Mama Rut

I want an uninterrupted hot shower. I want a non-reheated hot cup of coffee. I want a hot bod.

I am in a “Mama Rut”. So much of my current identity is associated with being the mother to my two boys. Although I love them more than anyone on this planet, am honored to call them “mine”, and thank the good Lord each and every day for them, I also mourn the loss of the other parts of me. The parts that were much more evident during the years 1981-2008 B.C.: “Before Children”. The parts that I worked so hard to identify, create, build, and develop over the years. The parts that attracted the interest and courtship of my husband. The parts that made me, well, me. The parts that will remain present, yet inactive after years of motherhood, once my children eventually and inevitably leave the comforts of my home and daily care.

If I were to have described myself in terms of “B.C.” it would have been something like this:

Energetic, creative, passionate, outgoing, relatively self-confident, and educated young woman, seeks opportunities to network with others, make the world a better place, and establish a reputable name for herself and career. Financially independent and not afraid to spend hard-earned dollars on funny T-shirts and stylish shoes. Diligent pupil at the theoretical “School of Wit” possessing a double-major in sarcasm and self-deprecating humor. Has plenty of free time to nurture her interests of creative writing, people watching, exercise, attending concerts & comedic performances, and drinking. Heavily. Focused and goal-oriented, she is the gal to call to organize projects large and small and offer original, innovative ideas to take your school lesson plans, charity events, staff functions, and business ventures to the next level. Always willing to try something new, she will take time to enroll in new classes and put her life on the line in order to feel the rush of adrenaline through tackling dangerous adventures usually requiring a “waiver of liability” in advance. Hates cooking, but loves eating.

Then my beloved first child entered this world. From the moment that I announced my pregnancy with him I no longer felt like “Laurel”, but became “The Belly”. Everyone—friends, family, strangers in the checkout line at Target and their grandmothers included-- seemed to direct all their conversations and inquiries towards the ever-inflating basketball emerging from my abdomen. When are you due? Do you know what you’re having? What’s its name? Any weird cravings? (Answers: Late-February. Boy. No. Only to sock you when you touch my stomach unsolicited.)

The frustration of losing my sense of self subsided for a bit once Caiden was placed in my arms (in early March. Apparently “Club Uterus” was a happening place). Proudly toting my beautiful blue-eyed baby everywhere was an honor. All I seemed to be able to talk about was his sleeping patterns and number of bowel movements. It didn’t matter who you were. I often gravitated towards sharing all of this information with other mothers, but now the Target customers waiting in the checkout line were getting a bit of payback. In this era of new parenthood, with that baby physically in my hands, I felt like I was part of elite alliance: “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Burp Cloths”.

Within a few months postpartum, however, the isolation and loneliness and urge to be that vivacious woman that I “used to be” set back in. Yes, Caiden was simply adorable and extremely loved. But he certainly wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Now a full-time stay-at-home mom, I missed spending quality moments with my husband—watching TV, making dinner together, going for a walk with the dog-- without being interrupted by a feeding, diaper change, or downright fussy infant. I missed the camaraderie of my friends—most of whom weren’t even married at the time, nonetheless parents. I missed the predictable routine of my mornings (wake up, make coffee, take shower, dress up in something cute & flattering, put on makeup, and get out of the house). I missed utilizing my education, experience, and imagination to create fun lesson plans for my students. I missed my commute where I could listen to the Top 40 while sipping my coffee—still hot. I missed having somewhere to be. I even missed having deadlines to meet. I missed going to my little work mailbox every Thursday to see my pay stub—measly, but all mine. I missed going to the local dive every Friday with my amazing coworkers to recap the highs & lows of our week and share a pitcher. Or two. Or three.

When I became confident enough to leave the home with my baby and his arsenal of necessities in tow (car seat, stroller, blanket, burp cloth, bib, pacifier, rattle, bottle, formula, diapers, wipes, change of clothes…), I joined a local support group organized by the hospital geared towards new moms. Here I discovered other women who felt the same as I, and in turn, a few new, precious, dear friends. They only met once a week for 1-hour, though. I needed more. I yearned for more. Thank GOD for play dates… [To date: I still believe that they are more for the benefit of the caretakers than that of the children.]

Flash forward a few years and Caiden and I are now into a groove. He is old enough to enjoy and participate in things like library story times and Kindermusik classes. He has his little friends and we can actually get out of the house with a sippy cup, granola bar, travel pack of wipes, and a single diaper. Trips to the grocery store are fodder for learning & adventure and I get into coming up with creative ways to teach him stuff (Find me a fruit in this row that is red. How many apples should we get? Let’s count them as we put them in the bag.). Every now and then I even get the urge to treat myself to wearing some mascara and a cute pair of heels. We have a schedule at home so I can do things like read during nap time, watch the nightly newscast with my husband, or go to the gym on a regular basis. Life is good. I got this now. Sure, I’m “Caiden’s Mom”. But we are also in a good enough routine in which I can have those snippets of time in which I am, simply, “Laurel”.

Then. Comes. Baby. Number. Two.

In addition to being “Caiden’s Mom” with guest appearances from”Laurel”, I have now reverted back to being “The Belly.”

