Dentist

The waiting room had a fireplace and the reception desk was dark cherry wood. The floor appeared to be marble and the rows of patient files behind the woman who politely handed me the stack of new patient paperwork to fill out - were hidden behind cherry wood sliding cabinet doors.

Walking in there this morning, with The Boss and Lila in tow, I felt overwhelmed. Not a kids book or toy or stray crayon in sight. If this was their waiting area, how would their rooms be? Would my two children be able to behave, unentertained, for the entire length of all of our appointments?

All this anxiety quickly disappeared as I signed my name for the fortieth time and looked up to see Lila standing at the bathroom door with her pants and pull-up down around her ankles, exclaiming to the two other families waiting in this beautiful waiting room "I have to poop!"

Of course, she did not have to poop. She and I went into the bathroom, where she sat, hummed for a minute, then announced she was done and would like to wash her hands.

The appointments themselves went off without a hitch. My teeth are better than I had anticipated (or at least, only requiring a small amount of inexpensive work) and the children each listened and opened their mouths wide for the hygienist.

She paused while counting The Boss's little teeth, to see if she could feel movement at all. And when she confirmed she felt the slightest bit of "wiggle" - I actually felt sad. Sure, he's been growing and growing and growing and he's looking more little boy than he is preschooler - but I'm really just not ready for that sort of manifestation of his growing up.

It's funny how we want to hurry them up in some ways (ahem, Lila, please start to use the potty - without dropping your pants and announcing it to the world) and in other ways, we want them to stay just as they are, sweet baby toothed grins and all.

The Brink

I can count on one hand the number of times that my mother let me down. The number of times she over-reacted, spoke too harshly, cursed, scared me into obedience. One. Hand.

Today, I had to apologize to my four year-old son, because I'm exhausted. Because my patience only wears so thin. Because, even if he doesn't understand why I said I was sorry, I know that I let myself down. Because...he deliberately pooped in his pants and then looked at me with moon-eyes and told me it was an accident.

And, even though I know that it has to be a reaction to suddenly being a big brother to two siblings, a reaction to suddenly not being the only son, to being my errand boy, to the pressure of being big and reliable - all the time. Knowing all this - with an infant crying and his sister squirting glitter glue all over the kitchen table, her fingers, her arms, her cheeks - I simply could not deal with being lied to, or, worst of all, the warm, stinky, poop in his underwear on my bathroom floor.

I. Snapped.

Into the shower he went - because I know the shower terrifies him. And as he cried and begged to be let out, I went on a verbal rampage. No cursing, but if those were the sort of words that were somewhere in the default of my arsenal, they would've come out, I'm sure. I was blinded by exhaustion and rage and that awful smell - and I just lost it.

It was the sort of anger that happens rarely, and when it does, I know better than to do any disciplining. It's "go to your room for a few minutes while Mommy calms down" sort of anger. Unfortunately, when your child is standing before you with smears of feces on his skin, there's no option but to deal with the situation in hand - anger and all.

And I failed.

My mom assures me that she had these exact moments when I was four. That she sat me on the couch and screamed that if I wanted to leave, I could just leave. That she too had been to the brink and wondered if she'd crossed it. And, you turned out ok, didn't you? She asks.

Did I?

Of course, I did. Of course.

This too shall pass.

Slumber

Slumber, originally uploaded by Mellahaney.

Someday soon, there will be first steps, first falls. There will be piggy-back rides and father-son wrestling. There will be tag and catch and games of hide-and-seek played beneath the soft blankets of our bed or peeking out at the world from the crack behind the door.

There will be skinned-knees and grass stained clothes, bugs in jars, mud pies, bicycles, little league, bus stops, backpacks and book covers. The world will not wait.

But this morning, there is only this. And it's all my heart can hold.

Where We Are

It's 9:18 in the morning. It's a strange morning for me, realizing where we are, where we were and where we were supposed to be, at this moment in time.

Exactly one week ago at this moment, I was giving birth.

Today, I am listening to the sounds of Veggie Tales singing to my two older children in the living room and the gentle breathing of my newborn beside me on the bed.

Where I should be, is still fully pregnant and enjoying the final days of my family of four with the beginning of my time off from work.

Best laid plans, I suppose.

The adjustment is going well for us (knock on wood) - Lila, whom I feared would be envious, has been anything but.

I'm going to call him Sweetie Pie, she told me yesterday, grinning over his cradle.

