If you want to peer into my psyche, look no further than my night stand. Along with whatever current piece of fiction I'm reading, twin stacks of books sit waiting to be opened. My book titles read like a table of contents to my worries and thoughts.
A book on raising gifted children sits atop Getting to Calm: Cool-Headed Strategies for Parenting
Tweens + Teens (Ben), and then there's a copy of Parenting Children with ADHD: 10 Lessons That Medicine
Cannot Teach for my not-suffering-from-ADHD-but-still-sometimes-hyper Gus. I don't have anything about progressing normally kids like Paul, but I probably should add something soon. And those are just my parenting books. My self-help books live there, too.
Relegated to the basement or perhaps a new home courtesy of Goodwill are volumes on pregnancy, morning sickness, bringing up babies, getting babies to sleep, scream-free parenting (is it sad that I gave up on that idea?), and surviving stay-at-home mommy-hood. Trust me, that's just to name a few.
Whenever something is bothering me or worrying me, I buy a book about it, and it makes me feel better just knowing that I have information at my fingertips. The odd thing is I often don't even finish the books, and, sadly, sometimes I don't even crack them open. The truth is, when I have precious free time, I'd rather get lost in reading for pleasure than for learning.
I listened to a radio program yesterday about super powers. It asked people whether they'd prefer to have the power of flight or invisibility. Forget those. I'd like to be able to acquire knowledge and wisdom effortlessly. Try though I may, I still haven't been able to implement my super-duper plan for absorbing my bedside library via osmosis.
Right now, I need a book for stay-at-home moms who are losing their identity as their kids quickly grow up. My beginning of the school year funk lingers. Gus is still home half days, so my daytime nest isn't completely empty yet, but I know it will be soon. My what-comes-next angst has been eating away at me. I've thought about it, worried about it, obsessed about it, and, yes, blogged about it.
Just as I was about to be taken down by a tsunami of uncertainty and self doubt, I had an epiphany thanks to someone else's blog. Writer Jennifer Benjamin penned a piece entitled What's so Bad About "Just Being a Mommy"? It was exactly what I needed.
"Recently, a woman with a grown daughter said to me that she would pay $1 million to have just one day with her toddler again. Just for one day," writes Benjamin. "That time for me is right now. If I’m spending these precious minutes worrying about what I’m doing with my life, then I’m just going to miss out on theirs. Besides, they are my life, aren’t they?"
Epiphanies can be a dime a dozen for me, probably thanks to all those darn books, but I hope this one sticks, because I really need it. Right now is still my time to raise my boys. I need to stop freaking out about what job I might get next year and focus instead on painting a picture with Gus or enjoy our time together constructing Angry Birds towers out of Jenga blocks.
I'm at an age when it's high time I realize that if I keep my eyes locked on the future, very soon I'll be mourning what was left not fully appreciated in the past. And that would be a travesty worthy of a book.
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