Nine months plus later (I added the “plus” because Ryan also felt that “Club Uterus” was a happening place), my second child is lovingly embraced in my arms and we are in that euphoric stage of “Hey Lady at Target, look at my baby! Isn’t he amazing! Let me tell you all about his cute quirks and my breastfeeding troubles!”

…And we are now currently in the throes of that postpartum period in which the isolation and loneliness and urge to be that vivacious woman that I “used to be” is setting back in. Some days, aside from those coveted ones in which I can meet up with a friend or have a date night with the hubby, I feel that my only release from the identity of being “Caiden and Ryan’s mom” is through the ability to write it all out in these entries.

It goes without saying that being a mom, nonetheless a stay-at-home mom, is an amazing and blessed opportunity. I am extremely lucky and I know that. I thank God each and every day for my husband & children and all that they have added to my life. But I am also fully aware that there is a side of me that is being muted, put on temporary hold, for the next 18 years or so, that is just dying to get out.

Is it possible to suffer from a “Mid-Momma Crisis”?

If asked to describe myself today, in 2012 A.C.: “After Children”, it would look something like this:

Exhausted, creative, lackluster, somewhat inverted because she doesn’t feel like she has anything interesting to talk about, no longer self-confident, and educated young woman, seeks opportunities to network with others, make the world a better place, and establish a reputable name for herself, career, and family. Would settle, however, for a shower that wasn’t interrupted by a toddler playing peekaboo with the shower curtain or a cup of coffee that wasn’t reheated 3 times prior to complete consumption. Financially dependent upon her husband and not afraid to clip coupons, spending hard-earned dollars on funny T-shirts and stylish shoes is a thing of the past. Diligent pupil at the theoretical “School of Wit” she has graduated with honors possessing a double-major in sarcasm and self-deprecating humor. Has almost NO time to nurture her interests of creative writing, people watching, exercise,and attending concerts & comedic performances. Two glasses of wine now make her quite giggly or in a state of comatose depending on the afternoon that she has had. Overtired and suffering from a terminal case of “baby-brain”, she is the gal to call to organize projects large and small and offer original, innovative ideas to take your school lesson plans, charity events, staff functions, and business ventures to the next level-- just don’t expect her to remember that she said “Sure, I’d love to do it” and make a deadline unless you see her write it down before your very eyes. Always willing to try something new, she will take time to enroll her children in new classes and put her life on hold for the benefit of her family. Hates cooking, but loves eating. A little too much.

So here I am on a Tuesday morning writing a 4-page invitation to my pity party in a terry cloth robe. My initiative to go running at the gym was overridden by my husband’s initiative to bring home a treat for us: a ½ dozen from The Donut Dip. Caiden’s watching his favorite “Baby Einstein” DVD and I am typing 1-handed as Ryan is sitting in my lap. I wonder if they will read these musings one day. I wonder what they will think of them if they do. Will they question my feelings towards raising them? I hope not. They are, without a doubt, my most prized “possessions” and greatest accomplishment. But I do hope, that with the gift of time and a learned skill of achieving a balance of good parenting and self-expression, that they might be surprised that at at one point in time I was full of self-doubt and wasn’t really sure who I was or who I had become. I hope that in years to come, after spinning my wheels in this “Mama Rut”, I will break free instead of burn out. I hope that, if asked to describe me in terms of “A.C.”, they could say something like this:

Vibrant, creative, passionate, outgoing, relatively self-confident, and educated woman, seeks opportunities to network with others, make the world a better place, and continue to establish a reputable name for herself and family. Set out on a new career path and was successful at being a talented freelance author and doting mother. Financially codependent and not afraid to spend hard-earned dollars on the finer things in life like a vacation with her family or good bottle of wine to share with a friend. Sympathetic when you need her to be, but still funny as hell. Enjoys spending her free time nurturing her interests of creative writing, people watching, exercise, attending concerts & comedic performances, volunteering for non-profits,and spending quality time with those that she holds most dear. Never takes for granted the gifts that are found in the company of her husband, hanging out with her beloved children, the calm and peace of uninterrupted showers, and her daily cup of hot java. Takes good care of herself, her home, and her family-- physically and spiritually. Focused and goal-oriented, she is the gal to call to organize projects large and small and offer original, innovative ideas to take your school lesson plans, charity events, staff functions, and business ventures to the next level. Always willing to try something new, she will take time to enroll in new classes and put her life on the line in order to help someone in need. Mediocre cook and can demonstrate self-restraint when faced with an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Ok. So maybe the last part is a stretch. But a girl can wish, right?

Under My Nose, In Front of My Eyes, Within My Heart: A Prepositional Epiphany

There are moments in every parent’s life in which they take a split-second, look at their child, and see that they are no longer a “baby”. It goes beyond the obvious things like when they outgrow certain clothing or reach particular milestones dictated by pediatric checklists. It’s when they lose that irresistible pudginess on the top of their little feet. It’s when you stretch them across the changing table and notice that they are longer than the changing pad. It’s when they get a haircut and look more like a “little boy” rather than a “little kid”. It’s when they do things like twirl spaghetti around their fork. It’s when they actually say the word “spaghetti “ instead of “psghettis”…

Since Ryan’s arrival 16 weeks ago (hard to believe it’s already been that long!), so much attention and conversation has been focused on what this little guy has been doing. How is he sleeping at night? How is nursing going? Does he get in a lot of tummy time? Is he still spitting up a lot? (And to answer all of the above in brief: He’s a trooper, It’s going, As much as he can when I remember, and Yes.) It is easy to marvel at the milestones such a tiny human being can accomplish in such a short amount of time. Each time we get a GIANT gummy grin or he holds his head high, I can’t help but look to that beautiful portrait of me holding my 48-hour old newborn in the hospital and see the changes—both physically and ability-wise-- that have already taken place.

