My Voice

Over the years I have learned I am not a verbal processor.  I don't share my feelings often or easily.   It feels scary, and I don't like scary.   It feels disorganized, and I find comfort in organization.  It feels vulnerable and I have more scars than I wanted.   So over the past few years I have found my voice in writing.   In writing I process.  In writing I feel.  In writing I organize.  It brings me comfort, understanding, and peace.  So here, on National Prematurity Day, just over one year later, I write:

I write about the guilt. It is still heavy, and I still feel like I failed you.
I write about the grieving.  I get stronger, but it doesn't go away.  
I write about what I was so thankful for.  Not everyone has friends, at least friends like we had.  
I write about what I remember and what I wish I could forget.
I write to say I'm sorry.  I don't know what I could have changed, but like any mother, if I knew what I could have done differently I would have.
I write because it still hurts.  It hurt to see you struggle to breath, to choke over and over again learning how to eat before you were ready, to see you turn blue because you forgot to breath.
I write because I feel responsible.  For every specialist, test, or even weight check that brought tears and fear ... I feel responsible.
I write because I'm jealous ... jealous of people with normal birth experiences.
I write to remember the precious moments I had with just you.  The moments I closed my eyes, felt you skin to skin, and imagined you were safe inside my body.
I write so others will give me grace when I'm a little crazy and over protective: Welcome to our home, go wash your hands.
I write so other moms know they aren't alone.  The NICU is the busiest, most lonely and isolated place I have been.
I write so others will be aware.  Aware of the roller coaster that is the NICU.

But most of all, I write that I would do it all again.   I would do it all again to fight for every extra day, or even hour inside of me.   I write to say I love you.

(a video a friend so kindly made us with some of our pictures the first few months - thank you Rachel ... I watch it over and over again!)

Dear Little Four ...

Your name means 'my heart', but I had no idea how fitting that name would be when we picked it for you just 2 months before you were born.   It amazes me that just one year ago I was just reaching my 25 week of pregnancy and feeling an unusual sense of relief; now the doctors had a shot at saving your life if (but in my heart I knew it was really when) you came early.

These past few weeks (that are leading up to your first birthday) have been filled with more nostalgia and bitter sweet emotion than I am used to.     Some days I am overwhelmed with memories of the anxiety, contraction after contraction, pain filled last 14 few weeks of your pregnancy.   I think that deep down I knew, since that first check up where they couldn't find your heartbeat, that something ... something was different.   I should have prepared myself to let go of my expectations of a 'normal' delivery; but with my last baby, I so desperately wanted one drama free, trauma free, normal baby experience.    I wanted a fear free labor and delivery, and to go home with my plump sweet little boy in my arms.

I did not want to discuss your potential life threatening complications and chances of survival with all the specialists in between my contractions while waiting for your daddy to get to Boston.    I did not want to weigh the pros and cons of letting labor continue while the chances of life threatening infections for myself increased with every contraction that passed.   I did not want to remind the doctors I had three more children at home that I needed to live for, because as those words came out of my mouth I was sick with guilt.   My body was failing us both.    I needed you inside of me, and you needed to be there.  But even with the best, and most miserable drugs available, my body would not cooperate.    I wanted to give you what I gave your siblings: the best possible start to life.

I wanted to hold you after you were born.   I wanted to smell your newborn scent and hear your newborn sounds, but you can't do that in the NICU plastic box.   I wanted to figure out who you looked like; were you more me or your daddy?   I wanted to show you off to our friends and family, but you can't do that hooked up to all your leads, tubes, breathing devices and IVs.   I wanted to bring you home with me when I left the hospital.  I wanted to wake up every couple of hours to a hungry crying baby in the middle of the night.   I wanted to get nothing done during the days because newborns take a lot of time, but you wouldn't have lived if I took you out of your plastic womb.

Instead, I was wheeled up to the NICU floor hours after you were pulled out of me.   I waited days to hold you.   It was days before I could even really tell what your face looked like with all the tubes.  I had a crash course in brain bleeds, oxygen levels, CPAP, feeding tubes, residuals, bradycardia, and the metric system by your team of doctors.    I sat and cried with the nurses and your daddy.    As a woman and mother, I felt like a failure.   You weren't supposed to start like this.   My heart hurt for you, and I was fragile.   One small move and I thought everything would fall down around me.

