MOM GUILT 101: An Inner Dialogue Almost 6 Years In the Making

Parenthood always presents itself with numerous opportunities to learn something new. I feel like this week I learned the quickest way to achieve Ultimate Mom Guilt: Send Your Child to Kindergarten.

The years leading up to the Big Day seem endless and exhilarating and sweet and exhausting. Milestones of going to preschool are, in a sense, a badge of honor. “My child is old enough to be left in the care of others and socialize with his peers. He even knows his colors and no longer drops heat in his underwear! We are movin’ on up in the ranks of childhood!” The haze of early baby-raising lifts like a fog and many, like myself, drop those beloved kids off at the doors of their preschool a couple of mornings a week with a quick kiss goodbye and then RUN LIKE HELL in the opposite direction to embrace every ounce of freedom there is waiting outside in the form of a Starbucks date with a gal pal, a shopping trip to Target ALONE, or simply a few quiet hours at home zoning out to Wendy Williams. Thanks Teach! They’re your problem now!  See ya in a few hours!  I gotta catch up on my Hot Topics!

We completely take for granted that these kids will be in our total control and care and that these early years will tick away even though the daily grind of it all feels like we’re stuck in a hamster wheel. We rely so heavily on our personal routines, our tiny social circles, and the concept that “the greener grass” of independence  is so far away. Even as June closes out of the preschool days, we parents get jazzed about the big transition ahead of us. A new badge of honor for the kids and US on the horizon. “Kindergarten next year- whoo hoo! We’re big kids now!  We know our ABCs and understand that making eye contact with others when they talk to you is more appropriate than meowing like a cat! Movin’ on up, I say!” Think of all the amazing things I am going to accomplish now that they are in school all day! I am going to the gym. Daily. I am going to be one of those hot, fit moms that actually wears the workout pants AND WORKS OUT! I am going to meal plan, prep, and cook organic clean meals. I will start a Freezer Meal Club. I'm gonna write more. I am going to start a Book Club. I am going to volunteer! I am going to wear makeup and dress like an adult! I am going to make eye contact with others in the grocery store and not use the term “potty” when talking with them!

As summer inevitably drags on and the kids drive us insane, we look forward to the day we can ship them off!  Is it September yet?!?!?!?

And then Back-to-School Season officially arrives.

I was excited for the teacher assignment to come in the mail. I was excited for the bus passes to be hung on the refrigerator. I was excited to add special dates to the calendar and prep the backpacks and lunch bags and first day of school outfits. And then I walked my middle son into his Kindergarten classroom for orientation and wanted to burst into tears.

Despite his palpable eagerness and confidence and genuine happiness to be right there in that moment, I physically felt the memories of his early childhood years get sucked away into a vacuum of time. A black hole of early childhood and parenting opportunities that I could no longer retrieve.

My Mom Guilt Meter went off the register as I sat in a tiny chair in the middle of Room 32. Meanwhile, he sat on a rainbow rug playing Legos with a total stranger he now referred to as “my new friend”. I didn’t do enough playgroups with him. I didn’t attend enough storytimes with him. I should have blogged more about him. I should have taken more pictures of him. I should have signed off Facebook and done more arts and crafts with him. I should have gone to more museums and parks and hiking trails in our free time. Every day was free time! Why didn’t I take advantage of it? I didn’t lay down on our own rug to play Legos with him long enough…  

Kindergarten Orientation brought feelings to the surface that I hadn’t anticipated and the reality of one chapter coming to a close abruptly snapped shut in my face. I didn’t think I’d feel this overwhelmed by emotion, but as reality settled in, it dawned on me that when my beautiful, charismatic, spitfire of a child went through the doors of his first public school, he was no longer “mine” in the sense of what I had always known life to be with him. For 6 hours a day (essentially half of his waking hours), 5 days a week, he was in the care of other, albeit capable, adults that I didn’t really know. He would create a social life outside of the friends I chose for him because I got along with their moms. He would wake and eat on a different schedule. He would not have me there to tie his shoes or open his juice box or guide through unknown territory. He was my little fledgling taking his brave first flight and I would have to sit there and wait in my nest, with bated breath, to see how far he soared. It was a rite of passage that he so well-deserved, yet my unplanned heartache and regret filled the space in our home right where his absence was felt. I have loved him so deeply. But have I utilized and appreciated my time with him enough?

Perhaps I feel this form of grief and guilt more strongly with Ryan because when I sent his older brother off to Kindergarten, I had two “backup kids” at home. Ryan was in his first year of Preschool and I had a 6-week old baby literally attached to me. The sense of freedom and “greener grass” wasn’t even on my radar at that point. I was in a sleep-deprived state that welcomed any reprieve of being responsible for the older ones. And with Caiden, being the eldest, I DID do the playgroups and storytimes, music classes and museums… because I wasn’t so overwhelmed with being a parent to multiple children.

My middle child didn’t have the gift of being an only child for a few years. His gift was the companionship of his siblings. His gift was the opportunity to learn and see what life was like for older children up close and personal, as well as the hands-on training in being tender and understanding to children who were younger than him. Sadly, that still doesn’t completely soothe the sting of the guilt.

He’s so ready for this step, though. So INSANELY ready for this. For the past few days he has awakened extra early at 6:45am, dressed himself, and eaten breakfast with a giant fluorescent orange bus tag around his neck. And as I write this, I get it now. That bus tag, you see, that’s HIS badge of honor.

 “You see this tag? It’s my ticket to an amazing experience, Mom! I have got so many friends out there I have yet to meet! I can teach them all my crazy jokes and show them all my silly faces! I can show them how kind and funny and smart I am! I can show my new teachers how different from my big brother I am. This time away from you is not the end, Mom. It’s the beginning. It’s the start of the path to becoming who I really am and full of so many possibilities at every turn! Movin' on up! And, Mom, I am so happy that you have been here since the beginning to hold my hand. We’re buddies and nothing can ever change that. Let’s face it, a kid like me really isn’t created out of playgroups, music classes, and homemade play dough.  Seriously, Mom, give yourself a break. Grab a cup of coffee and take a breath. I’ll be back in 6 hours to give you a giant hug, tell you all about my day, and maybe, if there’s enough time, we can play Legos afterward.”

A Society That Is All Black and Blue

During "rest time" this afternoon, I crossed a threshold of childhood with Caiden as I realized he was a bit to old to enjoy "Ella Elephant" and "Caillou". He was allowed to watch "Spiderman" instead and I walked away thinking, "Here is the bringing of a new era..."

He made this revelation even more concrete during dinner tonight. As Dan came in on his dinner break, the first thing Caiden noticed was the small black cuff worn around Dan's badge acknowledging the loss of fellow police officers killed in the line of duty. Year after year, sadly, it comes out. We saw it in 2012 after the deaths of Kevin Ambrose and Jose Torres. We saw it again in 2013 in honor of Sean Collier. And it has now reappeared at the close of 2014.

C: "Dad, there's something on you."

D: "I know, buddy."

C: "What is it?"

D: "Some police officers got hurt so I wear this."

C: "What are their names?"

D: "Officer Liu and Officer Ramos."

C: "How'd they get hurt?"

D: "Don't worry about it, buddy."

C: "Where'd they get hurt?"

D: "They were in a car in the city."

C: "How long did they get hurt for?"

Me: "It was very quick, honey. They didn't feel pain long at all."

C: "Did they go to the hospital?"

D: "Yes."

C: "I hope they were brave."

Me: "Yes sweetie. All police officers are brave."

C: "Yeah. Like my dad."