Whereas he used to find comfort in wrapping his monkey-like fingers around one of mine, he now loves to suckle on his own thumb that is no longer than inch. The amniotic puffiness of his face is now full-fledged healthy chub, flush with warmth and breastfed goodness. Instead of resembling more of my side of the family, he is now “Caiden with Dark Hair”. He can focus in on features near and far and smiles instantaneously when he realizes it is me or his daddy or big brother in the room. He thinks that when we “eat up” his belly it is hysterical and doing baby pushups isn’t nearly as exhausting as they used to be. He becomes fascinated with that the lil’ guy in the mirror and agrees that he pretty darn cute, too. He can reach and grab objects in front of or above him and loves to explore each by shoving them into his mouth. His Big Brother is already an idol to him and can elicit coos and funny fits of happy fist pumps. (To say that is a joy and blessing watching these two together is an absolute understatement.) Bath time is a delight and, given the way that he kicks and splashes, I wouldn’t be surprised if a love of swimming is in his future. Or soccer. Or karate. Or River Dancing.

And all the while, as Ryan entranced and awed us with his spit-bubble blowing and sing-songy “conversations”, another miraculous state of growth was taking place with our older child. It is amazing how much transformation can occur with your first-born once a younger one is introduced. The birth of his little brother has not only provided Caiden with a best friend, but with a newfound independence and sense of responsibility. (Hard to believe when you consider he is just under 3.) Since his parents are usually physically tied up with a baby in their arms, he relies less on being carried everywhere. He totes along his own belongings and now enjoys the status of being a “big boy”. He selects his own place setting at each meal and loves to open the refrigerator to grab whatever beverage he wants. He knows where to hang his coat and place his shoes once we walk in the door of our home. He loves sharing his toys and games with others, but is just as satisfied with autonomous play and can often be found piecing together elaborate train track formations, completing large puzzles with ease and speed, and is willing to sit and tell me a story by turning the pages and giving me his toddler renditions of current favorites, Green Eggs and Ham, It’s Not Easy Being a Bunny, and Go Dog Go (or as he refers to it, “Go Go Dog”). He has transitioned so beautifully that I have hardly recognized the changes occurring before my own eyes.

It wasn’t until the other day, when Caiden marched around the house in a determined quest to find a screwdriver and “bad-rees” in order to fix his brother’s baby swing that I realized, “He’s so freakin’ smart. Who taught him that? He’s not a toddler anymore. Oh my God. He’s like, a real PERSON now!” Then I continued to just observe and be amazed at this little person who has been under my nose these fleeting 16 weeks. His scribbles now resemble real shapes and rudimentary numbers & letters that he proudly identifies. He loves to point out that there are octagons (stop signs) around town and declares that “green means goooooooooooooooooo!” whenever we are at a traffic light. He puts away his toys as long as you are willing to sing the “clean up” song as he does it. Brushing his teeth is now a game to see who can make their teeth shinier. His ability to play “Memory” is quite impressive (and he is, sadly, actually better than me at it, with the exception of waiting for his next turn). He says things like, “I be back. I pwaw-miss” and runs around scouring for things like a burp cloth when his brother arcs another feeding across the room. He does his best to be tender with Ryan and loves to rub his head, watch a diaper change, sing him lullabies, or get in his face to say “Hi Ry-lee”. He displays empathy. He is creative and imaginative and quite funny. And even though he came out of the womb a “Manley”, somehow he still manages to look more and more like his father each day. He is truly a kind, gentle soul—something that I have always known—but am now, so very proud of. He makes me feel extraordinarily lucky to be his mother.

As our day came to a close at the end of Ryan’s 16^th week on earth, I couldn’t help but notice the two boys’ shoes sitting side by side. The smaller pair, once adorned on Caiden’s tiny feet, showed little marks of wear & tear. The soles were soft and have never actually had someone stand nonetheless walk in them. They seemed so teeny compared to the size 8s that were next to them. Their Velcro embedded with remnants a toddler’s daily adventures—pet hair, dried grass, a speck of mud, a hunk of Play-Doh, a string from God knows what. The topside of the toe areas were worn away from where he stumbled to get someplace, surely in efforts of enthusiasm and novelty of discovering something new. The treads on the bottom are now almost obsolete, as they have traveled to the homes of little friends, the depths of our backyard, the park, the beach, and other “wondrous “destinations as seen from the eyes of a little boy—now recognized as a little kid. It was another one of my moments of being a parent: When I understood that these hours, although they seem so mundane and routine in the throes of daily existence, are truly so precious, so ephemeral, so ever-changing. These days, just like my sweet, beloved, growing little boys, are gifts to be cherished.

