If it's not one thing, it's your mother

I have written about my mother a lot since I began blogging. She's an irresistible character - the cold but charismatic antihero. I write about her often because she had a big role in making me the person I am today and I like who I've become and the life I've created. If our relationship had been simpler would I be the parent I am? Would I be as compassionate? Would I understand the importance of holding my kids close and telling them I love them every chance I get?

There is no way to know but that is one of the ways I've come to terms with the past.

I see her in myself sometimes. I recognize the impatience and the cold stare that I can deliver but try so hard to keep in check. I see her in my need to control things and in my desire to know what's going to happen.

But, it's not just the hard parts that I see. My mother was a storyteller. She knew instinctually what details to include, what facial expressions would drive a point home. I could sit and watch her tell stories with her sisters and never grow bored. She was also a loud laugher - head thrown back, mouth wide open, hands in the air. I laugh just like her.

So, when I was approached by Autostraddle to write an essay for their series, "True Stories from Unstoppably Extraordinary Lesbian Moms", I knew I would write about my mother. It is my story of making peace with her and making peace with myself.

Check it out here.

A Lament for Lazy Sundays

I try not to think about what life would be like had we not had kids, try not to dwell on the distant memories of a clean house and disposable income. It's not like I accidentally got pregnant and ended up with kids. I chose to have a family and went to great lengths to get pregnant and bring our two crazy kids into the world.

Without a doubt, they have made me a better person because I want to be a good mother. They challenge me and force me to think about what I believe and value. They test me and I react and reveal those broken places in myself that come from my own past and I strive to heal them. I am honored by their trust in me and there are times when I know I've earned it and other times when it seems like blind faith.

I love them and they are good people.

But, sometimes, I miss the quiet and easy pace of my life before kids.

Before kids, Sundays were our quiet days. We slept late and then got up and had coffee and read. We'd lie on the couch and watch football before making a simple but delicious meal just for the two of us. In the evening, we'd read or watch a movie - the time was ours to do with as we pleased.

I miss those lazy Sundays.

This morning, I woke up at 7 a.m. and went downstairs to have coffee before the kids got up but Zeca was on my lap within moments of me sitting down. She squirmed and talked and I finally told her that she had to find something to so that I could have "quiet coffee time". She went to her room but I felt guilty. Later, she wanted to dance for us and then Miguel started complaining about sore muscles from his martial arts tournament yesterday.

Singing. Dancing. Complaints. Homework. Questions.

It never ends and, though I can ask for space, I can't expect them to disappear for the day. I can no longer do nothing all day without guilt.

So, I do my best. I hold my daughter and answer questions and make pumpkin muffins and give myself over to this different kind of Sunday.This is a good life, I know. But good can be hard too and, even with my daughter's arms wrapped around my neck while we sway in the kitchen, I can long for those other Sundays as well.

PHOTO CREDIT: VIKKI REICH

Letting Go Smells Like Pancakes

When I was growing up, my mother never let me help her in the kitchen and certainly never let me try cooking on my own. She was impatient, hurried and harried, and - more than anything - controlling. I could never do things to her satisfaction. I was slow and clumsy and always made too much mess.

I remember her clearly telling me, "It's just easier for me to do it myself."

I didn't learn to cook and follow a recipe until I was 21, in college and living in an off-campus house with some friends. We all agreed to cook together so we divided into pairs and each pair was responsible for cooking for everyone on their scheduled night. The food had to be low cost and vegetarian.

In a dimly lit kitchen in central Iowa, I learned to make pasta and curries and stir fries. I learned to measure and make mistakes. I learned read a recipe and plan while sitting at a table with a good friend. I learned to cook and I learned to laugh and I learned to let go.

Even now, some of my favorite times have taken place in kitchens - in my own, in friends' - chopping or sautéing, helping or watching, laughing over a glass of wine or a cocktail. There is something inexplicably beautiful about a good meal, lovingly prepared. Getting to share in that creation only deepens the connection.

I know that.

But I forget sometimes.

When Miguel was young, I thought of my mother and the way she handled my requests to help her in the kitchen. I didn't want to be that kind of mother so I helped little hands level cups of flour and teaspoons of salt. I closed my eyes and breathed as flour spilled on the floor and fingers were licked and messes were made. It wasn't easy because, as much as I don't want to be like my mother, I am in certain ways. I too can be impatient and worried about messes but, when my son asked to help, I said, "yes". Always.

Then, we had another child and things got harder. Two children wanted to help and they fought over who got to do what part and the process felt unmanageable. They were conflict and chaos while I was control. I found myself saying "no" more often when they'd ask to help. And then, I started saying, "It's just easier for me to do it myself."

Of course, it is easier but hearing myself saying the exact words that my mother had used to keep me out of the kitchen made me stop and think. I know the impact of those words.

So, I am trying to say "yes" again.

Last weekend, Miguel and his friend, Augie, planned to cook dinner for Luisa and me - pasta with Alfredo sauce, garlic shrimp and a salad. There were moments when Luisa and I had to step in to help and there were moments when I had to step away because I couldn't watch. Nothing tests a control freak like two 12 year old boys shelling and deveining shrimp.

At the end of the night, however, the four of us sat down together and had a delicious meal and both boys were giddy. They made dinner and it was good.

This morning, Zeca asked if she could make pancakes and I could only think of what it would require of me. I had woken up at 6 a.m. for no reason and was tired. The thought of supervising her while she made pancakes and then dealing with the mess was too much. But, she was persistent and I finally said that she could do it but she would have to do it completely on her own.

I laid out all the ingredients and the two bowls and the measuring cups and spoons for her. I opened the cookbook to the recipe and told her that, if she had a question, I'd be on the couch with a cup of coffee and I walked away.

And you know what?

She made perfect pancakes without any help from me.

I hope to remember this so that it will keep me from following my mother's path. I hope. But, I am also learning to embrace the fact that I am not perfect. I am not always the mother I want to be and must learn to embrace that too.

But, today was a small victory over the past. Today, letting go smells like pancakes.