It was one of those moments in parenting where you feel like a deer in the headlights. We had a 5-year-old bombarding us with questions. He is an intuitive boy, an inquisitive boy, a boy who won't be appeased with a simple "yes" or "no" answer nonetheless an attempt to change the topic. Dan and I try to be as honest as possible with our kids without corrupting their innocence. Together, we try to open up these discussions to entertain his questions without gruesome details. We've crossed these wobbly bridges of kid-questions with discussions starting with "how'd you get that baby in your belly" and "what are all those rocks [headstones] for"?"  While at face value most people would think that tonight's conversation was a relatively sweet exchange in the sense of Caid's genuine concern for Officers Liu and Ramos coupled with his last sentiment filled with pride, I found little solace in it. In fact, it bothered me. Actually, to be completely honest, it angered me.

I have kept my opinions about the chaos that has saturated our country, dividing it into subgroups, fueling fires ignited by racial tensions, prejudices, and overall ignorance, to myself.  Black lives matter. Blue lives matter. ALL LIVES MATTER.  There is SO MUCH that we don't know about the Ferguson case, the Staten Island case, the cases we have yet to hear about because they just weren't "newsworthy" enough. To the general public, all we know is what we have been fed by the media- an outlet that thrives on drama and "who said it firsts"; an outlet that often releases partial truths in order to gain higher ratings; an outlet that can be biased based on any sort of demographic pending on who signs their paychecks.

Brooklyn is different though.

There is no arguing the senselessness of it all. There was no prior altercation. It was a public execution of two men who had dedicated their lives to serve others. Two men who were the first to respond when others cried for help. Two men with families who they most likely bid a casual "goodbye" to as they walked out the door that morning to begin their shift-- a gesture they, like so many, took for granted under the assumption that they would return.

Dan used to roll his eyes at me almost daily in the early years of our relationship when I would kiss him on his way out the door and say, "Be safe" (rather than "goodbye") as he left for work. After Caiden was born, he laid off the eye-rolling because he understood the stakes were higher. Even in a quiet suburb danger lurks. The longer he is on the force, the more he sees what craziness, recklessness, and danger can that can unfold. A simple road job directing traffic can easily turn fatal with one distracted driver speeding through a work zone while texting. There are the drunk drivers on the road and the angry drunks that want to fight when they are taken in to get booked. There are people who hurt so much they threaten bodily harm and are armed with the weapons to do so. We have drug dealings, domestic violence, robberies, and car chases in this little neck of suburbia. And then there are the other dangers that don't start out as malicious.  The house fires, the downed electrical wires, the natural disasters, the car accidents, the exposure to bodily fluids spewn by the sick (or, at times, deceased). The only night that I don't have that quiet ball of worry and anxiety in my gut is on "Night 4", when Dan is assigned to desk work.  And, in general, there is a sound that all spouses of police officers can identify a mile away and greet with a sigh of thanksgiving and relief: that of the thick Velcro being pulled apart as a bulletproof vest is being removed and hung up for the day.  It is THAT sound that lets me sleep in peace and breathe a little easier.  At least for a few more hours.

The men and women who have dedicated their lives and careers to helping others are a special breed. They see things and do things that most of us couldn't stomach or wrap our heads around. They put their own lives on the line each and every workday in order to make the rest of us safer, happier. Are their a few bad apples in the barrel? Of course. No profession or race or religion is without. But let me say this: Not every cop is killer. Not every African-American man is a thug. Not every priest is a pedophile.

When will this madness end?

When will the violence stop and the conversations start to happen? Not the conversations to argue "who did what" and "which is better", but the conversations to rally for peace and change and common ground?

When will my little boy be able to not have to worry whether or not his daddy will come home after work?

There are simply no easy answers. So in the meantime, I guess I will continue to let my son grow up and move on to more "mature" things at his own developmentally-appropriate pace. I will ease up the reigns of trying to keep him little and innocent and allow him to ask questions and answer them to the best of my ability, giving him truth without trauma. And I will let him understand and continue to believe that superheroes are real whether it be "Spiderman" on TV or the man who sits next to him at dinner.

A "Laundry List" of Blessings

It was a snowy morning in New England on this Thanksgiving Day. I was doing not much out of the ordinary. The dishwasher was busy humming. A load of laundry was tumbling in the dryer. My two older boys were outside playing in the first snow of the season with their dad. As I was busy quietly folding the mounds of clean laundry that seemed to accumulate over the past few days (You know the deal. You wash and wash and wash. The throw in the basket, decide to "get to it later", and then proceed to work out of said basket day in and day out for the next week.). The baby was at my feet, happily cooing up a storm on his activity mat, as I folded up the millionth onesie he would inevitably spit-up all over as soon as his chunky little body was squeezed back into it. It was no special task, but it did provide some time to reflect on the simple abundance that surrounded me.

On a day when proud Americans near and far celebrate all that they are thankful for, I couldn't help but take in all that has truly graced my life. I realized that I was thankful for the ability to fold a million onesies. There was a time in my life when doctors told me my babies would be a challenge to conceive. I was even thankful to fold the socks and jeans and underwear that shared the same basket, as all these things kept us warm and protected on snowy days like this. I was thankful that I have the ability to stay at home and do these ordinary tasks. Thankful that my husband has a job that he loves, that he has wanted to do his entire life; that can provide for his family and satisfy his career goals all while allowing me to stay at home with our three beautiful children. I am so thankful for our home. Not just because it provides us basic shelter, but because it is located in an amazing neighborhood chock full of people who genuinely look out for and care about one another. Our own little piece of "Mayberry". A street where everyone really knows each others' names; where kids can play safely in the streets; where families congregate on a weekly basis in one way shape or form whether it be a stroll around the block or a casual get-together over coffee; where you seriously can call up someone and borrow a cup of sugar, and then deliver a batch of completed cookies to their doorstep when they are cooled. I am thankful that this neighborhood is located in a country that bestows so many freedoms that I admittedly take for granted. A country that, although imperfect at times,  doesn't pay a second thought to granting women an education or the right to vote or purchase a piece of land or start their own business. I am so blessed beyond measure for the three amazing sons that I get to call "mine" and for the fact that they were all delivered in a safe hospital where access to the best forms of medical interventions was available at the staffs' fingertips when needed. I am thankful for the family that surrounds me. Not just for the members whom I was born to, but for those who I acquired through marriage, and those who have become my family through steadfast friendship and love despite distance and time. I am thankful for my church family. The people whom I have known for the majority of my life. The ones who "raised" me in a house of God and I now entrust my own babies to. I am thankful for the community that they provide and the support that they extend to others who seek refuge in a house of worship in a world where the rules of religion can be so flawed and cruel. I am thankful for the schools that my boys attend; for their teachers who lovingly nurture and inspire them each day when they are not in my care. I have seen how much each of my kids have grown and flourished in such a short amount of time during a monumental school year for them.

It really is amazing how all of these revelations poured out of me as I sat in my living room sorting and folding. And yet, that is really what grace is all about: Acknowledging the fact that, many times, the ordinary is, in fact, truly the extraordinary.

Doomsday Prep

If the Zombie Apocalypse were to occur tomorrow I think I could account for the canned goods, bottled water, and basic weaponry to ward off my undead enemies. I used to pride myself on my preparation skills. As a Type A personality, it is in my DNA. Naturally, motherhood has certainly thrown me many curve balls along the way and over the years I have learned to accept the fact that plans can easily be cast aside with tantrums in Target or a deficit of diapers on my person, but, for the most part, I have still managed to keep life in working order overall. I am not so confident in those skills anymore though. Sending my firstborn off to Kindergarten presented me with scenarios that nothing could have truly prepared me for.

