Creative Motherhood

Being a stay at home mother is an amazing journey of discovery. I'm constantly amazed at how often I am amazed. Does that make sense?

I'm amazed at my daughter Morgan as she made her own kite yesterday. After informing her as gently as possible that it probably won't fly and "don't worry we'll find you a kite", I marveled at how she used a pencil and a roll of ribbon for the kite string, attached to a piece of colored chip board. If hope alone could lift this kite, she had enough to send it to outer space.

I marveled less when her younger sister unwound it and played with it like the kitty cat that she is.

I delight in Morgan's highly creative mind. She's resourceful. She doesn't let anything hold her back. She yields to the inspiration that drives her. She doesn't care about timing or impossibilities. She attacks creative projects with effortless energy.

Because of this, my house is not my own.
Craft bins are left as spoils of war: torn open, the contents strewn as if a wild creative animal attacked.
Bed skirts are swiss-cheesed by my scissor-handed daughter who needed white fabric RIGHT AWAY. (A talk ensued.)
There is paint on my daughter's carpet, a half-painted mural on her wall and wax strings are hung artistically on the wall above her bed.
Gone are the carefully chosen vintage Wizard of Oz illustrations I hung with care on her wall when she was a baby.
Gone are the vestiges of anything that matches or looks coordinated.

I don't even open Pottery Barn Kids catalogs anymore. They're totally fake.

Gone are the things that are "baby".
In its stead are little poems written on scraps of paper.
There are occasional "GO AWAY" signs on the floor, evidence of a girl who is learning her boundaries in life.
Her room is a physical representation of her mind: small groupings of play here and there. I don't think there is one square foot of her carpet that can be seen.

When I talk to her about cleaning her room, she melts. Her head bows and she begins to get misty eyed. She doesn't know how to be organized.

She is me thirty years ago. Struggling to be organized. Not understanding why I can't think as neatly as others.

But fortunately for her, she has me for a mother. Organization is my arch nemesis. I hate papers. I can't get rid of things and yet on certain times of the year, the left side of my brain takes the right side of my brain as hostage and I begin to purge vast amounts of things from our house.

I need to breathe. And she does too.

So today, with her permission, I plan on packing her room into boxes.
"Don't put them in the basement, Mom. There are bugs and spiders."
"Don't worry, Morgan, I'll put a lid on the boxes."
"You won't sell my stuff, will you? When you put them in the basement, you like to sell them."
She's right, but I reassure her, "I'll put them in the basement and let you bring them up to your room one box at a time until you find a home for everything. I won't sell them."

The adventure continues. The dance is perfected... the carefully choreographed steps give way to improvisation.