Heavy hide

My mother used to pray every night, "Jesus, please let me live long enough for my children to remember me." She told me this one evening a few weeks ago in a haze of good French burgundy, as we watched my children playing on the floor.

I thought for a long time about this afterwards. How will I remember her? How will my children remember me? How do I want them to remember me?

Thinking back on my childhood, if I had to describe my mother as wearing a particular armor type, I'd definitely say her armor was heavy hide. (Can you tell I once was a gamer?) Thick enough so that arrows couldn't easily penetrate it, but not so thick that a non-parried dagger couldn't stab through the side (I achieved this once; but that's another article for another time!). Unbendable, unbreakable, but not hard and reflective. That made it difficult for me to feel like I could confide in her. When I was younger, I resented that heavy hide.

Considering this now, I understand why she wore it. I think you have to have a heavy hide armor when raising children. You have to be resilient enough to not break at all of hateful words children can scream at their parents ("You're unfair!", "You're the worst mommy ever!", "I'm running away to Grandpa's house!","I HATE you!"). If you're wearing cloth armor, every barb that comes your way is going to destroy you.  It's harder and harder to get over those cruel words. Not that I have first-hand experience receiving that kind of feedback yet, but I certainly gave enough of it out as a child.

Heavy hide armor allows you to be nimble while wearing a nearly impenetrable shell; it's lightweight enough so that you can continue hunting, running, jumping, riding, etc in it. My mom used it for work. She was a teacher, always in control, never off duty, and that made it hard to have fun with her. She was always working; when she wasn't being a teacher, she was cooking and cleaning and shopping and shuffling us off to activities. She was hunting, running, jumping - in her own way. She wasn't relaxing. She wasn't having fun.

I think where my mom went wrong is rarely taking that armor off. I very infrequently saw her as vulnerable or human. My fondest memories of her were not how she cleaned the house, cooked for us, and played chauffeur. They were of the times she took off that armor and relaxed. When she allowed herself to have fun with her kids, instead of just protecting and providing for them.

My mom taught me to paint when I was 6. I'm sure my painting expertise started much earlier with watercolors, but it wasn't until I was in first grade that she actually took me to a ceramics class with her and I painted a Christmas ornament. She was patient. She showed me how to apply the paint, ready to be fired. And it was fun. I loved it when I saw her get out her paints, because I knew she'd scored a little knickknack for me to ruin.

And she read to us. And she played the piano for us. And she went bowling with us. And she played games with us.

I will remember the heavy hide, of course, but I'm sure it won't be the only thing I remember. I will remember how she endeavored to teach us things to help us to grow our creative minds. I will remember her learning to ski because we loved it, even though it landed her in the hospital. I will remember her playing songs from "The Sound of Music" and Christmas carols on the piano for us. I will definitely remember the ceramics.

As I get caught up in the day-to-day whirlwind of working, housework, cooking, and taxiing my children places, I try to think about my mom's prayer. I try to remove my armor every now and then, and sit down with my toddler and show him how to draw Elmo and Thomas the Tank Engine. I rough-house with him or play "tent" with a blanket. I try to push him on the swing, or swim with him in the pool, pretending to be a crocodile nibbling at his toes.

I want my boys to remember me as more than just their mother, insisting that they eat their dinner or not throw rocks at the cars. I want them to remember me as a person who loved them so much that I took off my heavy hide, stepped away from my work laptop and pretended to be a crocodile.

Welcome to the Village

In the late winter of 2012, things were happening. Something had begun to change in ways that these random women wouldn't discover for some weeks, if not months. Soon enough, we would find out that we were expecting. But what would come of these pregnancies is something we could never have anticipated.

You see, all of these random women joined a pregnancy forum shortly after discovering their news. This forum developed friendships that have held strong for a couple years. Through pregnancy joys, worries, aches, and pains. Through ultrasounds, blood tests, and diagnosis. Through weeks, trimesters, and birth watches. Then through the births, subsequent sleepless nights, and more. As our babies grew, our motley group of moms from across the continent grew closer. We discussed everything, from our children's' development, to our marital issues, to financial downfalls and promotions. From infertility, and loss, to getting pregnant again, sometimes unexpectedly. Still we grew closer and closer. We have had some rifts, and some disagreements, but were able to solve them as adults, without bitter feelings.

Three years we have been writing back and forth. Hours seldom pass without someone writing, or talking. We have become the 'Village' that so many lack in this day of online anonymity. We have become the 'Family' that some of us lack for various reasons. We share joys, sorrows, and burdens. We have rallied to help members in need, and our hearts have broken for those in pain.

Comments have been made over the years about how 'If only you guys lived closer", or "I wish you were nearby". We playfully explored the fantasy of everyone living within one area, and discovered, through our vast collection of expertise, experience, and skills, we could run a self-sufficient, possibly profitable commune.

And thus our name was born. We live across countries, but our hearts and minds live with the rest of us. We wonder about the other members through the day the same as if we would our families. We share inside jokes, public jokes, dirty jokes, and also warnings, and tears. Advice is shared and accepted freely, whether or not it's requested, or expected. Perspectives are corrected when they have been skewed by trauma.

We realized how lucky we are. We entered our pregnancies just trying to find women in similar situations. We weren't looking for a community, we weren't looking for a home. What we found has been greater and more mutually beneficial than many people find in the whole of their lives. So we decided it was time to share. If we appreciated the experiences, advice, and support helped us, we hoped to spread it beyond our technological sphere of influence.

So here we are, starting a blog. Hopefully we help someone, if just to feel a little less alone. Failing that, we hope we make you think. At the very least, we hope we entertain you.

So come and join us. Have a glass of lemonade, a cup of coffee, or pour yourself some wine. Sit back and join us for a few. We are here to rant, and cry, and, hopefully most of all, to laugh with you.

Welcome to the Village.