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.  :)