Monkey Business

If you don't know this already, my son is the cutest boy that has ever lived. I would die defending that statement. No other person can make me laugh simply by shrugging or finding their bellybutton. The most hilarious part of motherhood for me thus far has been watching my son independently develop quirks that, seriously, were never modeled for him. The shrugging does not seem like it would even be noticeable, but imagine a chubby, blue-eyed one year old boy meandering about in a diaper and a long-sleeve tee. He looks up at me at the table, eyes widened with expectation, realizes Mama is busy, and shrugs his shoulders so purposefully that it looks as if they've fallen two inches in his shirt. His arms hang like a chimp's. And he trots away from me, arms swaying, his steps deliberate and loud. His whole body is expressing disappointment that Mama isn't eternally available to play. His fat feet even drag behind him as he makes his way to his inferior toy box.

Perhaps I shouldn't find my son's disappointment so adorable. If he only knew that Mama was applying to graduate school in order to allow for more possibilities for our family or paying bills so he can sleep in a cozy, heated bedroom. I'm confident in the attention I give my son, so when the shrugs come upon him, I am able to laugh at the monkey that walks away from me. He transforms his body to an ape-like character, never having seen a monkey move except on Baby Einstein. Maybe I'm confirming Darwinism; or maybe I'm merely amazed at the concept of individualism.

I remember being pregnant (all too well) and discussing our baby with my husband, Josh. We would talk about the scientific realities taking place within my body, how one plus one equals two and cells contain DNA and do their job. But it was impossible not to be fascinatingly dumb-founded when thinking of our child taking on characteristics all his own. Case in point: monkey arms. I had nothing to do with creating this primate-like child. He decided, in his small, glorious brain, to shrug so hard his shoulder blades might disconnect, in hopes of getting my attention.

I have many fears as a mother, but one of my biggest, most consumable fears is that I'm going to forget. I never want to forget how his legs roll under his diaper, the sound of his feet slapping the floor as he runs to get me in the morning, how he confuses "Shh" with "Choo-Choo" and puts his index finger by his mouth for both. I never want to forget the monkey arms swaying back and forth. I never even want to forget the slaps I get in the face as I pick him up from the gym or church nursery: he runs to me so quickly his stumbly feet can't keep up, I pick him up and swing him around, and he is so full of thrill that he puts his thick, little hands to my face--almost as if he is confirming it's me--and moves them so quickly in excitement that it ends up whacking me.

I know there will be a day when he rolls his eyes when I pick him up because he doesn't want to leave his friends. There will also be a day when the stories of his monkey business cause him to withdraw, blush, or change the subject. There might even be a day when he sees me and decides to run not toward me, but away. For now, knowing the depths of our beautifully mutual admiration, I'd rather be slapped.

Goodbye, Journal

Sorry, Journal. My journey with you was long, meaningful, and necessary. But, unfortunately, my motivation to keep you around has become too low. Primarily, you require too much of my wrist and forearm. This may seem silly, but consider that I have a 35+ pound child that I tote around regularly. This child also uses my entire body as a jungle gym. My arms are busy swinging, moving, throwing, lifting, sifting, rearranging, changing, cleaning, opening, closing, placing, holding...my wrists also suffer from these inevitable activities. The weight on my forearm required to prop up my son on my hip, holding his bottom tight enough so he doesn't topple onto the linoleum, creates a tiredness that...unfortunately for you...keeps me from picking up a pen. So, I'm moving on to the art of blogging. This is difficult because it's less intimate for me. I will miss our candlelit sessions at night, listening to the melodies of Josh's snoring. I will miss the inflections of my private voice and the openness of your gloriously blank pages. I will also miss the beautiful design on your cover, encouraging me to find the same intricate qualities in my own life. You helped me find the mosaic charm of my everyday life as a mother, wife, teacher, and child of God. But, our visits together have been too infrequent lately. I haven't grown or searched these past months because of the basic reality of the pen being too tiresome to work with. It's time, then, for me to move on.

Hello, Blog! From the start, you must know that I don't really like you. This is a tough place for me because I've chosen to invest in this relationship, even though I don't believe in it. I already miss my journal. You will never smell as good as its pages. You will never give me reasons to shop for quality pens. But, I still believe it's worth giving you a shot. Here's why.

You are more available to me in this time of confusing contentment. My time is more precious now than ever. But my heart and soul are also cherished, beloved, and neglected. I no longer have the emotional energy or physical exertion it takes to stay in a relationship with my journal. You might think this is all too dramatic. You might be right. But, as a writer and a person deeply in need of introspective clarity, this is where I have landed: I need a less-exhaustive way of exploring the personal and maternal dimensions to my life.

Here is what I hope to gain from this relationship (I think it's important you know from the start): I want you to provide motivation for me to externalize the chaos that exists inside my head. Let me explain. I am a person that never stops thinking, never stops questioning, never stops striving to become the best version of myself. Right now, however, I do not have many outlets for these thoughts, nor do I have energy to explore them the way they deserve. There are many dusty ideas, shelved in the back of my mind, that I'm hoping to get out, clean off, and set forth. This is not your responsibility, but being the nature of what you are, I believe that you will be the platform necessary for me to begin building this towers of thought and ideas. I'm hoping that, if anyone ever joins this journey through reading, others might find motivation to do the same.

So, this is the beginning of a lot of nonsense, most of which will not be worthy of readers. I admit this now. Others use this public venue of self-exploration mindlessly and immaturely. That bugs me. Yet, here I am. I admit that I am a hypocrite, but I believe you can forgive me for that. I hope that this journey stretches me, challenges me, and even provides guidance for me as I navigate through the waters of motherhood, marriage, and identity.