the fixer
by bam
warning: this is bound to contain self-incriminating confessional as i explore the wilds of motherdom, and the root of the many sleepless nights in this old house.
somewhere along the line, the mothering line, perhaps long long ago in the days when a toy train would lose its wheels, or our striped little kitten would get stuck for days and days in some unknown nook or cranny along our graffiti-strewn alley, i seem to have morphed my job description, cobbling in an amendment to my motherly constitution, one that made me in charge of glueing on run-away train wheel, parading the alley for hours on end till said kitten meowed loudly enough for me to detect his latitude and longitude, bang on the door, grab the gang banger (yes, this is true), and get the little rascal loosed from his trappings.
i became the fixer. where i saw shattered parts or hearts, i’d set out to fix ’em.
this is not a task one should take on too lightly. for life, as it’s wont to do, throws steeper and steeper inclines, raises the bar higher and higher. when a backpack grew moldy, i could toss it in the wash. when a favorite sweatshirt somehow got kidnapped between the schoolyard, the little league lot, and the bedroom, i could dial up another one. i cannot count the number of days — and nights — of my life i spent prowling the alleys of chicago’s north side or this leafy little town, tearfully yodeling for our lost little kitten, the one who came home every time, with adventures left wholly unspoken.
truth be told, in the muddle of mothering, of being the self-appointed healer of brokenness, i took a wee bit of shine to this task and this title. if i could fix the runaway train wheel, track down the cat who’d lost his way home, maybe i had quasi-magical powers. maybe i’d found a backwater in life for which i had particular navigational skills. if i could set the world right, after it had been hurled topsy-turvy and helter-skelter, well then i could expunge a whole lot of hurt. i could find a way to nudge us — me and the people i loved — back to ground zero, the tranquil landscape of equanimity. aka, nirvana. or at least the momentary mirage thereof.
it was a job that felt noble and good. and, perhaps i’d fooled myself into thinking, locked in my indispensability.
the problem is that the little people over whose peaceable kingdoms i reigned, they got big and bigger. and so too did the things that need fixing. missing homework might be explained with a note to the teacher. not so much hearts mangled by crushes. or any one of the conundrums that are the daily bread and butter of life in the 21st century.
nowadays, often enough to give me that haggard sheen that comes from long nights tossing and turning and even longer days churning inside, i find myself encountering the worries of ushering one kid through the last few weeks of his junior year of high school, and another one who’s just moved to DC for the summer and found himself sleeping in a dorm room that redefines “spartan” (the exterminator slipped a note under the door just yesterday, and someone saw fit to assure the dormers that the asbestos was confined to the boiler room), and all while juggling a paper or two still due back at law school.
too many things i cannot fix. and, yes, i realize the fallacy. i understand that i shouldn’t, that it’s not my job — nor would it be wise in the long run — to be anyone’s personal fix-it shop. but somehow in my scrambled head, i still ache to be able to wave my magic wand, as i so ingeniously did in the old days. and i can’t quell the yearning — and scrambling — to do so.
maybe it comes from years of not knowing how to fix the things that flummoxed my very own self. the chains that truly bound me. maybe the easy satisfaction of glueing together a toy, of putting clean sheets on the bed of someone i loved, maybe it all gave me an unquenchable glimpse of how it might be to wield prestidigitational powers — the ones i clearly lacked when i was the broken one.
or maybe it’s just what you do when you love. when you remember the day you whispered the promise: “i will shield you, my sweet, will do all in my power to keep you from hurt and from harm. will enfold you in safe holy wings.”
maybe, in the end, the love itself is the thing. maybe the fixing isn’t quite so much the point.
maybe even when we can’t find the missing piece, solve the equation, apply the glue, maybe it’s in the certain openness of our hearts, the willingness to leap into the trenches, or even to listen from afar, maybe it’s the undying sense that we’re in for the forever haul, maybe that’s where the true fixing comes….
maybe that’s the heart of my unending motherprayer…
i’m without answers, and uncertain whether my fixing affliction is shared by many, though i’ve a hunch i’m not alone. do we miss the point — and drive ourselves batty — when we think it’s our job to be the fix-it machine? or is the whole point to station ourselves firmly and squarely beside the hearts we love, so that when they inevitably wobble or break, we are right there to apply love even when we’ve no glue?
My new goal is to detach from fixing and hold on to love and support, through all the ups and downs. With an adult son who has known many struggles, this is never easy as I keep learning. It’s better for me to focus on stepping back, holding his journey in love and praying for his growth and strength…mine too, as it is hard work. Thanks for the chance to share this thought today.
thank YOU for sharing it. hardest thing i’ve ever been asked to do is stand back and watch people i love — and i don’t mean only my boys — get themselves through really tight spots….
love your goal: let go of the fix, and hold mightily onto love and certain affirmation…..