Sacrifices

With only 5 minutes left before I had to be out the door with two small children this morning, I was faced with a choice: Do I throw on some makeup and style my hair so that I actually look presentable in public or do I make a cup of coffee to go? Coffee won.

The sacrifice of my own vanity is one that is not uncommon for me. But as I drove through the snowy roads to get to my destination, I couldn’t help but consider all of the sacrifices that we, mothers, make. They are abundant. Some are obvious, others, not so much. All are necessary and unavoidable.

From the moment of conception, the most evident of sacrifices is our bodies. Our waistlines expand, our bladders seem to shrink, our breasts ache, and the things that we used to salivate over may send us straight to the bathroom in a fit of nausea. For the health and safety of our unborn children, we sacrifice guilty pleasures like sushi & hot tubs and the ability to do things that we used to take for granted like curbing a nasty cough with a shot of Nyquil. We sacrifice wine, people—WINE!

We sacrifice sleep to feed our infants. We sacrifice time with our husbands so we can rock our peaceful babies “just 10 minutes longer”. We sacrifice clean laundry for items that can pass the “sniff test”. We sacrifice some self dignity to wipe another human’s bottom or catch their puke in our bare hands. We sacrifice 5-stars for Friendly’s. We sacrifice couture for anything with elastic.

In the car, we sacrifice the music that we love, that makes us bob our heads and dance in our seats, in exchange for classic nursery rhymes and silly “jams” by Laurie Berkner. In our homes, we sacrifice the serene, styled spaces in order to accommodate the inundation of toys that light up, make noise, and race around. We sacrifice the ability to open a cupboard or drawer without having to finagle some sort of “safety” contraption first. We sacrifice silence.

In some cases, such as mine, mothers sacrifice their careers in order to stay at home with the kids. We sacrifice spending time with our own friends and fill up the social calendar with play dates, library story times, music classes, and swimming lessons. Once we have more than one child, we sacrifice our cute shoes for a pair that is more practical—usually ones with good treads that will allow us to chase after an escaping toddler.

We sacrifice stimulating conversations about politics, world affairs, and current events to swap more conventional ideas on discipline, potty training, and peanut-free recipes. We sacrifice Miatas for minivans. We sacrifice our vacation homes for tuition funds. We sacrifice our own dreams in order for our kids achieve theirs’.

So is motherhood an unending state of martyrdom? In many respects, absolutely. But when we feel our fetuses kick us from within for the first time, when our babies utter a legit belly laugh at a face that we made, when our budding preschooler counts to 20 without missing a number or completes his first difficult puzzle with pride and independence, when our child shares a toy without being prompted, when our kids hug us “just because”, when they mind their manners, make good choices, earn honor roll, graduate college, find true love of their own, and become good parents like us … we know that we wouldn’t change our lives for anything.

Yes, we mothers make sacrifices. They are abundant. Some are obvious, others, not so much. All are necessary and unavoidable. But they are, without a doubt, rewarding.

The makeup and properly-styled hair can wait. Don’t get me wrong, though. To survive this lifestyle, caffeine is a MUST. I will never sacrifice my coffee.

Superman-ley

Yesterday morning my husband was more productive in 4 hours than I am over the course of a week. He managed to wash & fold 3 baskets of laundry, throw in a load of dishes, take out all of the trash in the house, clean the litter box, and bring the dog to the groomer’s. His efficiency was utterly mind-blowing. I offered to help him, but he refused, telling me that this was his job, too. [Touché.] While I took care of the children, I watched him course through the house with purpose and determination, admiring how focused he was at the tasks at hand, avoiding distraction. I was brimming with gratitude and a relative amount of awe. And, perhaps, a bit of jealousy coupled with, ironically, guilt. He’s the kind of person who refuses to rest even on his day off. He’s not only industrious, but thorough in his efforts. He’s the partner I want to be. He’s the parent I want to be. He’s Superman-ley.

His productivity allowed me to spend quality time with the kids. I got to scoot around the house with less stress, enjoying my cup of coffee while it was still HOT, and relished in the fact that the burdens of the household duties were not on me that morning. It was quite nice. But the perfectionist in me felt somewhat inadequate, while the mother in me felt lazy.

What is it about being a woman that brings on all of these pressures? Why can’t we just enjoy ourselves when we are given a break? Why can’t we accept help when it is offered and not feel the need to reciprocate? Why can’t we let someone else empty the dishwasher without feeling the need to jump in and grab the utensil caddy to lighten their load? Why is it that even when we are given that coveted trip to the grocery store, hair appointment or Girl’s Night Out, we can’t help but wonder, “Hmmmm… I wonder what the kids are doing right now… I should probably get home in case Daddy needs a hand. ” Why must we always be “On”?

The only break that I ever allow myself to take is a night off from cooking each week. It spares me from having to do something that I don’t particularly like: cooking. (It also, in turn, probably spares my family from having to something that they don’t particularly like: Eating my cooking.) But other than that, I feel that it is my job to do the majority of the housecleaning. I feel that it is my job to take care of the laundry. I feel that it is my job to entertain, educate, and nurture the children. And, in part, all of this is true. But Dan is right as well. This is our home, filled with our children. So I suppose that sharing the tasks that keep this place running does make sense. But would I be more accepting of this fact if I worked outside of the home?