It has been almost a year now.   We have had more hospital stays, doctor visits, tests, quarantines, and specialists than I was prepared for.   Even though I feel a huge sense of relief at almost making it through your first year of life, I still don't feel like I can exhale.   I still feel traumatized, scared and guilty.    I still vividly remember the sounds, smell and feel of the NICU.   The awful beeping and alarms.   The long walk down the hallway to the elevator.   And the 'T' in the hallway as you walked off the elevator.   Your daddy and I went right, towards the locked down, monitored, parent eating and waiting lounge of the NICU; while other parents and friends got to turn left ... to the normal maternity wing.

I may still be grieving the circumstances of your birth, but you are my hero, little four.   My strong, little rockstar, and I pray we get to celebrate many many more birthdays with you.

Thirteen Years.

Some things are not easy to write.   Not because I can't figure out eloquent language, or appropriate expressions, but because there aren't any.   There are no words when tragic events happen.  There are no words to describe devastating loss.   There are no words for heartbreak.

It was deja vu this morning.  As I walked into church I was hit with the same wall of emotions I experienced thirteen years ago, but this time, I was thirteen years ahead in my journey of grief these people were just beginning.   Our community tragically lost a young man this week.   His family was not there, but many of his friends were, and I recognized all too well what was going on inside.   The emptiness from crying for so long and so hard.   The pain from losing someone so tragically.   The confusion, the doubt, and the determination not to doubt.

I wanted so badly to have some wisdom to share, something helpful to relieve some of their pain ... something ... something to help share the burden.  But that is the problem with grief.   It does not divide, it is dense, and it lingers ... year after year.   Even though it is shared among so many, it is as though you alone are bearing the weight of it.  Even though it is invisible, it is impossible to see through to the other side.   Even though it comes all at once, in a moment, it never leaves the same way.   

There is an admirable inner struggle that goes on.   The struggle to continue in one's faith and trust in God's comfort, but at the same time, be so confused that God allowed something so devastating to happen.    I looked into people's eyes this morning hoping I had something to offer, but after thirteen years I am still stuck in the midst of it.   After thirteen years, I am still asking the same question of why.  After thirteen years, I am still hurting and missing my friends.  After thirteen years, I am still grasping on to God's comfort and goodness while desperately trying to make sense of it all. 

I miss you friend.

Invisible Disabilities

Sometimes I do not know how to begin: how to begin a new post, or conversation with a new person, or just begin.   I have come across times in my life where I am completely stopped, but life moves on, and I am faced with the task of trying to begin again.  Picking up the pieces inside me, or around me, and beginning anew.  For months now I have struggled, do I share what has stopped me?  Do I let people see the ugly, the imperfect, and the weaknesses I struggle with?  Do I leave myself open and vulnerable?

At the end of the day I have always answered no.   No, people might think I want attention.  No, people might think this is a badge I wear proudly.  No, people won't understand.   No, I don't want people to think less of me or see me differently.  No, I don't want anything to change.   But in saying no, this weight I am carrying has become heavier and heavier.   I am very good at hiding things, very good at side stepping, and very good at appearing like I have it all together.   But now, against my own good reasoning, I think I need to share how I don't.

PTSD.  It is my invisible disability.   

I guess I should begin by explaining it some.  Posttraumatic Stress Disorder is a severe form of an anxiety disorder that develops after a life threatening physical or emotional trauma; and for me, that was giving birth to Little One, and then triggered again by similar complications after Little Three's birth.

As you have probably noticed I have not mentioned or talked much about his birth.   Even now, I am not ready to share the details of that experience, except to say that I came very very close to dying just a week after my little one was born.  Avoidance, that is one of the symptoms.   I have many blog entries I have started, but have never been able to finished because it is too difficult.   Because I avoid anything that triggers the panic attacks, blackouts, flashbacks, and nightmares.   It might be almost 6 years ago, but they have not gone away, only lessoned.   The symptoms have succeeded in building up walls between myself and those around me, not because I don't desire closeness and relationships, but because I live with a daily fear and expectation that someone I love dearly (my husband or one of my little ones) will be taken from me.   It is the constant state of flight or fight that I am working against.   The constant state of panic I am trying to relax out of.   The constant fear of vulnerability that I am working to overcome.  It is like sitting on the beach watching the ocean.  Sometimes the waves are small and far off in the distance, but then the tide comes in and over takes you.   There are moments I forget what is going on in my brain, and I think it has passed.  But sometimes, sometimes my reality is altered and I am stuck in a small hospital room 6 years ago and the waves of anxiety and panic are all coming in and crashing around me.

