of mothering. And when we all pull through this I'll be wiser and more durable for it.
All us mamas need something that we don't get while parenting. I guess I wrote this to acknowledge the struggle. It's not romantic - our needs not being met - even if it is for the miracle of our children's lives and growth. But it's OK, sort of, for a while, as it's part of this journey. It's temporary, and it's for the best possible reasons. And as soon as we can, whenever we can, we need to grasp those opportunities to feed our spirits.
Some might advise...just get up earlier, or put some time on the schedule for yourself, or get a regular babysitter or...you name it. The truth is - I would if I could. Really. You don't need to read a post on all the reasons space for myself is limited, but there are reasons. All mamas have reasons that are not simply excuses. One of the things I am learning is not to feel guilty that someone else's solution is not a solution that works for me and my family. (That's another lesson from imperfection and chaos - letting go of guilt and the "requirement" of pleasing others. Those are tough ones to leave behind, but doing so brings tremendous freedom.)
For now I'm going to hold on to that moment. That span of four hours of solitude. It's amazing how long I can go now on a single experience. And I'm going to listen to that Imogen Heap album on repeat while I'm driving a van full of arguing, weird-sound-making children around town. And I'm going to hold my breath until I get another chance to break the surface for a gulp of solitude.
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P.S. In order to write this post I put off going to the grocery store (which I am going to regret later when I need to fix dinner); I took two breaks to read Oli a book; I got Bella up from her nap and changed her diaper; and I still desperately need a shower (which I am going to have to rush so that I can go pick Sadie up from school). Just a reality check.
