The Rose

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It's a foregone conclusion that after we have children, our lives change. Too, it is a fair assessment to say that, from Day 1, everything we do and every decision we make, is made with our children, our precious little ones, always at the front and center of how we make choices. Decision-making becomes highly complex because, you see, it's not all about US anymore. At some point when we have young children or multiple ones, we close the door on the person we were before. That person we once recognized is no longer accessible. We close the door, always. That's just how it works. Sometimes we lock that door, but can still open it occasionally, keeping arm's length with the past, because of course one can never go back. Then there are those of us foolish enough to lock the door and throw away the key, only to give up on that person on the other side of the door. We lock our hearts against everything that could ever hurt us or betray us, but in actuality it is we who are hurting ourselves, victims of our own demise. We stomp out our dreams and hopes until they are left there, smoldering black in a puddle of ash that once was our driving force, the flame in our fire somehow drenched by our own tears. Muted.

I understand I am not alone in this. We become mothers and suddenly it seems everything in life is kicking our tails. Showering on a daily basis becomes almost impossible, especially without a system of support or some network of love who step up to help shoulder a few burdens. We grow weary and tired, and don't bother to go wax our brows because, I mean, who cares anyway. We trade in our dress clothes for sweats and wear the same pair of New Balance for 3 years just because we are too preoccupied for things such as these, these minute details. Empty. Sad. That is how we spend our days. And nights.

It's that feeling, you know? That quiet feeling you get when you're reading, lying on one side, arm bent into a triangle to hold up your head. You can be reading and all of the sudden have to stop and stare into space for awhile. You can be playing basketball in the drive or baking a cake with that lemon yellow mixing bowl handed down from your great grandmother, and feel it well up deep inside, like a punch in the stomach. Soon, that hot feeling climbs upward in your throat, and your eyes become full and swollen, and nothing feels better until you've had a good, hearty cry. We cry usually in the bathroom or at our desks at night, and on particularly rough days, we cry into the pillow that cradles our heads with our snoring husbands right beside us. Backs turned, we mustn't let people know how discouraged and alone and weak and torn apart we feel. How broken and sorrowful. That is how sadness is, insisting on a place inside of you, but never quite cooperating.

As mothers, as wives, as women, though, we push through. It maybe takes awhile, and we meet others throughout our afternoons of errand running and checking off our To-Do lists. When we recognize others as somehow sharing these same struggles, these same torturous challenges, our radar goes wild. But, there is never enough time to just TALK, of course not, not with practices, car pool, lessons, meals, work, trying to remain appealing in even the slightest way to your husband, homework, meetings, laundry, dishes, worship or downtime if you're fortunate enough to get any.

Yes, after children, life really does get crazy. A merry-go-round that spins around much too fast, and you're scared to stay on but too terrified to jump. So you just hang on. You hang on for those few moments you get at night when your world is still. Motionless. You sneak Chips Ahoy in a dark pantry because yes, you're sick of sharing. You hang on for your husband to give you that knowing glance, in the off-chance you can both manage to keep your eyes open past the nightly news. You look forward to walking to the street for your mail, alone, because then nobody can need you. Honestly and hungrily and modestly, you just hang on for better days and look forward to when it becomes easier. That's but one thing we women do best, among all the many things we do well: Persevere. Like birthing a baby, we hold on tight, bear down, and push through to the blinking lights that say
​F I N I S H.