This past year I have felt completely stopped, but I have watched as life continued on around me, and as I have found myself countless times before, I am trying to figure out a way to begin ... again.

1 to 3

It's funny.  When Husband and I look back at parenting one little one verses three we giggle.   Man were we type A! (I should add a disclaimer here ... When Little One was born I was a full time grad student and Husband was a full time grad student AND had a full time job! Schedules = survival.) So to our families, thanks for cutting us a little slack for those few years.

Everything seemed like such a big deal.    The time poured into finding the perfect stroller or carseat because it makes SO much difference if the stroller reclines with a zipper verses a strap.   Do we get the orthodontist approved pacifiers?  Do we dare give our little one a nuk before 8 weeks old ... gasp!(we did ... and he survived:)  Our little one's entire success in life depended on those big decisions and their schedule ... or so it felt like.



Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say we are seasoned parents, after all, Little One is only 5, but we've learned a few things over the years.   We've changed somethings, we've relaxed, we've taken a deep breath, all while the crazy factor has increased exponentially.   Newborn bath time, that once sweet and peaceful time cooing over Little One, has now been reduced to a quick squirt of dish soap on the head, rinse, and dried with a paper towel (don't judge!) for Little Three.    Nuks that fall on the floor are no longer cleaned and given back to said little one ... they are just given back.   They are not always put together in cute nice clothes (although I like to make people think so).  You will probably find food stuck to their bottoms right after a meal because that is where they hide it.  The importance of the question 'so how long has the bottle been out?' is directly proportional to how long (and loudly) Little Three has been crying.  Things change; our priorities, our abilities, our desires.





Some where between three little ones, two masters degrees, four moves, and two job changes in the last five years we've found schedules aren't the end all, invaluable to the sanity of day to day life, yes, but not the end all ... in fact, sometimes the best memories have come when we ignore them.   When we put our kids to bed somewhere else so we could hang out with friends, skipped the afternoon nap, or went outside instead of going to bed in the summer.   Messes, mistakes, and chaos are going to be made.   But in the middle of all the poop, spit up, and dirt (and there is quite a lot of all those) ... the little ones are thriving.   Not because we had the latest and greatest car seat, stroller, or bottle, but because we've let go and let life happen to them.   Yes, sometimes they get sick, they don't always have the best, most efficient (insert baby thing/gear here), and yes, they have been disappointed ... but when we've chilled, so to speak, our little ones have thrived.   They have learned to adapt.  They have adjusted.   They have grown.  And perhaps, so have we ... although we are still pretty type A most of the time and I'm ok with that.

To my little boys ...

I have not forgotten about you two.  It seems like forever ago when I got all nostalgic about raising a little girl, but trust me, you two little ones have never escaped my mind.  Perhaps it is because one of you is always within an arms reach of me, or earshot ... but I am more inclined to think it is because of the huge responsibility I feel, being your mom, to raise you and watch you grow into true men.  There are many ideas floating around of what a true man is, but many of them are wrong.  There are many ideas floating around of how a true man behaves, but many of those are also wrong.  There are many ideas floating around of how a true man speaks and carries himself, but again, so many of those are wrong.   Dear little boys, this is what a true man is ...

A true man lives up to his name:

who is like the LORD and he has heard; those are powerful, and have significant meanings, take time to grow into them and humbly live them out.

A true man is full of gentle strength:

he does not trample over people, but picks those up who have fallen

and bears their burdens with them.

A true man is a humble servant:

he does not seek praise for his work, but quietly goes about his life

honoring God by doing the right thing in both public and private. He is not too good for the most humbling tasks: laundry, dishes, and diaper changes.

