Na pultu v dnevni sobi mi stoji zanimiv koledarček. Vsak dan, ko obrnem stran, me čaka spodbuda za mamice za tisti dan. Knjižico mi je podarila dobra prijateljica doula za praznovanje Blagoslov matere. Naslov knjižice je: What every mom needs (Kaj potrebuje vsaka mama). Ta koledarček me je navdihnil, da sem se še sama lotila spodbujanja mamic, najprej na spletni strani S teboj sem.

Današnja spodbuda v omenjeni knjižici pravi nekako takole (v angleščini):

Kaj potrebuje vsaka mama? RAST: Včasih hrepenim po tem, da bi zrasla v tem, kar sem

Rast pomeni odločati se. Če hočemo med otrokovim spancem vaditi klavir ali brati knjigo, bomo morda končale tako, da bomo za kosilo postregle v trgovini kupljene zmrznjene njoke s sirom.

Hm. To pa je spodbuda. Prav razjezila me je. Igranje klavirja in branje knjig sta moji najljubši dejavnosti, načrtovanje dnevnega glavnega obroka pa šibka točka, ki sem jo sicer že kar dobro prerasla (takoj, ko končam pisanje tele spodbude, grem skuhat slivove cmoke), a včasih bi se mi omenjeni sirovi njoki res prilegli. A zdaj potrebujem še to, da mi nekdo takole stopi na žulj?

Zato se v teh spodbudah, ki jih pišem vsak dan na spletni strani, raje sprašujem, KAJ POTREBUJE VSAKA SLOVENSKA MAMA. 🙂 Hočem, da veš, da nisi edina, ki imaš težave z usklajevanjem svojih želja, potreb in potreb tvoje družine z majhnim otrokom. Danes te vabim, da razmisliš, kdaj lahko počneš stvari, ki so nujne (npr. kuhanje kosila) in kdaj take, ki bi bile za tvojo dušo. Veliko potrpežljivosti pri rasti ti želim 🙂

 

2 komentarja on TOREK, 17. maj

  1. Že včeraj si mi stopila na žulj in RES ni bilo treba, da mi še danes, hahahaha!!!! Zelo sem hvaležna svojim malim otročičkom, ker sem se šele ob njih naučila, kaj je res tisto “za mojo dušo” in koliko časa in energije sem zmetala v nič, preden sem jih imela. Zdaj potrpežljivo čakam na vsak “moj trenutek”, da ga le ne spregledam..

  2. Tole sem imela nekje shranjeno, ne vem od kod sem potegnila..

    It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I’m on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I’m thinking, ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone?’

    Obviously not; no one can see if I’m on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I’m invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more! Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this??

    Some days I’m not a pair of hands; I’m not even a human being. I’m a clock to ask, ‘What time is it?’ I’m a satellite guide to answer, ‘What number is the Disney Channel?’ I’m a car to order, ‘Right around 5:30, please.’

    Some days I’m a crystal ball; ‘Where’s my other sock?, Where’s my phone?, What’s for dinner?’

    I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history, music and literature -but now, they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She’s going, she’s going, she’s gone!

    One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England . She had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when she turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, ‘I brought you this.’ It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe . I wasn’t exactly sure why she’d given it to me until I read her inscription: ‘With admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.’

    In the days ahead I would read – no, devour – the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: 1) No one can say who built the great cathedrals – we have no record of their names. 2) These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. 3) They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. 4) The passion of their building was fuelled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

    A story of legend in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, ‘Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof, No one will ever see it And the workman replied, ‘Because God sees.’

    I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was Almost as if I heard God whispering to me, ‘I see you. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does.

    No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, no Scout meeting, no last minute errand is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.

    I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

    When I really think about it, I don’t want my children to tell the friends that they are bringing home, ‘My Mom gets up early in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for 3 hours and presses all the linens for the table.’ That would mean I’d built a monument to myself. I just want my children to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to their friends, they’d say, ‘You’re gonna love it here…’

    As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we’re doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible mothers.

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