This is something that I grapple with on an almost daily basis. There really is no easy answer either. To be honest, although I receive no paycheck for it, I do see myself as the CEO of Casa de Manley. Dan brings in the finances, but I manage most of the bills, clip the coupons and make the grocery lists. I create the weekly meal plans, carry out the bulk of the household chores, and organize the kids’ appointments and activities. (I am pretty sure that I am the only person in this house that knows how to interpret the color-coding on our calendar…) So when my hubby steps in to tackle some of “my job requirements”, I begin to feel a bit useless, as though I am taking a day off from work. Then I feel silly feeling this way—guilty, that is. If I were still teaching, I would get the weekends off, breaks in December, February, and April and the summers off. So why can’t I just simply give up the reins for one measly morning?

Why? Because I am a woman. I am a wife. I am a mother. I feel the overpowering need to be in control, to nurture, to help, to be of use all of the time. The problem with all of this is that, in addition to be being terrible at accepting my husband’s assistance, I am the QUEEN of starting a great project and then jetting off to do something else before the job is finished. Why, just the other day I managed to wash a load of laundry (forgetting to throw it in the dryer), attempted to organize the junk drawer, completed a series of puzzles with Caiden, sang songs to Ryan, made lunch, changed multiple diapers, mailed a letter, and cleaned the bathroom. But this wasn’t a series of smooth efforts. No. The result of my attempt to multitask was something just short of stinky laundry, puzzle pieces in the junk drawer, a half-eaten sandwich left on the changing table, and a tiny tune crooned about a somewhat clean bathroom. (Hey, at least I got to mail the letter out on time.) Ok, so I am over-exaggerating a bit, but my point is that when I try to do my job, I get all sidetracked. Dan makes it look so easy when he does it. Maybe that is why I have a hard time accepting his help, too. Because it makes me more aware of my shortcomings. This is something that I am sure will get easier over the years. (Oh Lord, I certainly HOPE that it will get easier.) My boys are still young, as is our marriage. I am hoping that in years to come I will get into a functional groove, making my home work like a well-oiled machine. I am hoping that this case of “baby-brain” is not terminal and I can focus more on individual tasks-- nonetheless finish them. I am hoping that as the years go on, as my children become more self-reliant, I can begin to glide through the daily demands as easily as my husband. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy my family, do my best to graciously accept and appreciate the assistance that my husband gives me, and aspire to someday give myself a break, not only from cooking once a week, but from the self-inflicted pressures of becoming Superwoman-ley.

A Public (Dis)Service Announcement

It’s funny. This morning I stood in the shower praying that I never had to get out. It wasn’t because I was using a new lotion or potion that made it feel like a relaxing spa experience. It wasn’t because the warm water felt good on my aching shoulders. It was because I was avoiding the almost 3-year-old on the other side of the locked bathroom door…

Under the stream of water I found myself closing my eyes, envisioning that I was under a tropical waterfall. I covered my ears to block out the “Mama... Mama! Maaaaaaaaammmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!” being belted out of a set of overused toddler lungs (accompanied by two little fists rhythmically pounding on the door). Hands over my ears, eyes closed, I chanted in a monotone voice, “I am not here. I am not here. I am far, far away…” But it didn’t work. My shower was cut short by something more shocking to the system than someone flushing the toilet while bathing. He was now proclaiming from another room, “Whoaaaaa! BIG scissors!” Holy. Shit.

I was warned that age 3 would be worse than the so-called “Terrible Twos”. The anticipation and mental preparation for this stage though wasn’t nearly enough. Perhaps it is because of Caiden’s increasing independence and curiosity. Perhaps it is because he is vying for more attention now that he is no longer an only child. Most likely, it’s a combination of both. At times, I can’t help but wonder though if it is because I have failed in some areas of raising him. It’s in these moments of stress, anxiety, and frustration when I realize that I have done my readers a disfavor within these blog entries. Therefore, I now present to you the following “Public Disservice Announcement”.

IT IS NOT ALWAYS A HALLMARK MOMENT HERE. Being a mom doesn’t always foster some warm & fuzzy revelation for me. It is not always fun & games in this house. Quite frankly, most days include some portion in which I question whether or not it was a good idea of becoming a stay-at-home mom. Amongst the cuteness and playtime, laughter and learning, there are also ample opportunities for disobedience, bad behavior, and outright rebellion that make me want to run away. Today alone has included Caiden feeding the dog doughnuts, helping himself to items in the refrigerator and then hiding them around the house, dumping four 24-piece puzzles in my room, leaking a cup of milk onto my freshly changed sheets, pulling a chair over to the “junk drawer” and removing a large pair of kitchen shears (hence, “Whoaaaaa! BIG scissors!”), and “playfully” biting me on the right buttock. Yes. You read that correctly. And it’s only 1 o’clock.