We have read Mrs. Bindergarten to the point of memorization. We have practiced bus safety and attended informational meetings. We have perfected basic skills in at-home workbooks. We have explored the classroom at orientation. We have walked to the school and played on the playground to create a sense of ownership. We have discussed the changes in routines that were going to take place. We have talked about our feelings and expectations for what was ahead on this new educational horizon. We have stuffed the backpack, selected our outfits, meal planned for week, and set the alarm clocks.  All of this, in preparation.

Within my own mind, I had taken the time to process how going to kindergarten was going to effect Caiden. He would be excited for the most part, but certainly have a bit of nervousness with regard to being in a new environment. In addition, I took the time to process how it was going to effect me. I expected a sense of sadness as my firstborn stepped onto the school bus for the first time-- entrusting someone else to drive my most precious cargo off to a full-day program in which I wouldn't know the details of. I expected a sense of pride to well up inside simultaneously as he confidently took those massive first steps into public education. I expected the long hours to slowly tick away on his first day as I anxiously awaited his return with the high hopes that he would be able to tell me about this major milestone. (I also expected that this last expectation would really only consist of what he ate for lunch and the fact that he played trains at some point in the day.)

What I never took into consideration, however, was how this benchmark in Caiden's life would deeply affect Ryan. In a matter of minutes, once the bus departed, my middle child began asking when his big brother was going to come home. Throughout the day he ran to the door each time a landscaping, delivery,or dump truck roared past the house. He was desperate for his favorite playmate to return. At one point, he curled up in my lap with a rarely displayed look of forlorn on his face. I didn't prepare for the fact that on this high occasion for one child, another would be missing his best friend for the majority of his waking hours.

What I never took into consideration was the fact that my husband's work/sleep schedule would completely diverge that of a normal school day.  From now on, for the most part, five days out of the week, father and eldest son would only share the dinner hour together-- if that.

What I never took into consideration was the loss of impulsive excursions. That in, a melodramatic sense, "life as we knew it was over". Until summer vacation, our days would be dictated by the academic calendar and gone were the days of random park outings, picnics and road trips as a complete family unit.

What I never took into consideration was the QUIET. Granted, I still have two children at home. But the noise made by a 6-week-old and a 2-year-old pales in comparison to that of a 6-week-old, 2-year-old and a 5-year-old. (I am prepared for the fact that, in the months to come, as Mikey becomes more active this will change-- but still, it won't be the same...)

And yet, as I mourn the loss of a life that I had become so accustomed to knowing, I celebrate many things. We are entering a new phase in parenthood. No longer are we "newbies" to raising babies-- we, although fledgling, are raising "school-aged children". Playdates will morph into PTO meetings. Spontaneous adventures will morph into sports schedules. Free time and family time will taste so much sweeter. I also celebrate the fact that my other boys will gain some long overdue and greatly deserved one-on-one time with me at home. I look forward to learning about them the same way that I got to learn about Caiden when he was an only child. I celebrate watching Ryan blossom even more as he begins preschool in a few weeks. I celebrate the ability to grocery shop with only one kid in tow again.

Yes, the past few days have made me painfully aware of the fact that even I am not the most prepared at all times. But it has also reminded me that with great change comes the opportunity to appreciate how far you have come and, more importantly, look forward to where you are going.

Wading Into a Challenge

     Every week there are hundreds of articles trending on social media sites.  5% of the time I will read it if it has something to do with sports. 15% of the time I will read it if it has something to do with the environment.  50% of the time I will read it if it has to do with a celebrity (Yes. Sadly,  I do value my knowledge of pop culture more than what bizarre chemical is being added to my food.)  And 100% of the time I will completely AVOID reading it if it has anything to do with politics or religion.  Then there is that funny gray area of articles that friends post that peak my curiosity with comments attached to it like, "I dare you to read this and not cry" (Is that a challenge?  Bring on the abused puppies and fiery car crashes-- I got this.) and "OMG!  This lady had me in stitches!  It's soooooo true!  I am totally #27 on the list!"   (Seriously?  Like, if I read this, will I gain some sort of weird insight into your true psyche?  Do you think we could still be friends after I learn what #27 is?).

     This week many friends in my Facebook feed, however, linked an article from The Huffington Post that I am, sincerely, so happy I took the time to read.  In Moms, Put on That Swimsuit, author Jessica N. Turner broaches the topic that no mom really wants to entertain.  Shopping for a swimsuit is traumatic enough.  Wearing it under your beach coverup while sitting poolside is still a test for one's summertime insecurities. But to wear it out.  Like, IN PUBLIC?!?!  IN FRONT OF PEOPLE?!?!?   AND GET WET IN IT?!?!  AND ACTUALLY ENJOY YOURSELF IN IT?!?!

This truth has especially been the case for me this summer as it looks as though I have been smuggling my kids' beachball into my swimwear as their kid brother finishes developing within the walls of my thick tummy, under my flabby arms, and above my thighs that think "GAP" is simply a brand of clothing I usually cover them up with.

     With Baby #3 due the same week that our family usually departs for our traditional Cape Cod vacation, Dan and I decided on "buying in" to a local "beach club" (pond) this year (in lieu of travel).  It's been a fantastic investment thus far and June isn't even over yet!  Many mornings we have awaken, grabbed breakfast, packed a picnic lunch and arrive there to splash and sunbathe before the afternoon newscast airs.  The boys love the ability to play with their friends for hours upon hours on end, the location is a mere 10 minutes down the road from our home, there are lifeguards to keep a watchful eye over everyone, plenty of things to do to keep the kids entertained (fishing, sand toys, etc.), and did I mention public bathrooms within waddling distance?  (With 2 weeks left until my due date, that there is worth the price of admission alone!)  As the boys have been exploring the shoreline examining snails and small fishes day in and day out, I have maintained my "post"on the sidelines with all my other Mommy Friends-- each of us seated neatly in a row of Adirondack chairs, sipping our iced coffees and enjoying each others' company, while enjoying the fact that our children are having a blast in the water right in front of us-- safely-- but not with us glued by their sides'.

     But Ms. Turner rocked my world this week with her article and she was SO. INCREDIBLY. RIGHT. ON.  And so, in a similar manner of reading about abused puppies and fiery car crashes, I accepted her "challenge" to not only "put on that swimsuit", but actually put it to good use.  Life is too short, right?  Well life with your kids being little is even shorter.  What was surprising about this endeavor (and "endeavor" is NOT an over-exaggeration when describing the process of squeezing a 9-month pregnant woman into Spandex) was the almost INSTANTANEOUS repercussions it yielded.  The boys we ready, dressed, and waiting for me in the kitchen prior to our departure and as soon as Caiden saw me in my suit (usually hidden under a maxi dress) he said, "Momma!  What is that?!?!"  I explained to him it was my bathing suit and instead of him pointing out how big my belly was, he simply gave me a GREAT BIG HUG and said, "I would LOVE to go swimming with you!!!"  Perhaps it was an overabundance of pregnancy hormones coursing through my system or just the pure sincerity of his sentiments at the time , but it took my all not to burst into tears right then and there and feel a.) like this personal experiment was already totally worth it and b.) an overwhelming amount of "Mama Guilt" on every former situation in which I let my own personal anxieties trump the genuine, nonjudgmental joys of my children.

     I spent the early portion of this afternoon on the sidelines as usual.  (I am a woman who is always up for a challenge.  Don't confuse that with a woman who is a glutton for punishment.)  I needed to build up the courage to work my way into the water.  The first major hurdle crossed was to remove my coverup which I did immediately.  I then spent time talking to other Mommy Friends about The Huffington Post article.  For those of us who read it, we all agreed on how wonderful it was and how hard on ourselves we are.  Despite all of the mutual support and agreement around me about the overall message of the story, I still couldn't bring myself to make the move into the pond though.  My inner dialogue sounded a lot like this: "Maybe after lunch." "The water is probably too cold."  "There is not a single other adult in the water right now.  I would simply look like a creeper if I were to go in."  "The kids are perfectly content playing with their friends-- they don't need me."

