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.  :) 

The Facebook Fast

In years of Lenten sacrifices past, I made choices that seemed obvious at the time. Growing up Catholic, we did not eat meat on Fridays. When I could begin selecting my own practices give up, there were 40 days lacking ice cream. There were 40 days lacking swearing. In an effort to appreciate silence and experience being” in the moment”, there were 40 days lacking listening to the radio during my commutes. There was even an honest attempt to go 40 days without engaging in gossip, but I worked in a field dominated by women and amongst incredibly dramatic teens (fodder for the rumor mill) so that one was an epic FAIL. This year, I struggled with seeking a “good fit” for my Lenten sacrifice. I am no slave to chocolate. I gave up cigarettes years ago and, trust me, this Mama NEEDS a drink by the end of the week. I contemplated giving up the gym, but that certainly wasn’t in the name of Christ. It wasn’t until I came across a blog post from a former college classmate that I found the answer to what I was looking for. She wrote about how she was implementing a “Facebook-Free Friday” in her routine. What a novel idea—and the sacrifice that I was seeking!

So I now I find myself in the midst of a Facebook Fast. I must be clear in the fact that this will not be 40 days straight of zero social networking. Unfortunately, with two small children in tow, I do not get enough access to the outside world to rid myself completely of this public forum. It is springtime: A season brimming with friends getting married and lots of babies being born, so I still feel quite compelled to check in every so often to smile at a giddy status and ogle at images of plump newborns. But I am maintaining a conscientious venture into avoiding the site as much as I can. Every Friday is an absolute “Facebook-Free Friday”. With regard to the remainder of the week, well that is left mainly to my own personal discretion, but I must admit that I really have been “good” (usually only responding to messages sent to me via Facebook, but accessed through my email account). This act of denial, in turn, has already served its faith-minded objective. Renouncing my urges to communicate via the Internet has not only made me aware of a cognizant, sacrificial practice, but has also forced me to reconnect with the world through far more personable actions. I have mailed out greeting cards. I have invited friends into my home. I have picked up the phone to call and chat versus sending out a quick text. And in an ironic turn of events, I have discovered that the current lack of social networking in my life has actually made me more sociable.

The inspiration for all of this came in the form of an unassuming blog post, but the Lord definitely works in mysterious ways. I sought and He answered. My response was found in the words written on a blog site entitled “Instant Gratification”. And, in a paradoxal twist of fate, that is what the Facebook Fast has actually given me: Instant gratification.

Curious Caiden and The Birthday Bash

It used to be that when I went out shopping and fell in love with an amazing pair of shoes, I would purchase the footwear first and then buy an ensemble to go along with it. It was kind of a backwards methodology, but I always built my outfit from the bottom up.

I don’t shoe shop often anymore, but I have adopted the same methodology for planning my children’s birthday parties. I build their celebrations from the cake up. It usually begins right after the last birthday is celebrated. Then, throughout the remainder of the year, I page through magazines, cookbooks, and websites seeking inspiration for something cute, feasible, and, most importantly, better than the last cake that I created. I stockpile my ideas in a binder that I keep in my kitchen and look at each frequently. As the birthday comes closer and closer, I narrow down my options to ones that are particularly applicable to my child at that stage. Yes, there are a MILLION Thomas cakes out there, but given my child’s obsession, I think I can hold on to that one for another year. Blue’s Clues? That one was simple enough and boy could I have with thematic activities, but Caiden goes through spurts of being bored with that character. Once the cake for that year is selected, I develop the homemade invites in which clever wordplay is a MUST, and then burden myself with a bunch of obsessive, not-really-necessary, self-inflicted late-night “homework” deciding on décor, activities, the food spread, and favors.

For Caiden’s first birthday, I was enamored by a cake that a friend of mine did based off of Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I stole her idea for the cake and then ran off with the rest. As our guests ate their way through the same foods the caterpillar munched on throughout the text, the kids created their own caterpillars to take home using a simple template and pom-poms. The following year was the “Year of the Mega Block”. Giant primary colored blocks decorated our home, I carved and sculpted a series of building block cakes out of cakes baked in loaf pans and decorated with assorted chewy candies (PS- it is nearly IMPOSSIBLE to locate blue Laffy Taffy…), the kids could create structures of their own, and I was far wiser and ordered pizza for all that year. : )

So now what? Caiden was turning 3 this year. Although he probably wouldn’t remember all of the painstaking details and effort that I invested into his party, he is at a stage where some of the memories will stick. I wanted to make this not just another birthday to remember, but, quite possibly, the first birthday that he would remember. When I think about my little guy and reflect upon all that he has become over the past year, all that he had done (who can forget the baby powder incident?), and all that he loves in general, the answer was obvious to me and allowed me to dive into one of my favorite pages in my idea binder: The Monkey Cupcake.