It’s not like I am inattentive or a pushover. I’ve developed a sense of hearing similar to that of a bat and grown a proverbial extra set of eyes on the back of my head. Our home is “child-proofed”, but this future engineer has figured out how to override any system put into place. (One time, he actually showed my own mother how to operate the childproof door handle to get down into the basement.) All it takes is a few minutes in which my back is turned to take a coveted 90-second shower, change Ryan’s diaper, pee with the door closed, or be rendered immobile by a nursing session, and Caid is off and running with some less-than-desirable agenda. Yesterday, I swear, I wondered if he would be in “time out” until he was 30. (I also considered renting him out to local schools to be demonstrated as a new form of birth control.)

The “best” part about all of this is that he saves this behavior just for us at home. Ask anyone else who knows our family or has taken care of him and they would simply gasp in disbelief at his naughty impulses! I know deep down that this is because home is where he feels the safest and he tests these waters because he know that my threats to “call the gypsies” are empty, but there are some days (such as today) when I can’t help but question if I am doing the right things with him. He’s my first child, therefore he is my “practice child”, right? But I am a perfectionist to the core. And when he “fails”, I feel that I have failed, too. I think that this is something that all mothers do. We know that our kids are supposed to screw up. But we put so much pressure on ourselves to make sure that they are the very best that they can be that tend to beat ourselves up when a shortcoming or poor choice emerges.

I write this entry today, not to seek reassurance from others. In reality, I know that I do not have to sport a T-shirt reading, “World’s Suckiest Mom”. I also know who the members of my reading audience are and so I know that they have all had days like today, too. I write this entry today because I need to reassure the public, myself included, that we all don’t have to be Hallmark-Mamas 24/7. Believe me, these anecdotes about my life don’t always end with a prophetic vision. You don’t always find a deeper meaning of life while wiping another human’s bottom. It’s hard to find a moment of Zen when you are literally catching someone else’s puke in your bare hands. Your kid, may also indeed, rip you from the comfort of your hot shower with a “Whoaaaaa! BIG scissors!” and then proceed to bite you on your ass. But we are all entitled to having a bad freakin’ day. And, really, it’s ok. It’s parenthood.

[Ironically, as I type this, Caiden is now laying on his belly next to me, “reading” the screen as each letter pops up. Oh. And now the random listing of the letters has turned into a repetitive singing of the “Alphabet Song”-- like a cute, yet annoying, broken record. It breaks my concentration, but makes me laugh at the same time. And, as luck would have it, he just sat up and wrapped his little arm around me and randomly said, “I sorry, Mama”. Maybe I am not doing too badly after all.]

A Meteorological Mantra

“We'll weather the weather, no matter the weather, whether we like it or not.”

As I sit here writing this, it is an unseasonably mild day outside. I actually spent the morning out in our front yard playing with Caiden. We drew pictures with chalk on the brick walkway and kicked a soccer ball around enjoying the sunny skies and temperatures approaching 50 degrees. Balmy? No. But definitely not your typical January morning. The weather-report was no surprise to me. As a lifelong New Englander, I never invest much in what the meteorologists predict. And this past year—well, I don’t think that anyone could foresee what the past 6 months have brought our way with regard to the elements. Yes, it was a beautiful moment, with my beautiful child, on a beautiful day and yet I couldn’t help but think of how unlikely and unexpected the forecast was. And then I thought about how residents of this area deserved a day like this based on how Mother Nature has treated us this past year. As a watched Caiden beat the side of a large tree with a small stick (What is it with boys finding this activity so enthralling?), I wondered if in 2012 I would utter an old proverb that I so often repeated in 2011. “We'll weather the weather, no matter the weather, whether we like it or not”…

It began in June when a series of tornadoes ripped through the area. At 3 o’clock on the afternoon of June first, Dan received a call from work ordering him early as they needed backup because due to tornado warnings. Whatever—overtime was overtime. We kinda laughed it off thinking that a tornado hitting Western Massachusetts was a bit of a ridiculous notion. To keep myself occupied during those early hours of him being gone, I watched the news coverage and I will NEVER forget seeing the actual tornado touch down in Springfield live

on CBS. It was absolutely surreal. As Brandon Butcher made “small talk” of unconfirmed viewer sightings in Westfield, the CBS 3 camera on top of Monarch Place documented the first funnel cloud working its’ way over West Springfield and across the North End Bridge, churning up water from the Connecticut River, flipping a tractor trailer over, stopping traffic completely, and twist its’ destructive way through the South End. The camera never lost focus, getting hit by debris, and panning left to follow the tornado’s path. Then the cyclone made a sharp right making its’ way towards us. The sight left me breathless, my heart pounding, and a quiet prayer left my lips as I prayed that no one would be hurt. And then the relative silence was broken by Brandon Butcher’s command that “If you live in East Longmeadow, seek shelter NOW as the tornado is heading your way.” GULP. I held Caiden a little tighter. Our home phone rang and it was Dan. Frantically, he shouted for me to make sure that I grabbed Caiden and headed to our basement—the tornado was sighted in the north end of our town. As a first responder, he had to hang up immediately and head in that direction himself. It was the last that heard from him for hours. The power then cut out—causing us to lose light, cable, and our landline. Luckily, we were all safe and the only damage that our area of town saw was some downed branches and various pieces & parts of others’ homes transported by a giant debris cloud that blew over. We were out of power for 3 days, but that loss paled in comparison to the devastation that others’ incurred as a result of that storm. During those hours of quiet and darkness, though, I desperately tried to keep Caiden entertained with games of flashlight tag and stories by candlelight and heard myself saying, “We'll weather the weather, no matter the weather, whether we like it or not.”

