I Want to be a Cool Mom. . . I’m Just Not. . .

I want to be a cool Mom.  I really do.  I want to let you keep your room however you want it. I want to believe that your room is your space and if you want to scatter every one of your belongings on the floor until we need a search and rescue team to find your floor, that is your business.  I want to give you that space to do with what you will and never raise an eyebrow about it.  Unfortunately, I’m just not that cool.  I want to be that Mom, but I’m just not her.

I said these words to Charlie this week, because I felt that they needed to be said.  I remember years ago watching this beautiful video of Dr. Randy Pauch’s final lecture before cancer took his life.  I remember being deeply moved by his words and especially by the way he described his wonderful mother.  I remember how he described that when he wanted to paint scenes on his wall, his mom let him.  I remember thinking to myself, I’m going to be a cool Mom like that.  

I wanted to be the kind of Mom that celebrated markers on the wall for the creativity.  When they wanted to express themselves by littering their floor with toys, clothes, and tiny little bracelet making pieces–I was going to encourage it.  And when Meadow decides she wants to change her pale blue pillow case to a pale blue with pink highlighter accents and BIC pen decorations (like she did last week), I was going to notice her unique artistic eye.

What I didn’t realize when I watched Dr. Paush’s beautiful speech is that I would have to walk into my kids rooms on a daily basis and actually see this mess.  What I didn’t realize when I watched Dr. Paush’s powerful words is that Dr. Paush’s mother is far cooler than I will ever be.

Earlier this week I climbed the stairs with a laundry basket containing clothing of three varying sizes. My first stop was Meadow’s room.  When I walked in, I had to do a double take as it seemed that someone had replaced Meadow’s room with a junk yard.  Upon closer investigation, I learned that Meadow how decided to take ever single game out of the game closet and dump every single piece out onto her floor.  I stepped over the A, B, C’s from the Scrabble game, UNO cards were strewn about, tiny little bones from Operation were scattered in every corner of the room, Memory cards seemed to have little hope of finding their match, I learned those pesky SORRY! pieces are very painful in the arch of your foot, and the tiny pink and blue people from LIFE were embedded in the carpet.

(I suspect this might have been a passive aggressive attempt to get back at me for something she didn’t like.)

My next stop was Chanelle’s room where I found her cute little Melissa and Doug stamp collections dumped all over the floor (thank you Meadow) and clothes that I has asked to be put away hours before, crumbed in heaps on the floor.  On her desk were papers and notebooks and trash piles, just inches away from an empty trashcan.

That was about all I could take.

I walked to the top of the stairs and yelled down something like this to no one in particular, but more likely than not, our entire neighborhood. . .

I am not a maid! I can not stand these messes!  It is not my job to keep their rooms clean, yet I seem to be in here cleaning them everyday.  If they want me to continue to read to them each night, I need their rooms clean!!

I’ll admit, my occasional whining does have an impact, the only cost is the pride I lose when publicly lose it. I walked back into Chanelle’s room (who was not home at the time) and began to try to piece together the A B C’s of her Melissa and Doug stamp collection–which sounds like an easy job, but takes far longer than you might think.  In seconds, Chad joined me and patiently listened while I continued my tirade.   I half noticed Charlie sneak by the door and quietly head to his own room, likely to clean it before he met my wrath.

As Chad and I bent over colorful wooden stamps trying to alphabetize them and place them into the correct spot I continued expressing my frustration about their rooms, the mess, and how I want to be a cool Mom, but I’m just not.  I stood up and gathered up paper after paper that Chanelle had saved from first grade.  I looked through notebook after notebook of coloring, words, and projects she did while sitting in her first grade classroom.

 I shook my head and mused to Chad, What does she think she is going to do with these? Does she really need to keep every one of her papers from first grade?  Chad looked at me and chuckled before answering,  Do you really have to keep every one of your running logs since you were in 8th grade?

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Point taken.

It’s true. I’ve kept every running log I’ve ever used since I began running at age 12.  They are stored in a box in the basement and while I never look at them, I just can’t let them go.  Every now and then Chad puts in a request, can we get rid of these?  My answer has always been the same,  No, I just can’t let them go.

Every time I look at those running logs and the pile of written journals that are stored next to them, I see my history in those pages and all the little stories that made up those years.  Words like ran with Katy and got caught in the rain.  Felt great. Or words like, ran four easy miles with Dad.  Perfect.  

There are so many little stories inside those books, I don’t want to let them go.  Chad might look at the stacks and stacks of logs and see only a culmination of miles run, but I see so much more. . . I see stories.  And I guess that is what Chanelle sees, too.  When she sees a drawing of a butterfly or a ‘journal’ entry about getting Taza–she sees her stories.

Our stories are important and I’m a believer in recording our stories.  So instead of pitching Chanelle’s endless papers into the trash, I put them in a pile on her desk and I’ll let her decide what to do with them, just as Chad tolerates my running logs gathering dust in the basement.

Our stories are important.  Your story, my story, really it’s the only unique thing we have.  In reality, that’s all Running Chatter is. . . it’s my story, our story. . . the stories I want to remember.

So many stories. . .

Exploring new places. . .

We happened upon a lovely park about an hour from our house.  Sand Run Metro Park in Akron was a beautiful place to explore. . .. . .

Summer is in full effect and we are enjoying slower schedules that allow for time to chill. . .

Later nights that involve marshmallows. . .

And sparklers. . .

We’re developing quite the relationship with our new neighbors. . .

But Taza still isn’t sure about them. . .

Evening games of basketball where both my kids destroy me in PIG. . .

And then there are the skies.  An invitation to see, to notice, to breathe.  Every single day, I feel incredible gratitude to be raising my kids under the open skies where we live.  More and more every day they see it and point it out, look at the sky, Mommy!  They are getting it. . .

And sneaking down to my in-laws to enjoy all the beauty their backyard has to offer.

And that is why, time and time again, I come back here, to Running Chatter.  It’s my story, our story.  In all our mundane, neurotic, pride-killing, and beautiful moments, it’s me and us and a story I want for them to know.

They may not have a very “cool” Mom, but I’d venture to say they have countless beautiful stories that make up for it.

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Have a wonderful weekend, Friends.

(I think it’s important to note that when Charlie sneaked past Chanelle’s room into his own room after my not-so-wonderful moment, he cleaned is room better than I’ve seen it done in months.  Apparently, tantrums do work.)