The Boss has been helpful, both with the baby, and with his sister (who has a cold and needs constant nose wiping and hand sanitizing.)

It occurred to me last night that there are entire stories of happenings here that I haven't posted here. This bothers me, only in that this has essentially been my journal of motherhood. It's where I've been able to come with the scraps at the end of my day and make something beautiful, even if only for myself.

Knowing how fast it all goes, how quickly a week, a month, a year, can pass - I wonder, how many small moments have I neglected to keep for myself here, or anywhere? Or perhaps, because this is a fruitless question, the better one to ask is - how many will I capture in the days and weeks and months to come?

Kidless

For convenience with our work and social schedules for this weekend, my husband and I dropped our kids off with my parents on Friday night. We tucked them into bed before the fireworks started and then drove home as kidless parents.

We've been without our kids before. Several times. We've even left the country without them in tow. But there was something so utterly lonely about getting back to our house that night and not having any sleeping children to unbuckle and carry in.

And rather than sleeping late the next morning and enjoying the rare silence of a kid free house, I found myself rather depressed about the whole thing. I went to the grocery store without having anyone to help me push the carriage or begging to play with the car keys or my sunglasses. I stopped at a gas station and didn't have voices chirping from the backseat the car is huuungry and there were no moon faces smiling at my through the back windshield as I pumped.

Rather than accomplishing great things with all that freedom I had, I was bored, fell asleep on top of my blankets and woke up still a little sad to be alone.

We went childless to a cook-out last night. It was nice to not be chasing after mischievous little ones and to not have to accommodate bed times and picky appetites. But still, I missed them. A couple of our friends brought their adorable 9-month old with them. She was cherubic and well behaved, with only one minor scream-fest.

During those few minutes of fussiness, a younger woman walked through the house, passing us on her way to the kitchen. She said, as a joke I can only presume, Now there's birth control - to no one in particular.

(Rude, much?)

This got my friend (the mother of the beautiful baby girl) and I talking about how it is impossible to put into words how having a child changes you, changes your perception of the world, of others, of life, of yourself.

Before having children, would I have been so different in thinking that a squirming, screaming, teething baby was a nuisance and a downer at a party? Yet now, my heart strings were pulled and I felt nothing but motherly compassion for the poor baby and empathy for the mother attempting to soothe her.

The world is different after having kids. You know, my friend said, I actually feel a little sad for my husband and I before we had our daughter - how we didn't even know what we were missing out on.

It's a strange way to put it, but I feel the same way. Coming home with only my husband on that Friday night felt, well, empty. And though having children has easily been the most challenging (and frustrating and exhausting) thing I could have ever imagined - it's easily the best thing ever we've ever done. We laugh more now than before we had kids (which I never would have thought possible) - I've written more (and better) since having kids - I've earned my master's and done all of my publishing since they were born.

And though I often come here to vent about them being distractions to my writing process, the truth is they're my inspiration.

And so last night, I felt a little sad for that woman who made the comment when she heard the baby crying. That there's this whole huge world that's not yet visible to her. Of course, I'm not saying that having children is the key to opening one's eyes to a greater awareness or that giving birth somehow unlocks the door to a land of great understanding.

But, I know I have been changed by motherhood. In all good ways. And for that, I am thankful.

Watch out world

As noted by Phx on the video post of my daughter doing a face-plant off of a slide, she's a tough cookie.

And I admire the heck out of her.

At the park again the other day, she found herself between a couple of "big" kids who were jumping on one of those bouncing bridges that usually connect two slides or ladders or poles to slide down. So, while wobbling between the kids, trying to get her own little legs to lift off, she falls down, this time smacking her face on a metal rail. Ouch.

Of course she cried, but even as I reached to pick her up, she was clamouring (rather indignantly) for me to put her back down so that she could master that stupid bridge.

Even after the other kids left, she kept going back to it and jumping, very purposefully - as if to say, you're not the boss of me.

Yesterday, I made the mistake of leaving the ladder to my son's bunk bed up in their room while I walked out to grab the laundry. Of course, within a minute of my leaving, she was climbing it and, according to Alex (and the loud scream that came from their room) - she fell from the top. I panicked, tried to look her over for anything broken, bleeding, bruised...nothing. And then I realized she wasn't screaming or crying out of pain, but out of frustration. She wasn't begging for Mama, she was yelling "Ladda!" and pointing. Not because she was telling me what happened, but because she wanted to get back at it.