My son had an internship in NY. He couldn’t get into the apt. he rented for a week, so he rented a room on Craigslist, sight unseen. I just about moved heaven and earth to try to get him a place I dubbed “safe” for that week, but he was determined to do it on his own. It was an interesting experience and he left the “studio” after 4 days to stay with a friend who was able to get into his apartment earlier. I didn’t sleep much those few days, but, to him, it was a great adventure. From then on, I had to learn how to let go more and more. He always knows I’m there, though, if he needs me and that makes me happy.
Beautiful! I had to laugh at your moving “heaven and earth,” as yes it seems the default mode. To view it all as adventure in the Handy Book of Life, that is indeed the wise way…
Is it our job to be the ‘fixit-machine’? Depends. Generally speaking, no. Not as I see it. But instead, be there beside whomever it is to offer love and support and encouraging words. We all need that…but we don’t always get it. Just the way life is 🙂 That’s my thinking. 🙂 Happy Friday!
it’s but one facet of loving. and is birthed especially when you find yourself cradling a little person who literally depends on you. somewhere along the way that becomes such a default mode it’s harder and harder to let go of it.
Oh bam, your posts often speak directly to my heart and the emotions they elicit result in cathartic tears. Although not a mother, my m.o. is the fixer and/or counselor. However, when my love died I had nowhere to put those energies i.e. nothing left to fix but myself (gulp).
Thanks as always for sending your heart out into the world.
oh, sweetheart. i send love. your honesty, and truth-telling is beautiful and piercing, and true. certainly the fix-it gene applies broadly. fixing ourselves is so much more complicated……xoxoxoxoxox
As I read how hard it is for us to stand back and “not fix” – makes me think of how hard it is for God to do the very same for us. Perhaps we need to ask for the grace to be present and to love…while allowing our loved ones the gift of learning how to fix things, in their own way and own timing. (Ah! There is where we need an extra double shot of grace!) Let’s keep reassuring ourselves that we are helping them build resilience as our roles necessarily transition from fixer to compassionate coach?
amen to this wise wise thought! grace, grace, that is the thing for which i pray……takes the sting out of so many bumps and wrinkles…
You have answered your aching question brilliantly with your closing words:
“. . . the whole point [is] to station ourselves firmly and squarely beside the hearts we love, so that when they inevitably wobble or break, we are right there to apply love even when we’ve no glue. . .”
It’s frustrating not to have the power to wave that magic wand… It’s a matter of coming to a right understanding of our own limitations, a ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot fix’ kind of thing. Does knowing this make things any easier? Oh, no.
When the outlook seems bleak for someone I love, I call to mind a favorite line of Scripture, words that calm, reassure, and bolster my anxious heart:
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future and a hope.”
~Jeremiah 29:11
Sending you a tender hug. xx
thank you for understanding. and for tender hug. and for beautiful words from jeremiah. xoxox
You have obviously struck a chord – and I join the ranks of those trying to balance the tug of helping/fixing with the wisdom of allowing/supporting. The beauty is when those we love produce the next generation, and invite us back into an active role. I just received a precious gift from my first grandson which says it all. It’s a coffee mug, adorned with these words: I’M A NONI
(continued)
I’M A NONI … WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?
Love you, Joannie (AKA Noni)
Ohhhhh!! Joannie! I love the kindred souls who circle here…..love the deep empathies, the acknowledging of struggle. I’m not yet in the Noni camp, but a girl can hope — non?
Sending love to your mountaintop.
Xox
as always you hit the note…resonating with with Mary at top of post. If we have all the answers, we steal from them the search for their answers. I know most of us come from ancestors who shipped to this country with much less support than we have to give. I suspect many of us ignored the “wisdom” in search of our own. Love is such a hard gift as it is often spurned, but we keep on giving…and it is a great gift, even if the thank you note is not prompt and perhaps not received. We have to find our own ground and wisdom and settle there. Often that is our sadness we are working on and not necessarily theirs. Your picture is amazing and poignant in its spareness and edges.
ahhh, such an interesting point about immigrant parents, and that makes me think of the times in a broader sense and makes me think back to the parenting book that was my bible, Dr. Sears and his love-’em-like-it’s-a-cocoon tome, v. my mom’s Dr. Spock (less cocoon-ish, for certain). and i wonder if living in these digital instant-everything times just wires us a bit more for the impulse to reach for quick fix as fast as we can.
semi-comical epilogue here is that friday night, after i’d posted this in the morning, my firstborn found out that because his bank didn’t recognize the check he’d deposited from his summer employer, they froze his debit card — his ONLY access to funds. he couldn’t take a lyft, couldn’t buy coffee, and the bank said they’d keep it frozen till they could get confirmation from director of finance at summer job that check was in fact theirs. need i mention that i spent two solid hours on the phone talking my way up the chain till we got that untangled? of course i needn’t mention — you knew that! i would have walked to DC to buy him a bottle of water if i’d not gotten it fixed by 9:30 that night…
Wow….talk about what happens when in “digital instant-everything times” there is a glitch! Maybe we should all go back to some cash under the mattress. ;). And of course you would have! But maybe he should switch banks too. That is some disastrous customer service. Glad it worked out.