When I was in college, I fancied myself comparable to a swan. I have always been as white as one—and the stories of the ugly duckling and Shakespeare being known as the Swan of Avon spoke to the budding writer in me.
However, as Halloween approaches this year, I lie in bed and feel that this year I am more comparable to a clown than a swan. Let me explain. I’m not ridiculous, or easy to laugh at—unless I have purposefully delivered a witty joke—but I do find some striking similarities between me and the face-painted circus stars.
I was born with the klutzy coordination required on the resume of clown college. I stub my toes, and turn corners too sharp, banging into walls, and bed frames, and planters almost hourly. I embraced this fact long ago, and find myself playing my goofy show to a full house daily. My toddler loves it. His three-year old giggles egg me on as we hop like kangaroos, and dance to “Shake it Off” around the kitchen, and I predictably hurt myself. I then feign death (stuck out tongue and all) so that he will come to save me, starting a tickle war. I’ve done ever more ridiculous things to make his twin brothers laugh. Their baby giggles are the best pay out of my day. Yes, I am qualified to be a clown because I am as goofy as they come when it comes to entertaining my three boys of three and under. I could rock that squeaky, red nose.
I am also learning to be a fabulous juggler. I jumped from one child to three nine months ago, and just when I think I am starting to handle the continual balancing act of keeping three boys happy, healthy, and fed, they each grow a little in difficulty—going from basic juggling balls to bowling pins or even fire-spouting batons. The twins are nursing and eating three meals a day now (all spoon-fed as they have no teeth or hand-eye coordination), and the toddler respectfully refuses to abandon diapers. Just tonight I fed the twins dinner while helping the toddler clean up his room. Well, I may have dropped the “cleaning room” ball halfway through, but at least you can walk in their without stepping on legos now. (Which we all know is like stabbing your foot with a nail.)
I’m just waiting for someone to throw in two more flaming swords of crawling, mobile twins, and a water ballon full of a potty training toddler. If juggling a double stroller through the grocery store while pulling a cart full of baby food, graham cracker sticks, and a three-year old is a requirement to identify with a juggling clown, I can check that one off.
I can also rock the awkward-fitting wardrobe. Due to post-partum pudge, and stress eating (from above-mentioned juggling), my clothes seem to either make me feel reminiscent of muffins or mumus. I can’t seem to get the fit right, and this new body that feeds two babies, and previously housed them, is as foreign to me as those wired-opened clown overalls. I look in magazines and store windows and just feel that none of it was made for a body shape like mine. I want to feel stylish, but feel like I’m being forced into clothing made for women without the “correct shape.” Sadly, I often feel like a clown, because being in my skin in front of the mirror doesn’t feel like me when I’m having to toss half my wardrobe that I once loved away. The reality is that I will probably never fit it in again.
And finally, I qualify to dress as a clown for Halloween because I have very large shoes on my feet to grown into. I come from a legacy of amazing women. My mother is my hero. She raised five children, all different, all unique, and all intensely loved by her. I’ve watched her never settle for less than her all, and then give even more when she felt that wasn’t enough. I know she isn’t perfect, but she is pretty darn close in my eyes. She has come out on the other side of motherhood with deep patience, love, grace, and humility, and the shoes she has passed on to me feel very large indeed. When people find out I’m her daughter, I can’t help but look down at my figurative feet and hope they don’t notice that I’m not there yet. I’ve only been at this three years. Give me another twenty, and maybe these beautifully worn shoes will feel a little more snug, and not so much like clown shoes on my novice feet.
So, as I sit here thinking of what to be for Halloween, I can’t help but think that if I chose to dress as a clown, you might think of Stephen King’s It, but I will be walking from door to door with my family, feeling very at home in the wonderfully chaotic, and three-ringed circus that is my life.
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