Of course, I moved the ladder this time, brought it out to the kitchen with me, leaned it against a wall while I went back to trying to switch over the laundry. Two seconds later - CRASH. She had followed me and managed to climb up it and fallen backwards - again, this time, taking the ladder with her.

And again, she had no visible marks, nothing wrong, just bruised pride.

Unlike her brother who was born with apparently more common sense (though, he's also the one who found poo to be an source of entertainment, so I guess it's a draw), who approaches everything with an touch of caution, and avoids things completely if they've hurt him in the past, Lila is like a steamroller. Don't get in her way.

Makes me want to bubble wrap her whole world to keep her safe.

Blueberry

We have friends who are house hunting in this very buyer-friendly market. Not only is the market on their side, but they also have the financial support of family, as well as large monetary gifts from their recent wedding - all to put down toward their first home. All of this is wonderful.

They looked at a large home in a neighborhood the next town over from ours - at our urging (move closer, please!) - and then stopped by to visit with us and the kids before driving the half an hour back to their small apartment. And as we sat around chatting with them about atrocious houses and what they're looking for, what they're willing to spend (versus, what they've been "pre-approved" for), etc.

They are good people, some of our best friends, and I'm so happy for them. But, I'm also human, and can't help but have the fleeting moments of envy at their incredible, unbelievable, good fortune. To be buying in this sort of market (as opposed to when we packed up and moved north to simply afford a teeny-condo over the border), to not have to worry about finances too much (both working full time and also enjoying that cushion of wedding loot), to have the time and energy and funds to devote time to getting their house (whatever one they choose) up into their ideal shape - before having children.

They're looking big. Big yard, finished basements, giant garages. The works. Meanwhile, they sat describing this to us in our 1250 square foot, ranch style home that was built on the rails where a mobile trailer once sat. We are not big. We are not flashy. We do not even have hallways to speak of, more like rooms that just branch off of one another. Our driveway does fit two cars and we do have a deck and a good sized shed, but our neighbors are both trailers. Our neighborhood is entirely mobile. The epitome of low-class, low budget, low, low, low.

I sank into the lowness of it all last night as I slept. I can't remember my dreams exactly, but I know that I woke up this morning feeling lower than I had before their visit last night. I was unsatisfied and bitter and thinking well, we could afford a larger house if we were both working too. And we're only here because the market was so terrible when we needed to buy a place...

And then I reached into the refrigerator to offer my kids yogurts after their waffles. We had a plethora of strawberry, but only one blueberry left. I gave my son the choice between the two and he chose blueberry.

He is now down for an early nap, because as soon as he saw his sister licking the pink strawberry yogurt off of her spoon, he woefully regretted his decision and began to whine for a strawberry cup of his own - even though any other day of the week, blueberry is great, blueberry is his first choice. Blueberry is grand.

As I explained to him that he made his choice, that it was a good one and that there's plenty of strawberry for tomorrow or the next day, I heard my own words come back to myself. Be thankful for what you do have, don't whine for what you don't. I told him.

Of course, he's only three and the whining and whimpering and fretting over every goopy spoonful that his sister loaded into her mouth of that precious, delicious, most amazing yogurt ever - continued and escalated. So, he's down for a nap to settle down and think about thankfulness and what it means to appreciate what we're given.

Now, I'm left sitting here, imagining my life without him. What my life would be had my husband and I waited five or six years into our marriage to have children. What if we had decided to go for the big house ourselves. (And what if we had, and in order to keep it after having children, I would've had to relinquish them to someone else's care five days of the week, and spend my time in an office and on a commute and working for someone other than my family?)

And I realize that these questions are just as silly as my son clamoring for something other than the blueberry he loves any other day of the week.

I've been given more than what I need. I've been given things, people, that I love. And I need to listen to my own motherly advice. Either that, or take a nap.

Satin Ribbon Loving 7/365, originally uploaded by Mellahoney.

From his bedroom window we watch the snow tumble down in stark white clumps and marvel as it piles up our driveway. Maybe we should have some cocoa, he suggests, sound like a good idea?

He speaks like a bonafide little person now and associates snow with cocoa, because it's what we drink after coming in and emptying our boots of damp snow sludge, after we hang our wet mittens above the pellet stove and stuff our socks in the washing machine.

He associates cocoa with warmth and being home.

So we have some cocoa and then he plays, quietly though as his sister naps.