     As the day grew hotter and our time at the pond grew shorter, I knew that if I were to do this it had to be sooner rather than later.  And then, like a woman possessed, I literally stood up and walked unto the water.  To my knees.  To my waist.  And then up to my shoulders.  NEWSFLASH: No one panicked.  The lifeguards did not shut down the beach.  "Save the Whales" was not deployed to pull me out.  No one seemed to notice me at all.

     Except my kids.

     Caiden immediately spun around, his little blonde head bobbing up and down as he doggy-paddled his way over to me saying, "Mommy!  What are you doing?!?!?"  I casually responded, "Swimming." and he, in turn, sported the sweetest, happiest smile.  Ryan was nearby on the dock and he, who is not one to go too deep into the water, quickly asked if he could jump into my arms and join us.  I caught my little one and he giggled, giggled, giggled!  The three of us swam together for quite some time and it was truly such a beautiful ending to a gorgeous, fun day. I wish that I could etch the memory of Ryan's proud face as he furiously kicked the water and chanted "I sim-nin' Mommy, I sim-nin!" or have recorded Caiden's boisterous chuckles when he told me "Momma, you need to come swimming more often.  This is SO AWESOME!!!"

     Thank you Jessica N. Turner for challenging me; For commanding me to "put on that swimsuit".  Your wisdom not only inspired me, but changed me for the better.  I can't erase my insecurities overnight, but I can certainly continue to rise above them and enjoy my kids in the way that they, simply, enjoy me.

Confessions of a Bad Mom (Pt. 1—Because, Let’s Face It, There Is Bound to Be More I Screw Up)

     I am a bad mom.  Frankly, there is an overabundance of reasons, including, but most certainly not limited to, my babies sleep in cribs with cute decorative bumpers (despite suffocation warnings), we eat at drive thrus far more often than I would like to admit, and the ratio of hours spent in PJs around here vs. the hours wearing “normal” clothing is actually quite alarming.

     While cleaning up the kitchen the other night after dinner, it dawned on me yet ANOTHER reason why I am a bad mom.  Perhaps it is early nesting instincts kicking in, perhaps it is the fact that springtime has (supposedly) arrived, perhaps it is because I missed the sights of my doors and walls and countertops and refrigerator front.  No matter the reason, I purged.  And I purged HARDCORE.  Not my dinner, but my kids “creative projects”.

     My name is Laurel and I am a bad mommy because I don’t save my childrens’ artwork.

     Now, in my own defense, my boys are not the “artsy” type.  Ryan is content scribbling over the same exact coloring page for 3 days in a row. To him, an old shopping list covered in his jagged lines drawn in a pencil unearthed from the bottom of my purse is “art”.  Caiden, on the other hand, thinks that “art” is a.) stealing a coloring page that Ryan originally chose and using one color—99.9% of the time it’s BLACK—to scrawl a half-assed scribble on it to claim his territory and/or b.) Handing ME a box of crayons with a blank sheet of paper and dictates what I should draw for him.  The only time Caiden really sits and does an art project is when he is asked to create it by his preschool teachers during a daily lesson.  Even then, he, admittedly, follows the instructions and goes through the motions, but only does the bare minimum required.  One day he came home from school with a piece of red construction paper that had a bunch of green felt squares glued on it.  In an encouraging manner, I asked him to tell me all about his picture.  “What did you make today?  Tell me about it?  Why do you think you guys did this project today?”  His response, “I dunno.  You can put it in recycling.”  Where I should feel bad about the fact that he demonstrates such a lack of care with regard to his work, I actually pride myself on his eco-consciousness…

     I go to my friends’ homes and see their kitchens and mudrooms and playrooms plastered with beautiful creations full of color, texture, and funny descriptions written on the bottom.  The parents of children that I work with “complain” about not having enough room for yet another project to display.  So I, in the vain attempt to keep up with the Jones’ (or the Picassos’ or the Van Goghs’) will hang up my kids’ work under a strict set of rules:

1.)    Seasonal art (ex: Valentine’s Day project) will remain on display for intended season.

2.)    Artwork will be allowed a 1-month-maximum residency on display.

3.)    If the artist doesn’t care about it, neither do I.  (Aka- “The Peace Out Felt Squares” Clause)

     If I am to keep my kid’s artwork, it must also fall into at least one of the following categories:

1.)    Contain a hand, foot, or fingerprint.

2.)    Feature a photograph of the artist.

3.)    Demonstrate a sincere amount of love, attention, and effort and/or hilarious description of what the piece of art is about.

     Perhaps it may seem to be incredibly insensitive, non-maternal, and downright mean of me to set these standards, but I simply cannot bring myself to try to organize and store this paper clutter especially if my children could care less about it in the first place.  And so this is how our home has been run since Caiden could pick up a crayon.  Our life full of crappy art was acceptable and under a peaceful agreement of control.  That is, until Caiden discovered the stark doors and walls and countertops and refrigerator front the other night.  He wanted to know what I was going to do with the giant stack of art projects in my hands...

(Insert MEGA amount of Mama Guilt here.)

“I—ugh—was going to—ugh-- recycle them.  You know,--ugh-- be good to the earth?!?!?”

“But Momma, those are my art projects.”

“I—ugh—thought you didn’t really care about these pictures.”

“But Momma, I made them for YOU.”

(Insert MEGA amount of SOUL CRUSHING Mama Guilt here.)

I quickly scanned the room to find a distraction—I mean, a solution—and saw my camera sitting on top of the baker’s rack.

“Here Buddy.  What do you say if we take pictures of your pictures?  Then Mommy can create a special book later of all your artwork.”

“Good idea Mommy.  But I have a better idea.  You can take pictures of me holding my pictures.”

And a better idea it truly was.  So now our home has a new set of working rules for artwork.  The pieces will be on display for their allotted seasons and when their month-long term expires, they will be photographed with their little artists—my own, personal masterpieces.

 

The (Anti)Social Experiment

     Any parent or childcare provider has done it at least once in their lifetime.  It’s that awkward moment when they insert baby talk, high pitched tones, or contributed an unhealthy exuberance in sharing useless information involving cartoon characters and plots into what is supposed to be intellectually stimulating adult conversations.  For me, it took place during a long-overdue night out with a group of childless friends.  I looked the part.  I wore heels and pants that didn’t consist of 100% Spandex.  I donned makeup and my hair was out of its usual ponytail.  The night was going to be full of sophistication and mature humor and maybe even a little political commentary.  And then it happened.  As everyone was getting ready to pack into their cars to head out to dinner I made the announcement, “OK Guys, before we take off does anyone need to go to the potty?”

     Legit.  I said “potty”.  In heels.

     Despite the fact that I know EVERY person who has ever spent an extended amount of time with kids has experienced a similar situation, I felt so incredibly ridiculous at that moment.  Later on I began to reminisce about my pre-kid days and wondered what happened to my former being who prided herself on scholarly vernacular and possessed opinions on worldly affairs that went beyond whether ketchup or BBQ sauce was better on chicken nuggets.  And then I reflected upon the daily conversations that I now partook in.  I seriously, have never used the phrases such as “poopy”, “boogie”, “snacky snack”, and “happy nappy” so much in my entire existence until I became a stay-at-home mom.  Now I would consider sentences incomplete without one (or all) of those phrases used.  Discouraged, this thought process then lead me to the following social experiment.

