Wonder Woman?

I'm a full time mother and a full time college student. My best friend, who is now a mother of two beautiful twin babies, called me Wonder Woman, after I had my son and went back full time at school so I could finish. Yes, I do have a very energetic two year old which makes doing any kind of homework much more difficult, but I wouldn't say "Wonder Woman."

There are many other women who have more kids than I do with much more difficult circumstances than I do. Many divorced or otherwise single mom's are going back to school. A classmate of mine was talking with me just this evening about her three kids, ranging from eleven to three years old, who is planning to graduate when I do. She isn't just doing it with kids, but she's doing it without a husband. I'm twenty-three years old and, while she's not ancient and needing a walker to get around, she's older than I am by at least fifteen years.

If anything, she, and all the women like her who are forced by circumstance to go back to school and take and pay for hundreds of credit hours, are the real Wonder Women.

Often times I complain about this teacher or that assignment. I may have dyslexia, which makes reading assignments as an English Major that much more difficult. We are given (no joke) fifteen novel length books alongside a plethora of short stories and essays that we are asked to read for one single class. I don't even read some of the material because I know I won't be able to finish the entire novel and my other classes assignments at the same time. Right now, if I were to get a good grade in this particular literature class, my history and writing classes would tank. I've had many moments where I have to weigh the many against the one--and this class, with an awful teacher, is the one that gets left behind.

Is it Wonder Woman to prioritize and manage my time? Is it Wonder Woman to suddenly realize that while I've been doing homework my son has watched three movies in a row and it's suddenly almost nap time and no one has eaten lunch? Is it Wonder Woman to freak out and feel like my brain is about to explode because so many words have suddenly been jam-packed into it like an overloaded suitcase?  Not one more sock, not one more word, will fit in this suitcase no matter how hard I try at times. It makes my head ache being on the verge of explosion as I hit ten o'clock at night and crawl into bed because I can't take consciousness anymore.

There is no way, I could do this--being a mom of a two year old, do school whether it was full time or not--on my own. If I was on my own I would also have to have some type of job as well. I don't think I could honestly do it. Any two of the three, yes. But I couldn't do all of them on my own. Even with my supportive husband I can only do two.

If it weren't for my husband and the support that he is--he wants me to finish school and become an author and be the mother I want to be--I couldn't do it. I am weak like that. Having him near makes me strong.

So am I Wonder Woman?

No. That title goes to other women who go through more than I do and succeed.

I am a Partner. Partner in my marriage. When I am at class, my loving husband watches our son. When I'm at home doing homework he is at work or does "ground control" to keep our son occupied so I'm not disturbed--too much. And when I graduate in December, then my husband can fully occupy himself with his schooling and his career. My husband has given me my time to gain the knowledge I wish to acquire, then I can do the same for him. All the while, having our beautiful family.

I don't need to be Wonder Woman, because I have a wonderful husband who tells me that I don't have to go through this alone.

A Mother's Worry

It's more than just a little terrifying to have a sick child. Even though my two-year-old isn't sick with cancer or leukemia or the measles that has been running rampant or anything drastic. But the fact that he is miserable is always concerning to a mom.

My son is normally very happy, extremely cheerful, and bright like his sunny, blond hair. His eyes are blue and has fingers small. He loves to give hugs and high fives and knuckles.  When he isn't sick, he's running around as if he had a tail that had been caught on fire. He also has a very wild and crazy arm, so when he throws things more often they come flying at your face or behind him.

He is a sweetheart and the definition of a ball of energy.

When he is mildly sick, if his nose didn't run, I wouldn't even know. If it weren't for his cough that was so raspy you could hear the fleum moving in his body as the air rushed through it, I wouldn't know he was unwell. He is two and doesn't know to tell me. He doesn't realize that the red medicine that tastes rancid is there to make him feel better. Instead, he only knows that the little, plastic box full of water that puffs out a silly kind of smoke has a light on it. He calls the green light "red" then pulls his Pooh Bear blanket over his shoulder and falls asleep.

He doesn't know that the reason we can't go outside to play with the neighbor boy his age is because his cough makes me squirm. He doesn't understand that he's contagious at least for a while. Instead, he only knows that he gets to watch movies we've already seen a hundred times and I have to chase him down to wipe his nose.

It's scary, though, when he suddenly slows down. It's frightening when his light eyes, so full of wonder and joy, suddenly are half closed. When he climbs into my arms with his blankie and wants nothing more to be held. I relish those moments, looking back on when he was so little. When he would fall asleep peacefully in my arms wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. When I could see the trace puffs of his dark baby hair turning blond. He would rest in my arms, my baby. My two-year-old baby who wants nothing more than to be safe and held, to feel better and be close to "Mom." I secretly enjoy those moments, because I know that as soon as he is feeling a little bit better, he'll be running away, playing with his cars or screaming to go outside.

Those little moments. Those longing moments. Those scary moments. All in one.

He may not be sick with an incurable disease. My son will be better in the morning. Right now, he isn't even sick enough to want to sit down in my arms and be held. And slowly, I realize that tomorrow, he'll be one day older. One day closer to going off to school. One day closer to finding the girl of his dreams and having kids of his own. One day closer to leaving my house to find one of his own. One day closer to him being taller than me, so then I have to look up to him to get my hugs that he so freely gives now. I will be happy for him and the family he will make. Then when he has a son of his own, I can hold that baby in the cocoon of blankets. That boy can fall asleep in my arms as well as his mothers. I can bask in the joy of another life, another child to love. Another child to hug.