First we try a puzzle, but since it is one he has long since mastered, he loses interest quickly. So we color, write our letters and talk in hushed voices about how much fun we're going to have when Lila-Bean wakes up, when Daddy comes home, when we have cupcakes after dinner. For him, life is all in the anticipation, in the wondering what's going to come next.

I'm a big boy now, I'm not a baby anymore, he tells me. And though it's true, my heart still winces at his words. Because for me, life is all in the moment, the exact moment we're living in. And after they're tucked in at night, I long to have the moments back, to replay hugging their wriggling warm bodies fresh plucked from the tub. To have again the giggles and crumbs and silly outbursts over who's toes would taste better with ketchup at the dinner table. To have them reaching for me, calling for me, wrapping their arms around my legs.

My husband worries that their clinging is overboard, that they reach for me too much and I need to be careful not to cater to their every whim. Which I certainly do not. But I do make exceptions. I'm only human, I bend. And how can I not? If they only want one moment more in my arms when it's all I want from them as well?

He's pushing trucks around the house, hiding in duffel bags, zooming over the arms of the sofa, making squealing noises as they try to stop before diving nose first down behind the television. And tonight as I make dinner, he's playing at my feet in the kitchen. A big dump truck and a small white truck. The big truck is named "Big Truck" and the little white one is "Fire Truck", he tells me this as I stir the tomato sauce. Ah, I say. So, Big and Fire are their names?

He looks at me, but only briefly before disappearing back into his little world of trucks, swirling at my feet.

I hear their conversations and feel almost guilty for eavesdropping.

Hi. Big says to Fire.

Hi. You come with me? Fire asks.

I too big. Big says.

You can do it. Fire says.

And they ride down the length of the kitchen, hopping through the legs of a kitchen chair and then meeting up again beside the wainscoting.

Woo-hoo, Fire says to Big, cheering him on - You did it!


Later, he's jumping in his room - up and down on his bed, his face bobbing in and out of sight of our neighbors as he moves in front of the window.

My goodness, he says to something happening outside - a loud truck rumbling past, an altercation between neighborhood kids, something I can not see or hear. But he says it again, My goodness. Not upset with anything, simply an expression of bemusement. Much like how I say the phrase at the end of a long day.

I stand in the doorway and listen to him, it's the first expression of mine that I've heard him repeat.


It's been weighing on me a lot lately, stressing me out. This idea that somehow I'm doing something wrong, damaging his childhood in some way or another. Snapping at him for not eating all of his dinner, for whining, for taking off his pull-up and peeing on the floor rather than telling me he needs to use the potty. Lots of things have been breaking me quickly lately - lack of sleep, being the primary culprit.

But still, each night I go to sleep wondering if all of my love and attention has somehow outweighed my momentary lapses of mommy-loveliness. The times when I'm raw and irritated and hissing through my teeth that we listen when Mommy tells us to pick up our toys. I pray that somehow these moments of failure, of weakness, of letting myself put myself before others, won't have an impact on how he treats others, how he sees the world, how he deals with frustration and anger.

I just don't want to mess him up, I guess, is all I'm saying.

And so to see him today, mimicking encouraging behavior with his toys - and repeating something like "my goodness" with a quiet bemusement at his window - I sighed with a bit of relief.

It's a long road between here and adulthood, and it's going to be a process for all of us, going through it together for the first time. I'm just glad to be assured that, if nothing else, for right now, in this moment, the good stuff is sticking.

How to be The Boss

Learn how to remove the child safety knob from the inside of your bedroom door. - Check

Wake your parents and younger sibling at 6 AM with the proclamation: I wake up! - Check

Demand crackers and juice by repeating the words over and over and over and over and over until you are finally seated and served. - Check

Wet your new pull-up diaper within five minutes of, well, pulling it up. - Check

Pee on the floor. - Check

Demand to be let into the bathroom where your mother is getting ready to take a shower. - Check

Squat on toddler-toilet and do nothing. Yet, refuse to get up. - Check

(Meanwhile, your sister will be crawling her way across the kitchen floor and - whoops -slide down in the mess you made, thus dampening the sundress your mother just put on her.)

Throw a tantrum when your father removes you from the potty so that your mother can take a shower. - Check

Refuse to put on a new pull-up. - Check

When all else fails, scream and bang your head on whatever surface is nearest. - Check

In the car on the way to your memere's house, ask "Momma? Boo boo?" and then point to the bug bite on the back of your mother's arm. - Check

Ask, "I kiss?" (and proceed to blow kisses) - Check

Sit back and watch as your mother's heart melts. - Check, check, check.