A true man sees a woman as a companion and treasure,

not a prize to be won, or trophy to be demeaningly displayed

amongst other men.   A woman is not yours, she is God's; but she is yours to empower, encourage, and to love.

A true man does not stay silent.

When injustice is happening, get up and fight for the those less fortunate. 

Be passionate about justice, seek after it with your whole heart.

A true man recognizes true beauty,

and knows it does not come in a certain number or color. 

Yes, beauty is very much seen in the physical, but a true man

recognizes that true spiritual beauty will far outlast any trend, style or perfect body type.

A true man brings wholeness to the people around him.

He does not start conflict, or hurt others with his words.  

My dear little boys, grow up and be true men, who's strength and dignity come from something greater than yourself.  And because I want your wives to like me some day ... don't forget to put the bathroom seat down, to empty your pockets before you put things in the laundry, and learn to cook ... every woman likes a man who can cook :)

    

Dear Little Three ...

You are turning one soon.  I know this is cliche, but I really can't believe how fast this year went.   I have felt this overwhelming burden to teach you everything, to protect you from everything, to foresee everything for you.   I don't know ... maybe it the mother-daughter thing, but it is a different feeling than what I experience with your brothers.   There is a bond we share, even now ... this early, because we are both women.  So here are things I want to pass on to you.   Here are things I want you to remember, things I want you to believe deep inside your heart:

Your name means lovable life, 

we gave you that name on purpose ... your life is special, invaluable and God given.

You are beautiful, 

it is not vain to highlight your exterior beauty, but I pray it is only a reflection of what is inside of you.

You are more than your body,

it is a valuable temple, do not loan it out or share it with a man who thinks more of himself than he does of you.

You are brillant,

God will give you passions; pursue them endlessly. He will never give you gifts or talents and then say you cannot fulfill them for His honor.  I pray you will never experience the pain of being told no because you are female, but if you do, be gracious to them and know that we are hurting with you.

You have been given much,

do not waste it.  Be generous: in wealth, in love, and in forgiveness.  You will never regret apologizing or seeking resolution and healing. Shalom is more than peace ... strive for it with your whole being.

You will experience pain and loss, 

but I pray healing will follow, and at the end of it that your heart will be able to say: blessed be the name of the LORD.

Embrace your femininity, 

both the strengths and weaknesses.  Humbly accept help when it is offered, but know, deep inside, you are fully capable on your own.

Always find your worth and security in God,

no man can meet all your needs or protect you from everything.

Leave him if he thinks he can.

Always remember,

your father and I love you more than you can imagine.  We will fight, we will disagree, but nothing can diminish our love for you and your brothers.

Love, Mom

 P.S. Stay away from fashion magazines,

they are fake, and don't worry about getting your dresses dirty or your pigtails disheveled ... there is beauty in imperfection.

              

 

Welcome Little 3

I've taken a rather long hiatus from the blogging world recently, but I would love to introduce you to my very good reason ... This is Little Three!

I haven't decided yet if she is going to be a super girlie girl or one big tomboy, but with two big brothers I'm pretty sure she will spend many hours with trains, cars and mud!  She's got big blue eyes that squint real small when she's excited to see me, and this little button nose that I just can't get enough of. 

And her smile.  I just love her smile.  It takes up her whole face and body ... even her arms get squished up close to her cheeks because she can't contain her joy!  She's gonna be a daddy's girl ... I just know it.  She's got two big brothers who just smother her with love ... what a lucky little one.   She's our little 'lovable life'.  Welcome to the world Little Three ... we are so glad you are part of our family!

Parenting Lesson 101

I should have known this morning, when Little Two woke up, that this was not going to be one of his better days.   I should have known since it is not one of his better days taking him, and Little Three, on errands right before picking up Little One and lunch was also not the smartest of ideas, but no, I decided to do it anyways.  After all, what could really go wrong? My little ones are kept on a tight leash: tantrums, throwing things, screaming, hitting are not acceptable in our home.   Although I'm pretty sure the customers at Target would not believe me if I told them that ...

Tuesdays and Thursdays are typically my errand mornings while Little One is at school.  Makes sense right?  Only lugging 2 little ones around, instead of 3, all under the age of 5? But did I mention those said 2 little ones are under the age of 2?  I think that going out in public with two under two would fall under the category of bad decisions due to sleep deprivation ... anyways ... 