But for now, I have a two-year-old, sleeping quietly next to a vapor box that sends out little puffs of steam. A boy who is crazy and rambunctious. A boy who is so happy to see me when I come home from school. A boy whose eyes light up when I turn the corner or enter a room. A son who will love me forever. A man who will, hopefully, give those hugs so willingly when I have to look up at him.

My son forever.

Common Courtesy Isn't So Common

Before we were in grade school, we learned to wait our turn. We would stand in lines with our mothers waiting for the drinking fountain or for the long, red, twisty slide at the park. We were always told "Wait your turn." "Let the other girl go. She was here first." 

In Elementary school, if we let someone cut in front or behind you when you were on your way to the lunch line, you would get yelled at by the rest of the classmates that were behind you. You would probably get death glares for the rest of the day. In high school, you might get punched out for the very same act. 

So why is it okay to do it when your older? 

At the bank, waiting patiently for the cars in front of me at the drive through to finish their transaction, we are asked to wait a certain, designated distance back for pedestrians to cross without being accidently hit while they pass from the building to the covered parking. There is a fire line, a strip of pavement that is supposed to be clear just incase catastrophe strikes and people need to get out, sits vacant next to the area where we are supposed to wait. 

A car pulls out of the stall where he was being helped and exits onto the street. I'm about to move my silver-blue SUV forward when another white SUV revs behind me, around me and into the fire lane, through the pedestrian crossing--which luckily was empty of anyone thinking they would safely cross in the designated space--and into the pull-through teller's station. All before I have the ability to move at all. Didn't the black haired lady realize how dangerous and rude that was? 

Now, she already did something rather reckless and stupid, but then she takes forever at the teller's station. I was forced to move behind her and wait and wait and wait for her to finish, while everyone else in the other lanes moved and left before she was even half way done. I had no chance to back my car up and because another car had pulled in behind me. I was stuck behind this slow and rude person. 

I am slightly irritated that I had to wait a while longer but the recklessness that the woman had to the possible pedestrians that might have been crossing. She had no way to tell if a mother and her three kids were coming out of the bank. My SUV and a thick, black wall obscured her view of the door or walkway. She could have pulverized a pregnant lady or a newly wedded couple who had just opened their first account together. Thankfully, the way was empty, but it could have just as easily not have been. 

What kind of example was she setting for the two kids she had in her back seat? 

People, be aware of your surroundings and the others that are part of your community. 

Make common courtesy a common thing again. It is sorely missing in the world we live in. 

The Titles We Wear

There are many titles that you're given in your life. Some are given to you.

            Girl. Sister. Daughter. Friend. Student. Learner.

And as you get older and have more experiences, you only get more titles.

            Girlfriend. Graduate. Wife. Mother. Grandmother.

I've given myself a few titles as well.

           Writer. Researcher. Family Historian. Curious. Inquisitive.

But are we simply the titles were are given and wear, by others or ourselves? Is there more to simply fitting into the mold of what people think we should be? Of what I think I should be? Is there a certain point when we strip off the titles and masks and become ourselves.?

Who is that self under all the masks of titles?

If people were to dress the same, with hair that was simple, with similar colors, with nothing to differentiate them from the person standing them to them as they walked down the street, how would we be an individual? By our actions, how we act, how they treat others, or how other treat them? Are those what make individuality take root and flourish?

Many people act like the others around them to "fit in"and not be excluded from their friends, co-workers, families, or the person next to them on the bus. I think we wear masks to fit that mold because we are scared of their own individuality.  We are scared of having a title too different from those around us. We would stick out too much like a sore thumb.

Why are we scared?

For years, I thought I didn't wear any masks or any titles but my own "Caitlyn" mask. I thought the front I showed people wasn't actually a front. Wasn't a mask. Wasn't a title. While that was partly true, I didn't have many masks to choose from, I still kept the vulnerability away. I had to be strong all the time and no one was allowed to see me cry. No matter if I was scared or sad or frustrated, no one was allowed to see that side of me. Drama ensued as boys entered the picture, as death happened in my school. We were all given more masks and titles. The happy one. The not-broken one. The runner. The cutter. We all saw the titles we'd given one another but knew that they were simply something to hide behind.

Even five years after high school ended, some of those titles have since slipped away like the circumstances that dictated them. Yet, some still hold desperately onto those titles still--"I'm still not-broken." "I'm still always happy."--even though they are all lies.

Why are we lying to ourselves still? When the lying should have been done with?

Is there any way to show our true selves? Or are we simply the titles we hold? The mask we have on in a particular moment for that circumstance?

Maybe it is up to the person. If they have so much to hide from, they put up barriers to hide behind. They have bails of hay, wooden barrels, and stone walls to cower behind. If they were to slowly take down those barriers and face their demons and doubts, can't we take some of those false masks off and put on more important ones that help us to progress toward a better life?

It would be a slow process. Finding. Confronting. Slowly breaking down the barricades.

Wouldn't this leave only the most important masks we want to wear instead of the ones we hide behind? We could face the world with purpose, with clear eyes, with a certain joy. Maybe a joy of peace.

Find the titles that you want to keep and cast away the masks that you don't. Talk with yourself. Converse. Question and look for an answer.

Then be ready to work.