Babyness

Almost two years ago, we were in our condo during a sweltering summer evening. Heat that sticks to you, sliding on your skin as you move, thick heat. Miserable, suffocating, horrible heat. And The Boss was teething.

I mostly remember him screaming, waling from his crib, and then in my arms, unsoothable. Uncalmable. Making himself hotter, his skin clammier and stickier with each scream - as I held him, nearer and nearer to myself, to my own warm body, humming Jingle Bells, of all things.

And eventually, walking, humming, pressing his head against my chest, his limbs began to dangle, giving up the fight and just moving with me as I swayed us both in his nursery.

I remember thinking at that exact moment, how precious this time is - the time when they're holdable, when they're no longer from head-to-toe than my torso, when I'm able to simple hug them 'till they're sleeping.

Lila is at the same stage now. Teething. Needing cuddles and soothing humming. Summer's coming. Life is repeating itself, in a sweet, comforting way, while my older child spins around my calves on the floor, offering me plastic hot dogs and telling me to put Lila down to play with him.

But I can't put her down. If I do, this time will pass - quicker, perhaps. And I'm just not ready to let it go.

Question for Fellow-Mama's

What are the top ten things you couldn't have survived your first year of parenthood without?

A couple of our best friends are having their first baby and when they asked for advice for building their baby registry, I couldn't even think of ten must-haves.

I know that my husband and I are a bit laid back when it comes to gadgets and gizmo's for child rearing, but you'd think that with two little ones (one still IN her first year), I could've at least come up with 10 things. Not so.

On the flip side, I was quickly able to name off several things we most certainly didn't use.

The big bulky swing, for example. Neither of my kids were fans of that. Or even the beloved Diaper Genie. Perhaps our son was just extraordinarily stinky (which is quite possible), but we just didn't find it all that useful in either containing the stench or adding in convenience to our lives. To the contrary, my husband bemoaned his chore of pulling a long chain, like dirty-diaper sausage links, from the bucket.

We've found that plastic grocery bags work just as well - same concept, and they're free.

Like I said though, we're really laid back, and we might be a bit overly frugal when it comes to things of this nature.

The only things I could think of to register for were diapers and wipes - because those are the only true definites. Your child will poo and you will need to clean it. Where you clean it, if the wipes are warmed in a warmer, or if they're pulled from a fancy diaper bag - those are all extras, non-essentials.

As for Pack 'n Play's and Strollers? Sure, I like ours. I'm glad we have them. The travel system is probably the most useful "big" item - we love the portability of newborns from car seat to stroller with just the click of a latch.

But, the Pack 'N Play? We probably should've used it more to make it more worth it. Lila can't stand it. It is useful for travel. Insta-crib. But even then, Lila is good to sleep just about anywhere we lay her, so long as it's safe. So even a Pack 'N Play for travel hasn't been a necessity.

And everything else is up to the personality of the child. The Boss loved pacifiers, Lila won't touch 'em. My kids love(d) their exersaucer - it trumps the swing ten-fold. But, that's also a matter of personality. My kids like to be up and in action, hands going, feet going, things moving at their command. Other kids? Maybe they're calmer, who knows? (I'm holding onto that swing, just in case I'm someday blessed with a snuggly little child who just wants to rock and listen to music...)

So, back to the question: What are the things you couldn't have survived the first year of parenthood without? And if some of your "must haves" are things I've listed as "non-essentials" - I'm interested to hear if they've been useful for you.

God Help My Children

These are the words that come out of my mouth countless times on a daily basis:

Referring to The Boss: Bud, Bubba Ganoosh, Monkey, Monk, Babes, Xan the Man, Man with the plan (His list has shortened with age. When he was an infant he was referred to in typical mommy-infant babble, the most prominent one being: Bugaboo, and yes, there was a song written around this pet name.)

Referring to Little Miss Lila (pronounced, Lie-lah, just in case there was ever any confusion. I've been told that it looks like Lee-lah):

We start off ok - mostly phrases revolving around her name: Lila Bean, Lila Loo, Lady Lila

However, this deteriorates into what can only be described as nonsensical chatter: Lady Cakes, Baby Cakes, Boogie Baby, Booga Shuga

Then my poor husband gets home and I have to restrain myself from showering him with such verbal clatter. It's difficult and I don't always catch myself before dropping a sing-songy Vinnie Voo.