     I literally spent an entire week recording the bizarre and oftentimes disgusting things that are said in this household.  Just one simple week.  And this is what transpired…

Monday

(Child emerges from playroom)  “Why are you naked and where are all of your clothes?”

Tuesday

“What do you think you want for lunch today?  (Look into backseat via rearview mirror.)  Hey!  Boogers aren’t on the menu!  Get your finger out of there!”

“Knock that off and give that to me!  Toothpaste is NOT a condiment.”

“Where are your pants?”

Wednesday

“Please stop head-butting the dog in her rear end.”

Child sits in his father’s seat and starts speaking in a low authoritative voice.  “Hi.  I’m Daddy and I’m the boss.  If you are bad I will put you in time out.  But if you are good and eat all your supper I will give you a treat.”

I laugh and then say, “That’s pretty spot on.  What does Mommy sound like?”  (Pandora’s Box opened, Stupid!)

“Hi.  I’m Mommy.  And I’m the other boss.  If you are bad I will put you in time out.  But I’m meaner.”

Thursday

(In what should have been a tender moment shared while quietly snuggling my 5-year-old, the following conversation emerged)

Child rests his head against my, albeit, pregnancy enhanced chest, pulls back and then looks quizzically at me.  “Momma, what are those?”

“That is my chest, dear.”

“Oh.  I thought that it was the baby’s feet popping out.”

(I thought this would be the end of this exchange.  I should have known better.)

Child then looks down at his chest, back at mine, and back at his.

“Woah.  Yours it a LOT bigger than mine.”

“Yes.  Yes, it is dear.”

(PLEASE, GOD let this conversation come to a close.)

Child stares back at me and then makes a coasting motion with his hand over “the girls”.

“Momma, these are like mountains.  BIG MOUNTAINS.  I am going to get my trains so can they chugga chugga up and down them.”

“Honey, I don’t think that is necessary.  Or appropriate for that matter.”

“Momma—“

“Do you want a snack?  Let’s go get a treat.  How about some TV time?”

Friday

“You have been potty trained for two years--Did you seriously just poop your pants?”

“’Chuggington’ was on.”

Saturday

“MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!  Ry-Ry is nakey again.”

“Serously Child!  You are like the freakin’ Houdini of attire.”

“What have I told you about head-butting the dog in the rear?!?!”

Sunday

Child sits in his father’s seat and starts speaking in a low authoritative voice.  “Hi.  I’m Daddy and I’m the boss.  I’m old.  I drink soda.  I drink blue milk not red milk [1% vs. whole].  I go to work a lot.  And I play video games.”

I laugh and then say, “That’s pretty awesome and TOTALLY spot on. “  (I learned very quickly NOT to open Pandora’s Box again.  Especially with this uncensored honesty in the air.)

“No Ry!  Put the potty back on the floor!  The froggy potty is for practicing how to tinkle and poop on the big boy potty—NOT for dumping bath water on your brother!”

     So after one week I drew my social experiment to a close and realized that all it proved was that there was no wonder why I say some of the things I do and I was bound to have anti-social conversations for the remainder of my days while raising small children.  That, and I live with a house full of aspiring pint-sized nudists.

Flipping on "Five"

I am not quite sure what it is about my kids, but it seems as though once they reach the anniversary of their birth, a mystical switch is flipped within each one of them and they magically morph into a new being.  Everyone is familiar with the phrase “The Terrible Twos”.  In our home, “Two” is a cake-walk.  It’s “Three” that you better batten down the hatches and become an emotional doomsday prepper.  “Four” was wonderful year in which my eldest was still vulnerable in so many aspects, but gaining confidence in such strides.  We were beyond the initial uber-cautiousness of new situations that “Three” presented (entering preschool, attending birthday parties for people outside of the family, trying out new classes and playgroups).  He now had a solid core of friends whom he interacted with on an almost-daily basis.  He developed his nurturing skills now that his kid-brother was able-bodied enough to keep up with him.  He worked on his assertiveness—at time, to a fault—and learned that he can have opinions, share them, not always agree on them, but survive even if that were the case.  He thrived on knowledge and often surprised us with the factoids he picked up along the way (ie.:  seriously schooling his parents on the inner workings of railways and locomotives) or repeated phrases that mimicked the elders in his life, oftentimes making us do a double-take and wonder who this 40-year-old was inhabiting our 4-year-old’s body.

And so, like clockwork, the switch was flipped again and on March 3, 2014 a new little Caiden emerged from his bedroom.  It has only been two weeks, but if it were at all possible, I would bottle up “Five” in a heartbeat.  Although over the course of the past year Caiden has grown by leaps and bounds, he seems to have acquired a sense of maturity and empathy that went beyond his normal realm of personality overnight.  Through the experience of having a younger brother, he has learned the importance of sharing, yet now he demonstrates an uncanny need to share.  When preparing him for the fun events to take place at his birthday party, one thing that stood out to me was that “The Child Who Does Not Consider a Birthday ‘A Birthday’ Unless There Are Balloons” was no longer looking forward to taking home his balloon bouquet because he didn’t think that it was fair that there were not enough for each of his friends to take one home with them.  Later that day we spent the afternoon roaming the aisles of the local toy store looking for the perfect new wooden train engine to add to his collection.  Despite the fact that he was so proud and pleased to now possess “James”, the minute he returned home Ryan showed an interest in it and Caiden didn’t argue for a millisecond--simply handing  the new toy over and moving on to the next activity.  (Ryan has since slept with this train every night).

(The birthday boy posing with a different train. He got a bunch.  Shocking, I know.)

 Another area in which this sweet boy has really impressed me is his increasing love of numbers and logic (a trait obviously inherited from his father’s side).  I swear that on March 2nd this boy could only count up to 39 correctly, yet on the evening of March 3 he demanded everyone’s’ attention at the dinner table and wanted to count up to the “biggest number in the whole wide world: 100”—and he did.  That was a moment in which tears sprung to my eyes, not because I was inevitably celebrating his personal victory, but because I realized, in truth, how quickly so much can change in a matter of 24-hours.  When you look at your child’s face each and every day you rarely get to see the transformations that are occurring right before your eyes (just think about how different your kid looked in pictures from a year, even a month ago).  That night, over a plate full of spaghetti, I was literally able to see my little boy change just a bit and it was so mesmerizing and bittersweet simultaneously.  Caiden’s love of numbers has spread to other areas such as reading a digital clock and genuinely following the dates on the calendar.  The teacher in me often extends these moments in conversations such as “Your birthday was 4 days ago on March 3^rd.  Let’s add 4 more days to 3 and figure out what today’s date is.”  He will mentally do the math (seriously kid, it’s really OK to use your fingers at this stage) and then double-check on our kitchen calendar.  The satisfactory smile on his face when he sees that he got the answer correct is priceless (and then he proceeds to tell me that I screwed up when I say, “Yes! Today is March 7^th”—Because “it is really March 7^th, 2014.” Thanks, Capt. Correction.)  The mom in me, however, thinks “Holy Cow!  That’s my boy!  You’re a genius!  And a smartass, but I love you all the same!”

I have commonly described Caiden as the “quiet observer”.  He was the last of his friends to crawl, to walk, to talk—you get the idea.  A perfectionist by nature, no matter the task, from infancy on he would sit and watch others, take an inventory of how and why they were doing what they were doing.  You could almost see the gears constantly turning within his mind as he sat on the sidelines amongst his peers.  And when the time was right for him, he would tackle his milestone with flying colors. He was not a child who would take two, wobbly, unsure steps—he would coast across the room.  When it came to climbing up a step, he literally stared at the basement stairs for the longest time and then one day conquered the entire flight in one confident effort.  Unlike his kid brother, Caiden was not a “trial and error” kind of child.  “Error” makes him very uncomfortable.  That is, until he turned 5.  POOF!   Switch flipped.  All of a sudden he is becoming more fearless.  At his birthday party at our local gym he was the first to jump into the pool.  A boy who formerly would be bashful if caught singing a song to himself is now making up new songs, singing it loud & proud, and letting me videotape him performing.  It truly feels surreal some days and I catch myself turning to Dan and going, “Are you seeing/hearing this?  Who is this magnificently humorous, carefree being?”