Then, in August, Hurricane Irene paid us a little visit. Amongst the heavy rains and brutal winds, she decided to flood our backyard and take a hunk of our roof with her as a souvenir. As we went back & forth with insurance adjusters and I tried to explain to Caiden day after day that he couldn’t go outside because he risked drowning in the small ravine that developed out back, again I heard myself repeating with a little less conviction, “We'll weather the weather, no matter the weather, whether we like it or not.”

A few months later, just as we were beginning to adjust to life with 3-week-old Ryan, our home was hit again by another storm. This time it was a Nor’easter in October. Although it wasn’t the most snow that this area has seen, the untimely squall dumped enough of the white stuff to down 100-year-old trees that had yet to lose their fall foliage. The trees, in turn, took down the power lines and, again, we were out of electricity—this time for seven days. Huddled in our basement once more, this time to reap the benefits of the only heat source available, I found myself chanting (through gritted teeth), “We'll weather the weather, no matter the weather, whether we like it or not.” This time this mantra was a much harder pill to swallow. We were living off of a diet consisting of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and cold Chef Boyardee from a can. Our only light source came from the 3 Yankee candles we had burning—none of which were the same scent (just remembering the combination of Macintosh and Clean Cotton makes my throat want to close up). It was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep Caiden entertained especially because I had a newborn in my arms at all times. We were quickly running out of clean clothes, food, creative ideas, and, most of all, patience. That week I learned that I could never have survived being a pioneer…

I think that it is safe to say that the storms of 2011 brought out the worst in Mother Nature, but, at times, they also brought out the best in humankind. As soon as power was restored, phone lines were set ablaze as everyone called everyone they knew to ensure their safety. My 16-year-old neighbor took it upon himself to deliver food & water to residents and volunteers on Pennsylvania Avenue (one of the hardest hit areas of Springfield during the tornadoes). To thank our neighbors across the street for cooking us some warm meals during the October snowstorm, we gave them all of our firewood. Benefits were organized, shelters were erected, prayers were raised, neighbors looked out for one another, strangers became friends, and, somehow, we all came through with a little bit more character and a whole lot of stories to share.

So this beautiful, unseasonable January day brought back some not-so-distant memories. Some good, some less than desirable. It makes me wonder what the winter months have in store for us in 2012. Perhaps a heat wave in February or a tsunami in March? Nonetheless, forecasts aside, I am confident that we will prevail and can “weather the weather no matter the weather.” Besides, while watching my little guy whack the large maple out front with that stick, I can’t help but smile to myself and even smirk with a little confidence. I now consider myself to be an expert on some of the good things that can come unexpectedly or out of order… ; )

New Year's Reflection

As a new year begins, many people focus on establishing new habits and personal goals. At thirty years of age, I now know myself well enough to avoid making New Year’s resolutions that would undoubtedly result in failure. I know that it will only take a few weeks for me to cave into a craving for a Friendly’s Reeses Pieces sundae (5-scoop of course. A 3-scoop simply isn’t enough to satisfy this gal’s sweet-tooth.). I know that there will be mornings in which a few extra hours of sleep will COMPLETELY override the urge to squeeze in workout at the gym. I know that I will always put the needs of others’—namely my children’s— before my own and therefore won’t be able to finish a novel in a reasonable amount of time. I know that after a good seven-day stretch, I will eventually allow the clutter to creep its’ way back onto my kitchen counters, I will succumb to the allure of gossip shared via social networking, and my intentions to live with direct purpose and constant awareness will be cast aside as soon as a chaotic schedule kicks in (or, even worse, a trashy reality TV show airs). I know that I am human.

My New Year’s Eve was spent in relative solitude. (My little guys were home with me while Dan was at work, but they are not what I would describe as “hot dates”.) After I had put both of them to bed, I had a moment of panic thinking, “Wait! I only have a couple of hours to figure out what I am going to change in the New Year.” And then I thought, “Why worry about the stuff that I could change—but most likely won’t—when I can focus on the things that I absolutely wouldn’t change about my life?” As a result of that thought, instead of creating a New Year’s resolution, I created a New Year’s reflection. Let me tell you: This is a far more enlightening and rewarding practice.

I would not change my family. These are the people who give me a reason to wake up each morning. These are the people who provide me love and support, foster my old dreams, and help me make new ones. These are the people who deserve more than being grouped into a general category. They deserve individual explanations as to what they add to my life and why I wouldn’t change who they are.

I would not change my husband. This is a man who loves me even when I feel unlovable. He is the man who tells me that I am beautiful each and every day even when I have worn my pajamas for 24-hours straight or reek of baby puke. He compliments my charred dinners and commends me for my partially-completed efforts of organizing our home. He regularly acknowledges how hard my job is as a stay-at-home-mom and expresses how grateful he is that I chose to take this path. He makes me feel valuable. He is one of the most hardworking individuals that I have ever met. He is loyal to all those close to him and he is always willing to assist a friend—or even a friend of a friend—in need. He is smart and witty and passionate about politics, family, and (sigh) his fantasy sports leagues. He is supportive of all my endeavors, even when he knows that I may abandon them in the not-so-distant-future. He is my confidant, my partner, and my rock. But most of all, he is my best friend.

