“If you spend your whole life worrying, the only way it will have meaning is if your fears become real”
Six years ago today was your due date.
Men are analyzers.
When we’re not feeling our best or something isn’t working, we try to figure out what’s wrong. We think the situation through. We calm ourselves down and look at problems systematically. We look for root causes or missing parts or broken pieces. Then, after identifying the cause of the issue, we usually come up with some sort of solution.
We decide, after thinking on it for a day or so, that we need a new fan belt, more vitamin C, or some vodka and a 50 dollar bet on the number six horse. We apply the solution and, before we know it, the car is running great, our sinuses have cleared up, and we’ve blown off the steam we needed to blow off. Problem fixed—except for the hangover.
Issues start when we try to approach our relationship problems in the same way, when we try to project our way of doing things onto the women in our lives.
It might look a little like this:
We come home after work or go to her place after school. The moment we walk through the door, we notice her foul mood. Frustration is built up in her furrowed brow. She is a storm cloud ready to crack. Even the room seems to have darkened with her anger. Her wrathful silence is so foreboding that we find it repulsive. A primal part of us might even be a little afraid at these powerful and dark emotions.
“What’s her problem?” is the first question that pops into our heads.
We immediately go into problem-solving mode. We assume there is a specific cause. We assume there is a singular issue that can be addressed that will fix the situation. We rack our brains, but can’t think of anything. Did we forget a birthday? Forget to call? Not notice a new haircut? We can’t figure it out, but no matter how much we ask her what’s the matter, she constantly tells us it’s nothing.
Why does she have to be so complicated?
We sit with her in silence. Maybe make a few more attempts to find out what the problem is. Maybe she lashes out at us because we keep asking, and we don’t really know what’s going on. Maybe we make the terribly silly mistake of telling her to calm down. Eventually we walk out, telling her we’ll come back when she figures out what her issue is and can talk it out like an adult.
At this point, we’ve not only failed our woman, we’ve failed ourselves.
We’ve wrongly assumed her situation is the same as a bike with a broken chain. We’ve wrongly assumed it’s as simple as finding the right piece we need to fix it. We’ve wrongly assumed, like all the other problems in our lives, that it’s our time to take control of the situation.
Like a ship’s captain that finds his vessel has strayed off course, we attempt to change her direction. We’ve tried to steer her, but our woman is not a ship. We are not her captain. She’s the ocean that we’re sailing in—vast and mighty. If we try to wrestle her immense waves we will lose every time. We will drown. She might not even know she’s doing it, but she will swallow us.
Our job is not to be the captain, or even the ship. Our job is to be the rock standing strong on the shores of the ocean that we love. Our only job is to be there, and to be there for no reason other than our love for her waters.
Like any other body of water, there will be days when she crashes against us. Wave after wave, it might feel like the ocean will never again be calm. When her tide is high we may feel like we’re about to drown. Sometimes she hits us so hard we think we might crack. But if we remain full and abundant in our love for her, and constantly present in our masculinity, it will pass.
Her waters will quiet. She will once again lovingly caress us, her waves gently lapping at our ankles. She will completely open her heart in response to our stubborn love. She will trust in our strength, and feel safe in showing us the depths of her dark and healing waters. She’ll let us dive into her completely and we will taste her salty kiss. She’ll show us just how much we have to learn from the mysterious gifts she has to give us.
Until, of course, another storm brews on the horizon. But, our job as the rock never ends.
So if you cannot love her stormy weather as much as you love her sunrise , she isn’t the woman for you. If you cannot find humour in the situation and her need to close up, lash out, or walk away, you’re not the man for her.
If when her waters get rough you cannot give your unconditional love to her, you’re treading in an ocean too deep and powerful for your swimming abilities. It is better for you both if you find a smaller pool to dip your timid feet in, and for her to find a man willing to embrace her inherently wild and endlessly passionate nature.
Author: Michael Giorgi
“First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.
When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.
Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
”Words are the light I’ll use to light my path. This is no disaster. This is simply a crisis. I will let myself be a child at the beach who digs in the sand and lifts her sieve out in front of her, watching the sand fall away and hoping that treasure will be left.”
~ Glennon Doyle Melton
This is the first time in … well, a really long time, that I haven’t been absolutely dreading Mothers Day.
I could write about the whys and hows that caused this stretch, but I regress. I feel ransomed. Instead, I have decided to write about why I go forward tomorrow.
I go forward because I am a mother. I go forward for my children, because while they may only need me to lead for a little while longer, I will continue to be their mother without their need. Being a mother is seared into every fiber of my being. It’s what I do. Not just for my own children, but with all children whose lives cross my path. I’ve been called into this unknown for as long as I can remember. Every dream I had as a child was to have a child. Sure, I’ve dreamt of traveling to new places and meeting new people, collecting adventures, but the only adventure I was ever certain I could not leave this planet without having stepped into has always been motherhood.
The most profound moment of my entire life was the one which held the sound of my child’s heart beating from within my womb. That was the moment I became a mother. While most things I’ve once held dear have now been counted as loss, come hell or high water, that moment will always be mine. No one can take it from me. That love and wonder remains the same.
My children are everything to me. I see them. They are too smart for their own good, and ignorant beyond belief all at once. They see me. A God in their wonder, yet another inherently flawed human wrapped in their unconditional love. I am their greatest teacher, they are mine. That’s the way it goes. We live, we love, we learn. We become.
From now on, I will celebrate BECOMING a mother.
That’s my moment. That’s my thing.
That’s Mothers Eve to me.