The last transformation that has emerged recently is my 5-year-old’s independence and increasing maturity.  He has abandoned his overly-cautious shyness and traded it in for a more sociable set of traits.  He’s memorized important numbers and loves to use the telephone to call family members.  He doesn’t hesitate to order his own meal at a restaurant and even includes details like the necessary flatware he would like served with his lunch.  The other day he asked to pay for items at the store and even carried on a cute little banter with the cashier.  (I’m almost surprised that he didn’t walk away with her phone number.) The maturity has extended beyond social situations though.  Caiden has expressed a genuine interest in wanting to take on new jobs and responsibilities around our home.  Rubbing the sleep from my own eyes the other morning, I went to wake him up for preschool and found that he had already made his bed.  He asks to vacuum daily, fights over the duster with Ryan, assists with the laundry, clears his dishes 90% of the time without prompting, and enjoys sorting out our recyclables.  Today he told me, “Momma, I love to help you out.  It makes me feel real good to have a nice and clean home.”   (Now if only he asked to do windows or was old enough to handle the ironing…) I know that this phase of life will inevitably fade over time—most likely sooner than later-- but I pray that I can nurture it enough for its duration in order to set a solid foundation for him; providing him with a set of life skills that will make him a great roommate, spouse, and parent down the road.

(You thought I was kidding about the duster fights?)

(So thorough!)

  

As I draw this blogpost to close, two things strike me.  The first is that today is St. Patrick’s Day and as I reflect upon this 5-year-old little Irishman, it is beyond obvious that luck and good fortune has certainly rained down upon me and I am beyond blessed to be this boy’s mother.  The second is that it is truly bittersweet how fast time flies by and quietly, yet drastically, changes things.  It makes me think ahead to the stack of Kindergarten information sitting in front of me on our dining room table waiting to be filled out and submitted—a task that we are so eager to do because it is beyond apparent that this child is ready and excited to move on to.  Yet part of me hesitates each time I take out the pen because it confirms that in a matter of a few short months my firstborn will be in full-day public schooling.  Wasn’t he just making me crave Sour Patch Kids and kicking me in the ribs from within?  How can half a decade pass by so quickly?  Just as my children seemed to be wired with that magic switch within, allowing them to transform overnight on their birthdays, I selfishly wish that some days—days like these— that they were also programmed with a special button.  Just.  So.  That.  I.  Could.  Press.  PAUSE.

Bye, Bye Birdie

As much as I would have loved access to Pinterest when planning for my wedding, I now loathe it when it comes to the birth of my third child.  Despite my acknowledgement of how cool and imaginative the ideas I have pinned along the way are, I have easily accepted the fact that I will rarely, if ever, follow through with each's execution.  I will not be creating elaborate racetracks out of painters tape on my floors.  I will not be crafting glittery quiet jars, homemade Moon Sand, or anything in general that requires more than 3 ingredients or 3 minutes of focused attention (mine or my kids).  And anyone who really knows me, knows that I will not be making my own fruit rolls ups out of organic purees, bake gluten-free cookies, or putting together any sort of cute, thematic treats for preschool.  (Sorry kids, you're lucky if you are dressed before noon and consider yourself blessed that I remember to feed you each day.)  Yet, in spite of this knowledge of my lack of initiative, I still faithfully check into the website to see what's new and trending.  As my other friends were adding to their families and Dan and I were talking about doing the same, my interests on various pins shifted and one day I saw something that I simply could not erase from my mind and the creative juices seriously started flowing-- to a point where I was like, "Yeah-- I can and I will do THAT!"

You see, it all started with these adorable bird prints.  I saw them on Pinterest after learning that Bambino Numero Tres was "officially official".  They were a set of 10 sweet bird paintings, all different examples of common backyard varieties and numbered 1-10.  The designer had them all framed so pretty in their clean, white frames, hung on a soothing blue colored wall and I said, "I. Want. Them."  Perhaps it was because they were so simple.  Perhaps it was because they were just different.  Perhaps it was because they were stylish and educational all at once.  Most likely, it was because they reminded me so much of afternoons spent with my grandparents-- looking through the pages of a National Audubon Society Dictionary of Backyard Wildlife with my Grampie and then sitting beside my Grammie in their kitchen, identifying each breed as they flew up to their window feeders no matter the season.  All I knew was that if this baby was a little girl, our current nursery was going to undergo a major makeover and it was going to be a room that I wanted to sleep in.

Over the course of the past 17 weeks I have researched and daydreamed of soft fabrics, paint samples, lighting fixtures created out of birdhouses, and other ways to bring the outside in.  It gave me a little more purpose and drive beyond my typical, run of the mill, stay-at-home routines.  I'd walk through department stores and glance at baby items a little more than usual.  I paid more attention to details like how the moms at work actually managed to put on their girls' tights or brush their fine hair into pigtails.  The prospect of having a little girl in our family peaked my curiosities.  It posed a realm of the unknown for us-- something out of the ordinary-- something beyond trains and cars and camouflage.  I smiled at the thought of a little girl wrapping my husband around her tiny fingers-- even more-so than the way he always caves to his beloved boys.  If we had a little girl, the name game would have determined a winner by the end of our 2nd trimester as it was something that both Dan and I have agreed on since our first pregnancy.  A little girl wold have meant having a reason to go out and buy headbands with giant flowers on them and the pint-sized Mary Janes that have made my own heart skip a beat for over two decades.

On the morning in which we were scheduled for our big, 20-week anatomical ultrasound, my anxieties were certainly on the rise.  All prenatal appointments make me nervous as I always worry that something will be wrong with my baby.  This is especially true of ultrasounds.  With Caiden being so actively interested in the development of this baby in my belly, we decided to attend the ultrasound as a family.  As Dan stood with Ryan in his arms, Caid sat by my side on a little rolling stool, his eyes glued to the monitor, and my typically shy boy showed zero hesitation in asking the technician a zillion questions about what we were looking at.  He insisted on holding my hand the entire time and I lost count of how many times he leaned over and kissed it.  I lay there quietly praising myself for how much I have learned over the course of 3 pregnancies.  When comparing the images I saw on the screen prior to Caiden's birth in which I often thought, "That's an arm? Well, if you say so..." to the ones that I saw this time around in which I was able to accurately narrate to him, "See, that's a hand by the face.  It's playing peek-a-boo."

(This image is a bit creepy.  I am fully aware of that.  But the baby was literally swimming from one side of my belly to the other the ENTIRE ultrasound and so this is the "best" 3D image the technician was able to freeze for us.  She gets an A for effort.)

And then came the moment of truth.  The tech glided her wand across my growing belly and asked if we were learning the sex of the baby.  Once confirmed, she paused the image on the screen, asked Caiden if he thought he had a brother or a sister, and despite his deafening silence full of hesitation with not knowing what he wanted, there was absolutely, not a shred of doubt whatsoever with regard to what I saw on that screen.  I'd seen it two times before.

