My Life "Before"

How many times can one open the microwave to retrieve a cup of a coffee that has already turned stagnant once again? My record (today) is three. I find it starts tasting more like burnt coffee grounds after that point... which bears no implication as to whether or not I drink it.

I was a planner in my former life; the life before sippy cups were a daily annoyance – the life before I could change a diaper in the dead of night without a light – the life before the second line appeared.

There is so much about that life that I miss, yet nothing I would trade.

I miss going to the store without unbuckling and re-buckling car seats and broken grocery cart straps.

I miss reading for fun instead of out of necessity for advice. (Search bar: “how to parent”, “how to parent strong willed child”, “how to stop yelling at my children”.)

I miss uninterrupted adult conversation.

I miss running whenever I want, because the only person fending for himself in my absence was my husband (and he usually did just fine.)

I miss going out to dinner without thinking about whether our familial presence would be a disturbance to the atmosphere.

I miss hot coffee.

I miss eating without sharing.

I miss eating without sharing.

I miss eating… You get it.

Yet not one of those things would be worth missing out on the sweet smell of my babies after bath time, or the chance to read Dr. Seuss’s Wacky Wednesday 100 times over, or the joy of being unequivocally loved.

Today, as I closed the microwave for the third time, this time without even remembering to hit “start”, I laughed and thought about how crazy I felt. I thought about the person I used to be, who had every detail worked out in my head (or thought I did.) I thought about the freedom I used have to structure my morning exactly as I pleased instead of around green light wake-up clocks, bottles and cheerios. But instead of feeling resentful or frustrated, today I felt grateful. And I’m going to embrace today.

Today I thought, they’re worth it. Without a doubt, they’re worth it. 

Bigger, Bigger, Grown

There was a moment that struck me first when my daughter was an infant, and has continuously struck me at the most random times since then - this realization that, particularly before they are mobile, babies are completely and utterly dependent on you for life. In other words, even though you now draw breath outside of the security of my womb, you still cannot live without me. Usually I'm left with a sense of awe and fear at the weight of that.

I had a dream one night that my son was put into the ocean to drift. It was awful. I won't go into the specifics, but suffice to say that when I awoke it took everything in me not to wake him from his slumber, and tell him I would never leave him - let alone allow him to be sent off to the ocean as a helpless babe. What part of our wiring brings us to a place of such vulnerability that we cannot fathom drawing another breath without squeezing out little ones and breathing them in - just to make sure they are real, safe and ours?

Heartache takes on a new meaning once you enter parenthood. It means that you live life knowing that an extension of yourself lives outside of you. And as you watch that person grow, you are constantly torn between fear and pride. You are hypersensitive to the passage of time, because you are constantly swapping out smaller for bigger, shorter for taller.

As a three-year-old family friend informed us, "I'm getting bigger and bigger every day!"

I'm convinced that nothing will ever make my emotions as raw as imagining my little girl grown or my little boy as a man. Something about the passage of time, especially in regards to offspring, mystifies us in a unique way. A way that I'll never figure out, because no matter how many times we say "they're growing up before our eyes", we can't understand it, we can't stop it, and it proves itself true every day.

Lock Mama Up!

When your daughter starts reworking the words to “London Bridges Falling Down”, to sing repeatedly “take key, lock Mama up; lock Mama up; lock Mama up”, it does something to a person.

As a mom who has been seriously questioning my ability to parent well, I'm starting to wonder if Layna is seeing the crazy I thought I hid so well. Then I looked back at the cup throwing, the grunting, the sighing, etc.and I realized maybe I wasn’t hiding anything at all, and despite my best intentions, she may be picking up on the irritation I let so easily rise to the surface.

How is it that a person roughly 1/15 of my age, with a limited vocabulary and an angelic face, can make me grind my teeth, purse my lips, and point my finger? When did I become the mean mom from the movies that everyone secretly wishes would do something publicly humiliating?

I truly thought being a mom would be easy for me. I thought it would come naturally; I would know what to say and when to say it, and if I didn’t, I would still be able to come up with something meaningful to guide and direct.