I would not change Caiden. This year has been a somewhat challenging one with him only because he changed from being a young toddler into a small child, developing a sense of

independence and a personality all his own. Granted, this was our goal as parents, but as it happened—and, oh, did it seem to happen so quickly-- some days I found myself uttering that age-old cliche of “He’ll be lucky if he makes it to his 3^rd birthday…” Yes, he has tested my patience with his incessant declarations of “MINE!”, worried me with his consumption of bizarre items such as crayons and mud, fingerpainted my bedroom with lotion, made multiple attempts to drink from the toilet bowl like a dog, and will often drop to his knees in tears and refuse to move in the middle of public places, parking lots, or—well, just about anywhere—if he doesn’t want to leave; but even at the end of his WORST days, I could smother him with hugs & kisses. I cherish each morning when he comes thumping down the stairwell, calling for me (never Daddy), and proceeds to come into my bedroom, tossing his beloved belongings onto my bed with the SAME dialogue each dawn: “Blankie (toss). Puppy (toss). Bunny (toss). Annnnnnd MEEEEEEEE! (crawls into bed).” I am incredibly proud of how polite he is, even when he is being defiant. (“Caiden, eat you supper.” “No thank you, Mama.”) I am enamored by his giant blue eyes framed by the longest eyelashes that I have ever seen. He makes my heart swell up each time he kisses his baby brother and his fits of laughter, I swear, could facilitate world peace. He is incredibly bright, loves puzzles and music and all things “boy” (cars, trains, blocks, dinosaurs, dirt), and has morphed me from a lady who longed for a little girl to a woman who can’t picture her life without little boys.

I would not change Ryan. It’s hard to believe that this little guy has already been around for a quarter of a year, but over the course of the past 3 months he has brought so much love, joy, and light into our world. It wasn’t that long ago that I said, “Having a newborn is much like the pains of labor. If a woman remembered what it was like, she would never have another child.”

We are just turning the corner of round-the-clock feedings and sleepless nights. I can finally determine the difference between an “I’m hungry cry” from an “I’m bored, gimme my binky cry”. Now that I am more rested and more confident in being a “mother of two”, I can now focus on how much fun it is to have an infant around again. Most recently, he has discovered his own voice. Each night, once Caiden is in bed, Ryan and I get some overdue daily alone time. It often consists of just gazing into each other’s eyes, but as of late he sits there and coos loudly and proudly. He loves it when I sing to him and, already, his favorite is “You Are My Sunshine”. (I know this because he actually tries to sing with me. If I weren’t so embarrassed about my own voice, I would post the video footage of this precious scene.) He is truly the happiest baby that I have ever met and I sometimes wonder what I did to deserve this blessing. His smile never fails to melt me, even when it is some obscene hour and all I want to do is get back to bed. Each day he becomes stronger and more aware of the world around him. As a result, his tiny personality is emerging. I love how he can be soothed by my voice and I love how the mere sight of his own reflection in the mirror can entertain him for hours. I often stare at him and wonder where those little feet will take him, what good those tiny hands will do in the world. I also ponder what gifts he will possess. Whatever they may be, what I do not have to question is what a gift he is to me.

I would not change my home. Yes, despite its imperfections, I love our house. Dan and I enjoy looking at real estate that is for sale, sometimes crunching numbers to see if we could “upgrade”, but fact of the matter is my house is my home and I really have no intentions of moving anytime soon. It needs a new roof and new siding. The hardwoods could use some buffing and we could definitely benefit from better windows. I can’t stand the sight of my kitchen, but a few coats of paint would certainly make it more aesthetically-appealing. And don’t even get me started on the state of affairs in our backyard (which needs a drainage system installed so it can be used again and not qualify as local swampland…). But this is the place that I purchased with Dan, knowing that once we signed that dotted line we were in it for the “long haul” together. This is the place where my babies will have both taken their first steps and spent their first Christmases. This is the place where extended family and friends gather, sharing laughter and tears. It may not be worthy of a feature in Better Homes and Gardens, but each flaw to the naked eye might also contain a memory. The hole in the laminate floor of the kitchen is from when Mollie-Dog tried to chew her way to China while we were at work one day and the dents in the doorjams are from Caiden “blasting off” on his Radio Flyer Retro Rocket. My home offers me solace and peace even among the chaos of having two small children under the age of 3. It is a structure full of dreams and love and big plans for the future. And even has enough room for another little boy down the road if we decide to expand. But let’s tackle the backyard first.

The year 2012 will, without a doubt, bring good things. I’m no fortune teller, but I am also not a pessimist. In the days and months to come, I may not have an actual habit to practice or goal to attain, resolving to change and make things better, but I will certainly be sure to express gratitude for the people and things around me that enrich my life. It’s something that I already do daily whether in word, prayer, or action. And that is something that I will never change.