And I was okay with it.  To say that there wasn't a shred of disappointment would be a lie.  But I have recovered from it fairly quickly as reality has sunk in and there is no question of what a blessing this third baby boy is to our family.  He is another best friend to his older brothers.  He is another extension of our family name.  He is healthy and active (so much so that we need a follow-up ultrasound to capture images he was too busy to pose for).  He is perfect and he is yet another miracle to this lady who was told having her own babies would be a challenge.

My third son will sleep in the same nursery that his brothers slept in: With its' green walls, primary patchwork bedding, and little animals hand-painted in hidden corners playing peek-a-boo.  He will wear hand-me-downs and choosing his name will be a source of many foreseeable disagreements between his father and I.  He will inevitably be cause for me slipping on loose trains and stepping on stray Legos for an additional 18 years.  But, my God, do I already love him to the moon and back.

Not enough to make him homemade organic fruit roll ups though.

The Family Tree

In the interest of clarification with a recent Facebook status that I posted, I felt the need to take the time and write this.  This afternoon I received some heartbreaking news that a former student of mine had, tragically, passed away.  A life lost way too young; A life loved by more than he ever realized; A life that will truly be missed by so many.  Fact of the matter is though, that sadly, this wasn't the first incident of hearing devastating news about a kid that we knew well and cared so deeply for, and, even more sadly, will surely not be the last.

Truth is, this blog entry has been years in the making, although I had yet to find the right words to put into perspective the effect that these broken bonds have on those who have created them.  I certainly haven't truly found those "right words", but today's events have so compelled me to try my hardest to get it out.  To illustrate the magic and love and life that truly spawns within the school environment in which I was lucky enough to once be a part of is really impossible.  The school, specializing in educating students with severe language-based learning disabilities is named after a tree that starts out as a tiny, rather insignificant acorn, and yet, if nurtured properly grows deep roots and becomes a solid, strong, powerful, virtuous life.

What we do within the wall of White Oak School reaches far beyond the realm of commonplace "teaching". We spend countless hours slaving in front of computer screens analyzing the needs and goals for each and every student we work with.  We spend countless hours hunched over the copier in the teacher's lounge making individualized lessons for each kid complete with teacher-generated text, notes, and manipulatives.  We spend countless hours before and after school speaking with parents, advocates, and other teachers to ensure that each student is on point-- and if they aren't-- we are sure to discuss management strategies.  We spend countless hours in IEP meetings, mandatory professional development inservices, regular parent-teacher conferences, and irregular roundtable discussions.  We spend countless hours on weekends and school vacations  brainstorming, planning and prepping lessons 6-weeks in advance and rewriting reports and legal documents that have been edited with a fine-toothed comb.

So why would anyone sign up for this energy-depleting, stressful, hour-eating job?  Simply stated: For the kids.  It is simply IMPOSSIBLE to not get attached to these students.  Because in between the thankless hours of incessant typing and repetitious droning of terms like "moderate teacher assistance" and "given teacher prompting in the form of", there are also countless hours of sitting one-on-one with a kid in a 6'x6' cubicle 5 days a week.  Here is where the magic happens.  A magic that simply could not be replicated in a public school setting in a classroom full of 30 plus students.

Here is where emotional breakdowns and educational triumphs take place. Here is where "I can'ts" become "I did."  Here is where broken dreams breathe new life; where kids who have lost confidence in themselves learn that all is possible with a little faith and a lot of hard work.  Here is where details about home life are shared, trust develops, and genuine, caring, nurturing relationships evolve.  Here is where strangers become family and the phrase "blood is thicker than water" becomes a fallacy.

Granted, a teacher can't love all their students.  But every once in awhile you get that special kid assigned to you.  The one that makes you work a little harder.  The one who reignites that withering spark within you and reminds why you chose this profession in the first place.  The one who makes you strive because you want them to thrive.  The one who can frustrate the hell out of you some days because you want more for them than they want for themselves. And every so often you have the kids that fits all of the former criteria, but also meets a new one: The one who has no serious support, no credible guidance, no home life to write home about. This is the one who you would put your career on the line for.  The one who you attend extra curricular activities so that there is at least someone on the sidelines cheering for them.  The one who you sneak their favorite food into school because you know their parents or legal guardians didn't pack them lunch.  The one who you secretly wish you could just take home with you because you know they would be better off there than in the environment that they will return to at the end of the school day.  The one who haunts you even past their day of graduation.

These kids become "our kids".  In many cases, we are the closest thing to family that they have.  They confide in us.  They celebrate with us.  They cry on our shoulders.  And, oftentimes, they bring tears to our own eyes whether it be out of frustration, or a successful reading in front of the entire school, or a sincere dedication in their yearbook message or Senior Address.  It is because of these special individuals we cannot listen to Idina Menzel and Kristen Chenoweth sing "For Good"  without getting an enormous lump in our throats. We may have not carried them within our womb, but we certainly carried them in our hearts.

I think ahead to what the services within the next week celebrating this very special young man will look like and can't help but predict that it will, ironically, resemble the pews at my wedding.  Not in respect to the number of people there, but who, indeed, are sitting in those seats.  The majority of my wedding guests were not blood relatives, but my coworkers from White Oak.  And why would all of these people spend their weekends to gather at a fellow staff member's nuptials or a former student's farewell?  Simply stated:  We're family.

Earning My Stripes

This past Mother’s Day was one of particular importance to me because it felt, as pompous as it may sound, well-deserved. Although I had the excuses to celebrate it three years ago with a new baby in my arms and old stretch marks on my belly, my  first Mother’s Day felt more like a rite of passage; an initiation into a maternal sorority. My hazing rituals consisted of forfeiting months of sleep and tethering myself to a pumping machine around the clock and I was finally pinned in early May of 2009. Instead of a pin, however, I received a necklace from my husband: an oval aquamarine gem (our son’s birthstone) set in white gold and surrounded by pave diamonds. I was treated like a queen and felt like one—taboot—as I wore my jewelry with delight. It was a holiday with a little bit of glamour that contrasted the months of postpartum darkness that I dwelled in. It was a holiday in which my baby, barely 3 months old at the time, was still immobile and fairly easy to accommodate (Eat every 3 hours. Nap. Poop. Repeat.) It was a holiday in which I could go out to eat with my husband and child in tow and the restaurant staff would wish me a wonderful Mother’s Day, complement me on my new sparkling accessory, and I could say, “Oh, thank you so much! It’s his birthstone” nodding to the baby beside me, to which they would ogle my adorable little bundle.

On my second Mother’s Day I was gifted a Rhododendron. For me it was like a metaphor for what the prior year was like learning to become parents and truly adjusting to life with a child.  Like our son, the flowering bush added beauty to our home and was a symbol of growth (well, until I accidentally killed it… No one in this household was born with a green thumb.  In fact, I am pretty sure they don’t even fall within the color-spectrum.)

Then on Mother’s Day of 2011, I received a hammock.  This gift was so appropriate and appreciated.  It provided a place to spend time for rest and relaxation before the birth of our second child. In the months following that Mother’s Day, I spent many sunny afternoons rocking with my firstborn, reading him stories, and singing songs together. These were moments that I knew I would treasure, but are now even more coveted to me that our second son is here and my firstborn is continuously active.

Mother’s Day weekend this year kicked off on Saturday when I sent Caiden to The Little Red School House in town so that he could participate in their weekly preschool play program. It was there that he planted me a flower to which he promptly plucked the bloom off. His teacher allowed him to plant me a new one and then he plucked that bloom off, so I am currently displaying a cup of dirt on my kitchen table with amusement. Dan worked night before so he needed to sleep during the day in preparation for  his next 3^rd-shift. Prior to heading to bed, however, he delivered me a large coffee and a ½ dozen donuts. Once the boys were awake and ready, we went to church. With the help of the nursery staff there, the kids made homemade art pieces. They were unexpected and inadvertently served as little paper time capsules. Caid’s demonstrated his emerging preschool skills of pasting while Ryan’s is so precious with a simple tracing of his tiny hand.