This doesn't seem to bother him (much), although he does ask that I restrain from attacking him with tickling him in the same goofy manner that I do The Boss. Apparently having your wife come at you wide-eyed with a huge smile and exclaiming "I got-choo!" while poking her fingers under your armpits is a turnoff.

Who knew?

Fear of Scales Aside...

Every once in a while, it hits me - throws me for a loop - catchs me off guard (and any other cliche to suggest being "caught by surprise" that you can think of) - that I've had children. That I'm someone's mother. I'll be unloading the dishwasher while my son buzzes around in his bedroom (during what's supposed to be naptime) and I imagine that any moment he'll scream and I'll be left to deal with the disaster - that I'm the adult in the situation. It terrifies me.

My mother is a nurse, clearly suited for the job of raising children. Clearly able to dab wounds with hydrogen peroxide and bandage up cuts and determine how deep is deep enough to consider a trip to the ER for a stitch or two. But me? I'm lucky I survive the poop-incidents as well as I do. Heaven help me when my child is finally struck down by a stomach bug and I need to be the basin bringer, the vomit scrubber.

And so I load up the dishwasher and wonder what I've gotten myself into, just as a thud and cry comes from my son's bedroom.

Other times, things occur to me while laying on the couch, looking over at my husband. A wave of realization that we aren't who we once were anymore. That my body has been a vessel, twice. That it's not the same as the one that walked down the aisle to hold his hand. That it never will be, no matter how many hours I log on that treadmill, or however many crunches I squeeze or weights I lift - no matter how many pre-pregnancy outfits I can pull on and dance around triumphantly in - my body itself is fundamentally altered in a way that I can't change back, because it's not only a physical change - but a mental one. The way I see and feel about my body is fundamentally different than it was before I had children.

Before children, my body was bad. It was something to be beaten into submission and dragged to the gym. I was constantly worried about pinching (nonexistent) fat on my sides, and wondering if anyone else was noticing my thigh-spread when I sat on a couch. I ate like it wasn't a requirement for life, but a necessary evil, something to handle with great caution. (My husband might argue that this hasn't changed.)

But now, I stretch and walk and run, because it feels good. And I see my curves as good. Because they are. My hips have shifted, made way for birth. My chest is bigger, but not so large that it hurts my back or does anything worse than attract a few more stares at the gym - so what?

And yes, I still dread the scale like a child afraid to write his answers out on the blackboard at school. There's a fear of disapproval (which is an entire other blog post in and of itself) - but, I've realized over the past week that this new body is inherently good. That there's a softness to my stomach and chest that I actually like, it's perfect for small heads to cuddle on, and the once dreaded thigh-spread is now a warm lap for little bums to sit on and nuzzle nearer to me.

It makes me sad to think that the pre-baby me would've taken one look at this stomach and found a million places to pinch, to squeeze and loath and pout about in the mirror - without giving thought to what this softened body has done - who it has housed, nourished, grown.

Sometimes, I totally wish I could go back in time and smack her. And maybe I would, if she hadn't gone and gotten pregnant and stumbled upon the realization that her body isn't her enemy all by herself.

Mommy-Guilt

Life as a parent is filled with questioning our choices. It's night's spent laying awake wondering "Did I double, no, triple check the label on that oatmeal bar I gave him...did it have nuts in it? We're not doing nuts yet. Oh no, I'm pretty sure there must've been nuts...why am I such a slacker? Why can't I even survive lunchtime without potentially killing my child?"

I live in a constant battle to keep Mommy-guilt in check. Constant. I need to breathe, in and out, to regain a sense of reality, the sense that not everything that I do to or with my child is going to impact him or her forever. Sometimes, an oatmeal bar is just an oatmeal bar.

And sometimes, watching an educational DVD, is just watching an educational DVD.

Yes. I let my son watch television. Shocking, I know. Give me a moment to breathe in and out, let my Mommy-guilt subside.

Ok.

The trouble is, in the modern world there seems to be no moderation, no middle ground - there is nothing but the "Don't ever!" and the "Sure, I plop my kid in front of that thing seven, eight hours a day - cheapest babysitter around!"

And so, I'm here, often feeling alone, or as though the "Don't Ever" camp shrugs me off as a lazy parent (or one who is either uneducated about the 'risks' of television, or simply dismissive of them), while the "TV=Babysitter" camp can't understand why I don't let my son watch anything other than specific programs at specific times, with a specific purpose.