This year we invited our closest family members to “Go Bananas with Us” as we celebrated “Our Little Monkey’s”’ 3^rd birthday. And what character were we going to “monkey around” with? Curious George, of course! That beloved character is a classic portrayal of what life is like for our little guy—always well-intentioned, driven by inquisitiveness, and, usually making a mess. After baking my chocolate-banana cupcakes, I decorated their 24 little faces with a homemade ganache, Nilla wafers, mini chocolate chips, and Fudge Stripe Right-Bites.

Our home was minimally decorated (because it is quite difficult to hang streamers with an almost 5-month-old attached to you), but what was chosen played off of the bright yellows, red, and blues so commonly associated with George. I created an activity station for our youngest guests with George-themed coloring & connect-the-dot pages (thanks PBSKids.org!), as well as Caid’s collection of George books, toys, and games. Because of my kids’ varied eating and napping schedules, we skipped having a meal together and went straight for the good stuff: Cupcakes and Make-Your-Own Banana Splits. Each child was able to bring home a sheet of Curious George “tattoos” and (my favorite find) and Curious George foam mask that I personalized on the back with each kid’s name (“Curious Caiden” prefers to have Mommy wear his mask, though). My little monkey had an absolute blast playing with all of his family and tearing through his gifts. It was a great deal of work to prepare and execute, but seeing the smile on my 3-year-old’s face made it all worth it and I would do it again in a heartbeat for him.

At the close of the day, once the gift wrap was cleaned up, the cupcakes demolished, and the toys were out of their boxes, I curled up on the couch with Caiden and read to him from his Curious George Treasury. I stroked his hair as he wore—what else but—his monkey pajamas and couldn’t help but replay the day that he was brought into this world in my mind. That afternoon was quite similar to today in the sense of the extensive hours of planning and effort, the chaos that surrounded his actual birth, the laboring and commotion, and then, the beautiful end product that I held closely in my arms. That “bundle” is now much bigger than the 7 pound 10 ounce one that he once was. But he still has the sweetest smile, the kindest disposition, and my heart in his hands.

(Caiden: Then and Now)

Hmmmm, now what to do for Ryan’s 1^st Birthday…

Blessings in Blue

Before I had children, I had always envisioned that if, indeed one day I became a mother, I would have at least one little girl. I grew up with a sister. I have two nieces. I was a girl myself so it just made sense to me. Girls were what I knew. Girls were familiar. Comfortable. A safe bet. And girls would be fun. I have always had a fetish for tiny Mary Janes and outfits accompanied by ruffled bloomers. I thought that it would be great to stuff chubby baby legs into cable knit tights and to dress my child to the nines complete with dainty bow barrettes and bibs edged with eyelet lace. Yes, a little girl would be so much fun to have. And then I gave birth to two boys.

Boys. Raising boys was an anomaly to me. What the heck did I know about boys? Every time I have built a structure out of Legos it was the same style, rarely going outside the box. Here. It’s a tower. A tall one. Collecting bugs was boring to me and the idea of intentionally locating a snake turned my stomach. Spending hours upon hours pushing toy trains along a track made me want to go cross-eyed and who the hell could tell the difference between Edward, Gordon, and Thomas, anyway? (They’re all blue for God’s sake!) I played sports in high school, but am no fanatic by any stretch of the imagination. Ugh! And the thought of creating storage for an arsenal of Nerf guns or stepping on plastic Army men hiding out in their Lincoln Log forts triggered a fit of anxiety. So although I was happy that my ultrasounds showed us healthy babies throughout both of my pregnancies, being the mom to boys definitely scared me a bit. I was confident enough in my abilities to feed and clothe them properly (begrudgingly not in anything cute though). I knew that I could teach them how to function appropriately in the world, but I certainly lacked all esteem in the idea of being able to be a fun mom for them. And, truth be told, how fun would it be for me?

Oh, how we all underestimate ourselves.

There is absolutely not a single fiber of my being that can imagine what life would be like without my boys. My children have taught me such an obvious lesson in life. The “fun” found in raising kids is not determined by the clothing that they wear or the gender-associated activities you assume that they will enjoy. My kids have reminded me how much fun it is to dig in the dirt, to discover new things using all my senses, to make messes in finger paints, to run around the backyard with my arms spanning wide pretending that I am airplane. They do play for hours upon hours with their Lincoln Logs and trains, but it’s okay-- because I have just as much fun watching them and am amazed by their creativity and imagination. Yes, they think that crashing their cars into one another and knocking down cities of blocks like Godzilla is the greatest pastime. But they also think that it’s hysterical to dress up whether it be in a fireman’s hat or a handful of Mardi Gras beads. They have so much fun cooking their play kitchens and helping me make meals in my own. They smile when I sing to them and laugh when they are read stories. They love their Legos and trains and bugs and sports, but have taught me how to love them, too. For just being able to share those moments, engaging with them, is where the fun is found. My children have taught me that it is not about boys or girls being “better” to raise—being able to raise a kid in general is the greatest.