(C's had an unfortunate encounter with a bag of chips-- hence, the grease marks.)

                            

(Makes me melt.)

We went about the remainder of the afternoon as usual with a few household chores and caring for two wonderful children on two completely different schedules. When Dan awoke he ordered dinner out and I closed out my day with some comfy pjs and the Desperate Housewives series finale (although I must add that my husband did surprise me with a bowl of hot popcorn to snack on in bed).

Yes, although this past Mother’s Day was not filled with gifts that sparkled and shined, it may have meant the most to me to date. This was a Mother’s Day in which I felt like I actually deserved to be honored. It was the first year that I felt like I wasn’t merely just a “mommy”, but a “mom”.  You see, “mommies” have lots of fun, are still figuring things out, but still look good doing it because their kids are not in a  particularly challenging stage of life. “Moms”, on the other hand, are finally at peace with their parental inadequacies, have mastered the art of balance, and could care less that they did it all in yesterday’s yoga pants because their kids are older. “Mommies” look forward to each new milestone that their child will accomplish, encourage them to achieve it as soon as possible, and then scrapbook it.  “Moms”, on the other hand, know that the more a kid can do, the more trouble they can get into and rely on the photos that their friends take, post, and tag on Facebook to chronicle their kids’ early years.

Despite having a picky eater, I can hide whole grains and at least one vegetable in almost anything. I can nurse a baby and complete a 48-piece puzzle with his older brother at the same time. I can change a diaper with one hand behind my back and recite all 62-pages of Green Eggs and Ham. I can determine which Baby Einstein DVD is playing based solely upon the soundtrack and I can figure out a good rainy day activity using nothing but my imagination and the contents of our recycling bin. I know that a baby wipe is good for cleaning just about anything, anywhere, the necessity of shoes for any infant is highly overrated, space-saving highchairs are a Godsend whereas skuzz-seeking bath squirters are the work of the Devil, and that there’s nothing that a sticker—even if it is from the peel of a banana-- can’t fix. I have thrown out my kid’s art projects because there will always be a new one tomorrow, I have carried out a “time out” in the middle of a public place with no qualms, and I have even threatened to turn the car around if my kid didn’t stop his tantrum. Yes, I am now officially, a “mom”.

Let’s face it: Everyday life with two children ages 3 and under is as unpredictable as the front lines (and the appearance of my home resembles that metaphorical battlefield). But this Mother’s Day I earned my proverbial stripes. And like a decorated war hero, I wear them with pride and honor…

Ambiguous Adoration

When we were ready, my husband and I decided on having a second child. We were financially stable. We were comfortable in our parenting skills. Our firstborn was becoming increasingly independent and we knew in our hearts that our family was not complete. We were beyond elated when an EPT test authenticated a new baby was on the way, but as my belly began to swell and expand, I began to feel anxious and fearful about my capacity to love my new baby as deeply as I loved my eldest son.

There was no doubt in my mind that I would love this child. He was a part of me. We were excited to hold him. And new babies are always fun to snuggle with. But would he have the power to melt me with a single smile? Would he make my heart skip a beat when his tiny fingers wrapped around mine? Would he make each day brighter no matter how early it started?

My questions were all quickly answered the second my newborn son was placed into my arms for the first time. He eased into our lives seamlessly. But whatsmore, he enriched them beyond anything that we could have ever anticipated or imagined. His ability to make me feel so needed and loved with a simple gaze assuaged my insecurities. His sweet little face captivated me each moment it met mine. He has truly made each day since his arrival so much better, so much more gratifying, so much more complete.

Tonight I held my, now, 6-month-old baby in my arms, reflecting upon our day. It was mundane in nature. Some errands here, some housework there, punctuated by shared meals, naps, and hours of play. As he drifted off to sleep, his eyes closed tightly, his lips puckered in a peaceful grin, his body draped across my arms weighted heavily by relaxation and trust, I couldn’t help but revel in how beautiful that moment was, how beautiful my little boy was, how beautiful my life was because of he and his brother.

When the realization of having a second baby tested my confidence, I used to question myself constantly.  “How could I possibly love another child as much as the one that I already have?” Then tonight a more obvious realization hit me. “How could I not?”

Unsolicited Advice

When a woman announces that she is expecting a baby, she instantly becomes a magnetic force field attracting advice, anecdotes, and the occasional horror story from any other woman who has ever expected a baby at one point in time.  The problem with this is, although this wisdom is dispensed abundantly with the best intentions, most of it is probably unsolicited. After the birth of my first son, I was inundated with wave after wave of “When my daughter was teething…”, “When my son wouldn’t sleep through the night…”, “The best remedy for this is…”,”Buy this brand of bottles…”, “Don’t buy this brand of diapers…”,  “Feed him this way…”, “Hold him that way…“, “Breast is best!”, “I was formula-fed and I turned out ok…”, “Pacifiers were my saving grace…”, “Binkies are the work of the Devil!”, “Cosleeping is great!”, “Ferberize him!”, yack, yack, yack, yack, yack…

When I wasn’t going cross-eyed from sleep-deprivation coupled with the constant barrage of unsolicited advice, I learned to sort out what tidbits of guidance worked for me and what counsel could be cast aside. I got my parental groove and was unfazed by others’ recommendations until I was in the hospital after giving birth to my second son.

It was 12 hours after my delivery. I spent those 12 hours gazing smittenly at my new bundle, nursing him around the clock, and entertaining hordes of well-wishing visitors. It was time for me to eat breakfast when a 1^st-shift nurse whom I later dubbed “The Boob Nazi” came into my room. After manhandling me, she glanced over at my breakfast tray, and abrasively reprimanded me for ordering a cup of coffee. Jokingly I responded, “You mean to tell me that I am going to be in charge of two children under the age of 2 and I can’t have a cup of coffee?” The Boob Nazi was not amused. She proceeded to tell me that she made the sacrifice of not having coffee, medication, alcohol, etc. when she nursed all eight of her children and it was something all good mothers should do. (Based off of her response, it was also glaringly apparent to me that she had sacrificed FUN.)

The caffeine issued has remained present in the back of my mind. I cut my dependency on coffee drastically, but never quit it completely. And I don’t feel bad about that fact in the least. This is why: Here is how my night went the other day…

10pm- Settle into bed for the night.

10:20pm- Hubby wakes me up to ask where the dog leash is.

11pm- Finally find the dog leash stashed away in the drawer of our coffee table.  (NOT where it belongs, but apparently an excellent spot to hide a regularly used and necessary item according to our 3-year-old.)

11:15pm- Back in bed after letting the dog out.

12am- “Rescue” wailing 6-month-old in his sleep after he has rolled over onto his stomach and forgotten how to roll back.

1:20am- Make a sleepy sprint upstairs to wailing 3-year-old’s bedroom in order to soothe him after a nightmare.  He requests to snuggle.

2:30am- Stumble my way back to my bedroom after waking up and realizing I had fallen asleep in the kid’s bed.

3:40am- “Rescue” wailing 6-month-old once again from his belly- beached state in crib.

5:00am- “Rescue” wailing 6-month-old yet once more.

5:15am- Surrender to 6-month-old and take him into my bed.

5:45am- 3-year-old wakes up and is rearing to go. Awesome…

As I worked my way to the Keurig machine in a zombie-like state, I couldn’t help but think, “Screw you Boob Nazi.” And my first cup of joe that day was delish!

The moral of this story? The only piece of unsolicited advice that any mother should ever heed is to ignore unsolicited advice.  :)