The truth is, I choose to believe that the way that my husband and I have integrated television into our child's routine is not going to harm his development - and that the benefits of it (his vocabulary has sky rocketed since introducing him to a DVD created by speech pathologists for children his age) will outway the potential risks. (Much like how I choose to have my children vaccinated, falling again into a debate. As a person who hates to debate, I'm fairly sure that if I'd known how many heated debates that there are always raging in the realm of parenthood, I might never have come.)

What it all boils down to is this: Mommy-guilt exists because parenting is complex and difficult and filled with decisions such as how much (if any) television should you let your child watch, how and when to potty-train, what type of shoes should you buy - the good one's perfectly fitted to his wide feet, or just a pair from Walmart because he'll out grow them soon anyway. Each of these seemingly small decisions will weigh on me, and find me as I'm tossing and turning and trying to sleep.

If my son doesn't love books, I'll blame myself for letting him watch Blues Clues. If he doesn't excel in sports, I'll blame myself for stunting his feet somehow with those darned cheap shoes. When really, the fact is, sometimes, some kids just don't like books when they grow up - television or not. Long before the idiot box was invented, there were kids trying to get out of doing their reading to go outside and play. And as for my son's athletic prowess? Maybe he'll prefer to be in the band.

Parenting is difficult because no matter the choices that we make, the outcomes may not be that which we have intended or hoped for.

Parenting is difficult because we can not protect our children from everything that can harm them - and trying to shield them from everything may wind up doing more harm than good.

Parenting is difficult because other parents, teachers, grandparents, cousins, your neighbors, the lady behind you in the grocery store - everyone - has an opinion that they feel is worth sharing, under the assumption that it is the key - the golden answer to unlock all the mysteries of what-if's - the way to avoid ever needing to feel Mommy-Guilt again.

The way to raise the best child possible.

But the fact is, I don't want to raise anyone else's best child possible. I want to raise my own.

And no matter how The Boss or Lila turn out, they're the best that I'll ever have. The best that God has given me, and I'll know that I've done my best with them out of service to Him.

And I'm ok with that. Because when it comes right down to it, to the two-in-the-morning moment of the soul when I'm laying awake replaying each of the choices I've made that day for my child, this is what I know beyond doubt:

I want my kids.

Kids with messy faces and who hide behind the couch when it's time to put their bibs on for lunch. Kids who pull off their diapers and bring them to me, proudly declaring Poop!

I want kids who toss play food behind the toy chest, then walk around the house asking where it went. Kids who pull down book after book after book and imitate cow sounds, duck sounds, bird sounds, clock sounds, then point to roofs and chimneys and trees and rivers and kids who know them all by name, even though their tongue's can't yet speak them clearly.

I want kids who ask for Blues Clues, but still play nicely when it's not turned on. Kids who dance around to The Laurie Berkner Band with their arms moving in perfect motion, mimicking the people on the TV. Kids who reach for the guitar and try to play along. Kids who pull out notebooks and hunt around the house on a scavenger hunt, in search of Blues Clues, but finding their own imagination leads them different places.

These are my kids. And I won't let Mommy-guilt take away the joy that they bring me - or take away the pride that I have in knowing that though I'm not perfect, by the grace of God, I'm doing OK.

The Price of Things

I'm considering things - small and large. The roles I play, the weight that each has on myself as an individual - as an artist, a mother, a friend. And how I balance them all, the desires of my heart, with the rules of the world (must earn money to pay for home, feed children, etc) and the demands of parenthood.

A friend asked if it's too much - if there's a price to be paid for wanting it all. I shook my head and said, Of course not - it's completely possible to balance everything! And isn't it better that your children see you reaching for your dreams, in order to see that it's ok for them to reach for theirs?

Thinking about it though, I know I'm wrong. I know that logically speaking, there must be a price. No one is able to do all things and be all things that they want for themselves, and for those around them - not without something falling to the wayside.

And so, the question I found myself considering wasn't, is it possible, but is it worth it. Was getting married young worth it? Was having children before I established myself in my chosen "career" worth it?

I'm not far enough past my decisions to see the full impact that they'll have on shaping my life - but from where I am this afternoon...my answer is yes.

It's worth it to me, to see the world through my childrens eyes. To rediscover things I've long dismissed, filed away as things-known in the back of my mind. Grass can be sharp and prickly when you sit down on it with bare legs. Bugs are incredibly fascinating. Trucks are loud, (and sometimes blue, or yellow or green.) Sticky fingers will soon make sticky cheeks and clumpy hair. Laughter is contagious. Snow crunches when you step on it, and melts when you try to bring it inside.