The number of times I have looked at my husband and said, “I don’t know what to do. What are we supposed to do?” is growing each week.

When bedtime takes over our entire evening, because our daughter insists (by screaming and crying and pleading) that she has to poop, even though you took her to the bathroom three times before bed, what do you do? Tell her she can’t go? What if she ends up with an incurable stomach disease because I denied her the human right of using the bathroom? Worse yet, what happens if I let her manipulate me into taking her out of bed every night after clearly stating there would be no more potty trips?

When your infant son is in clear distress, uncomforted by all the go-to fixes, what do you do? Give Tylenol for an unseen pain? Gas drops for a hurting belly? Let him cry because whatever it is, you don’t seem to be helping the situation?

The amount of decisions you are required to make on behalf of another person’s best interest is positively exhausting. And while you figure it out, you are still going. Haven’t figured out if red-dye contributes to ADHD yet? Hope not, there goes another dose of Cherry Tylenol. Wish you knew the effects of screen time before age 2? Guess we’ll find out!

In truth, any mother who cares enough to assess how she is doing, is probably doing more than fine. (Right?)  Children have lived through straight-arm car seats, walking to school, and washing dishes by hand. The problems are different, but parenting remains the same – an everyday attempt at what is best for your children, even when it feels like you have no idea what you’re doing.

Bath Time Extravaganza

"I need a minute. Please just give me a minute," I said as tried to take a deep breath. The three of us were squished onto one chair, as we often are. Josiah in my lap, hiccuping as he gulped down his formula, and Layna squeezed in on my right with her hands full of a snack cup and five books.

"Please read this, Mama?" She requested.

Another deep breath.

"Just give me a minute," I repeated.

Josiah was hiccuping because he was absolutely screaming only seconds before. He got to that point where he was gag screaming. *Gag, scream, gag, scream* But I should back up, because it started a while before that.

I was giving both of the kids a bath and decided to be generous with their tub time since we had started the evening routine a little early. They both love bath time so this seemed to be appreciated. Though, it seems Josiah had a funny way of showing it.

As I was gathering towels and preparing to get them out, I noticed Josiah was in an awkward position in the tub - sort of leaned forward with a funny expression on his face.

No. You are not. 

Yes. He was. I slowly peeked into the tub to confirm my fear; he had indeed pooped in the tub.

Remain calm! I told myself. The last thing I needed was for Layna to freak out in addition to having this mess to clean up.

"Uh oh, Josiah pooped," I said in a tone that did not match my emotions on the issue. "Time to hop out."

Layna complied easily (a saving grace in this process), and of course, Josiah was completely oblivious to the fact that this presented an issue. I whisked them both out, and released the plug on the drain while I got them into pajamas. I instructed them to remain in Josiah's room across the hall from the clogged tub. I started by removing the offended toys, and... actually, I won't take you through step-by-step, but I will say that there were rubber gloves and a good amount of Clorox involved.

Josiah and Layna ventured into the bathroom more than one time during my cleanup, so in the middle of bending over the tub I would periodically have to stop and chastise them for entering. At one point, Josiah grabbed the Clorox, I sternly told him "no", and he brought out his pouting lip and whimper. Well, the whimpers turned into full blown screams, but with Clorox-gloved hands and hot water running in multiple places, there wasn't a lot to be done about it.

When I finally finished my task, I picked up Josiah who was in his *gag, scream, gag, scream* at this point. Layna was thinking she'd been patient enough and was at my heels about reading and her raisins (her routine bedtime snack). I rushed around the kitchen for raisins and a bottle (after nine months nursing Josiah, I'm still so grateful he transitioned to a bottle without issue).

And that's how we landed in the too-small-for-three chair. I collected myself, Josiah's breathing eased and his eyes got sleepy, and Layna sat eagerly with her eyes on the Berenstain Bears. It seemed we were back on track for the evening. All was well again, and so I began... "The Berenstain Bears Count Their Blessings..."