And, for the record, I now also realize that stepping on Army men feels no different than stepping on Barbie shoes. Nerf darts can accumulate just as easily as a stash of Polly Pocket figurines. My blessings I blue have brought to light the fact that I don’t have to spend hours brushing the knots out of my child’s hair and there is an awesomeness that exists being that it is socially-acceptable to give him a faux-hawk. My kid can basically wear any combination of clothing in his wardrobe given that every shirt his owns can be paired up with a pair of jeans or camo pants and, with a little effort and attention to detail, I can now tell you—with pride-- the differences between Edward, Gordon, and Thomas.

I never really liked the color pink anyway.

Amazing Grace

This afternoon my cousin, Grace, delivered her firstborn. I wasn’t there physically. But there is no doubt that I was there, rooting her on, in spirit.

To be completely honest, for many years, I never felt like I was on the same playing field as Grace. We were born 10 weeks—to the day—apart. We shared the same grandparents, yet, in my eyes, it seemed that our maternal heritage was the only thing that we had in common.

Growing up I envied Grace. We have never lived close to one another in proximity. She is from a military family, so every couple of years they would come to visit us in Massachusetts or we would drive to whatever state that they were living in be it Ohio, Illinois, Kentucky... My glimpses into her world were brief, lasting no longer than a week at a time. Yet, from the perspective of a younger version of myself, she had the life that I wanted to live. She was, in so many respects, the person that I wanted to be. At the most basic level of reasoning, I envied her because she was named after our great grandmother. I thought that was so cool—a name with symbolism, a connection, a meaning. She could not only make other people laugh, but had the ability to also poke fun at herself. Everyone in their family has the gift of humor. She was so smart. She was an athlete. And a damn good one at that. Being a part of a military family, she had lived all over the world. She is the only person that I know who could speak German, but with a Southern twang. To that regard, I am pretty sure to that having to move from place to place was probably extremely difficult, but it made her family incredibly close. I truly have never witnessed a bond as tight as theirs. It is beautiful. That alone is something to envy. Her parents were amazing—firm, yet so loving, demonstrative and outwardly proud-- and she had an incredible relationship with both of them. She had brothers. I always wanted brothers—I figured that they would be awesome to have on hand to protect me, to teach me how to be tough. Growing up she had cool things that I wanted so badly. An RV. Neighborhoods that had quiet streets, cul-de-sacs, and sidewalks. And, for some reason, I seem to remember a canopy bed in one of her homes-- but my overwhelming envy could very well be making that part up. I was even jealous that they had the “Schwann Man” deliver Flintstone push-up ice cream pops to her doorstep. And despite all of these amazing aspects of her life, the one, most “enviable” characteristic of Gracie, however, was—and still is—her humility. She is so stinkin’ sweet, that even if you wanted to hate her, you simply couldn’t!

My envy remained silenced within for many years until early adulthood. It wasn’t until the deaths of our beloved grandparents—whose bloodline we shared, whose presence always brought us together, whose passings created deep voids-- that I began to see Grace simply as an individual and not as an individual whose life I coveted. My envy morphed into admiration; My longing into respect. Our correspondences with one another changed as well. We graduated from the occasional letter penned in childish handwriting on Lisa Frank stationary to weekly phone calls to wish each other a “Happy Sunday”. And thanks to things like Facebook, I have been able to see how her life is unfolding through photographs and status updates. As maturity granted us wisdom, education, careers, and husbands, I began to feel more like an equal to her. It is even more so now that we share something else. It is no longer just our maternal heritage, but our own maternal experiences.

Our babies were born 4 months—to the day-- apart. These children, like their mothers, will not grow up in close proximity to one another. But they will share some of the same lineage and, through that, maybe embody a few similar characteristics. A physical reminder of our Grampie or Grammie might cross our babies’ faces through a warm smile or a twinkle in their eye. And then there are the qualities that can’t necessarily been seen. The importance of a good education and making sound financial investments will most likely be imparted, and perhaps our children will love things like poetry or be great at jigsaw puzzles like their great grandparents. No matter what attributes that they might possess, they are both lucky and have no reason to be envious of one another.

Yes, the feelings of envy towards Grace and the life that she leads are now feelings of love and genuine well wishing. Time, experience, and sensibility have all taught me that family is not something to be jealous of, but, rather, joyful for.

Welcome to the world—and to the family-- Baby Clara. And welcome to “Club Mama”, Cousin. I love you both!