All things that I know, have known for years - but watching as the realization breaks over my son's face is priceless - and completely worth every moment of quiet that I've lost - completely worth the wobbly sense of balance I've developed, straddling the line between the me I was before children, and the me that I am in their eyes.

No Kisses

Today. I held it for only a moment, ran my thumb over the smooth ivory skin, marveled at his growth - but only for a moment, a breath - before he pulled away and filled his small palm with a fistful of blanket.

After church on Sunday, I went to pick him up from the nursery and he barely cast me a glance acknowledging my arrival. If anything, the look in his eyes was panic - that I was going to take him away from his friends.

Yesterday, leaning in to buckle him into his carseat we played a game with our eyes. Blinking. Smiling. Winking, then laughing. But when I leaned close enough to brush my lips on the apple of his cheeks, he turned away and threw his hands against my face.

No kisses.

And so we have the first physical signs of what I've known all along - I'm losing him.

I know it sounds melodramatic: My toddler is getting ready to leave me, but on some levels, it's true. And natural, of course. We all discover our own personhood and embark on our own journey's. Who am I to wish something different for my own children? I'm not exactly living at home with my mother now am I? (Ok, I plead to have the last year of my life stricken from the records...)

Even before he was even born, I knew that he wasn't mine to keep. I just didn't think he'd remind me so quickly that he is his own person. A person who might not want his hand held whenever I have the urge to hold it. A person who can decline his mother's kiss in a public parking lot if he so chooses.

I know that it's the start of a phase, of something new. Or perhaps it's only a manifestation of his feelings toward me since I brought home his wriggly, crying little sister. Either way, it hurts more than I'd thought it would. More than I'd prepared myself for.

And I know it's only going to get both better and worse, both sweet and bitter - this lifelong journey of letting go.

Mother's Day

Pancake batter under my nails. Egg and batter splattered frying pan still hot on the stove. Wisks and bowls and spatula's soaking in the sink. The two men in my life full to the brim and happily lolling around amidst piles of blocks and trucks and balls.

What a nice way to spend a Mother's Day morning.

Happy Mother's Day to all of the wonderful women out there, biological mothers and not. To the women who have raised four or five or six children to adulthood.To the women who are full of life, turning and growing within. And to the women who haven't ever held a child of their own, but who have had a part in touching the lives of others. To the nurterers, to the healers and to the listeners who answer their phones at two in the morning. To the one's who have cleaned other people's messes and dried another's tears. To all of the women who give of themselves to others, effortlessly or not. Thank you.

And Happy Mother's Day.

Maternity-and-What-Not

I've come to the realization, or perhaps moreso the acceptance, that I am not a naturally maternal person. I'm a far cry from the soft spoken, kissy-faced woman who always seems to know just how to hold a wriggling infant or soothe a crying child. If I'm being completely honest, babies (aside from adorable ones who smile at me from diaper advertisements or email attachments from friends) don't interest me all that much, certainly not enough for me to feel the urge to hold one that isn't my own.

At my husbands basketball game recently I nervously watched as a teammate of his made her way to the bleachers with her one year old, looking for someone to hold and play with her during the game. I quickly set my eyes downward and started rifiling through my purse and praying, please, don't give her to me.

It's not that I dislike children, but aside from my son and my nephew, I tend to feel either indifferent or awkward around little ones. I thought this earlier in the week as we sat in the waiting room of my OB with an antsy little Bossman. A slight woman with slender fingers resting on her very pregnant stomach smiled and cooed at my son from across the room. A gentle, maternal woman.

I would've kept my nose in a magazine, only looking up if the toddler had accidentally brushed against my leg.

Later, lying on the doctor's table I had another non-maternal thought as he rubbed a doppler over my gel slathered skin. We heard, again, the rapid flickering beat of the life growing inside me. And my reaction after the inital relief was, Creepy. There are two lives on this table.

I was happy and smiled just the same, but the reaction stuck with me through the night. I think it's justified. There are feet the size of my fingernails walking around inside my body. It is creepy.

And...Exhale

We have a heartbeat.

A strong 157 bpm.

We're still not out of the woods that is the first trimester, but I finally feel as though I can be open about what's happening in my life without sounding like The Girl Who Cried Pregnant.

Now, with this weight off of my mind, I hope to start carefully laying down all of the sweet little moments I've been hoarding for the past few weeks. More to come.

But for tonight, it's me and my bed.

157.

What a great number.