The morning started off with battles: changing Little Two's diaper involved kicking, screaming, a stern 'no' and swift swat on the thigh ... you know ... just to show him who's boss.  Breakfast involved multiple spoons, because he has to have one in each hand (and I need one to get the food in his mouth - yes, that's 3 spoons to feed one little one, you counted right), screaming and thrashing over a peeled banana (thank goodness for high chairs with straps!) ... sorry Little Two, but bananas do not taste good with the peel on them ... and when they break in half they don't go back together.  Last, but definitely not least, getting dressed ... I'm not even going to go there.   Lets just say before 9 o'clock this morning Little Two had received numerous forms of discipline, but don't worry I still thought it was a good idea to take him out in public.

So we arrive at Target.  The drive there was surprisingly uneventful: he held my hand while walking to the car and no 'bending steal' to get him into the carseat.  Victory!  But that is where said victory ended.  No sooner had I gotten both little ones into the cart, strapped down, and into the store when Little Two decided he did not want to be sitting in the front.  No, he needed to be pushing the cart.   After multiple attempts to discipline/distract him, I gave into the screaming and temper tantrum and held him with one arm while I pushed the cart (despite his desperate attempts to push the cart himself).   At this point people are starring.  I'm hiding in aisles where no one is, and contemplating which would take longer: going through check out or trying to put everything back (that I've quite skillfully tucked into the cart around the infant seat and diaper bag).   

After what seemed to be an eternity, but was actually probably my shortest time spent in Target EVER, we made it out of the store and back into the car where the screaming and tantrums continued.  At this point I'm mortified at the looks and stares from the people in the store, and just plain old pissed at Little Two.   At first I'm thinking, 'how dare he disobey me like that ... and IN PUBLIC!' ... and then I realize what I had been given ... a heaping dose of humility.    There was nothing that was going to calm this little one down in the store, and it was not the result of bad, or lack of, parenting.   It just was.  It was inappropriate.  It was the terrible twos. It was wrong.  It was mortifying, but it was also a very good lesson in parenting: humility. 

Yes the picture above is from the continuing tantrum in the car .   After stopping to get gas on my way to pick up Little One the whole situation  took on a much more humorous note ... 

September 15

Age four has proved to be a difficult one for myself and Little One.  Why ... How come ... but mom ... He is getting smarter.   He is learning at a rate I am having difficulty keeping up with.   He is a thinker, articulate, but mostly inquisitive.  Today he asked me why we can't see God.

After seven years of biblical and theological training you would think I had a good answer to this question. After all, I knew something like it was coming ... this little one's mind is way beyond his years.   So like any good Bible student I went into how God is a spirit.  How God is everywhere.   How God lives within our hearts when we believe in who He is and who His son is.   Little One listened, but he wasn't buying it. So he asked me again, 'Why can't I see God mommy?'.  At a loss for words I went for the honest approach ... 'I don't know.   I don't understand God, Little One.' 

All day his question and my answer have been eating at me, and when I looked at the calendar this evening I realized why.  It is almost September 15 ... 

For most of us 9/11 is a stormy cloud that hovers over this week.  We remember where we were, what we were doing, who we were with, and how we felt when we heard the news.  I am no different, however, there is a darker cloud hovering over my heart this week.   Eleven years ago I lost my friend.   I lost my mentor.   I lost my voice of sanity during a difficult time.  For eleven years I have sought a way to describe what I lost on that day; but today, Little One's question gave me words to describe it.  I lost a picture and influence of God in my life.    No my friend was not God, nor would he want to be thought of like that, but he reflected God's spirit at a time in my life when I desperately needed it.  

It's ironic I think ... that at that precise moment in my life where God seemed the furthest ... that in the midst of doubting His goodness, His love, His mercy and justice, He would take away the one thing that kept me interested in it: my friend.   Then I think about that more, and realize it's actually not that ironic.   What better way to "see" God than to experience Him, but we can't experience Him when we think we see Him.   Humanity clouds the perfect picture that He is ... like those mirrors you see at carnivals that distort your image.  We are created in His image, but are not a perfect representation. 

Tomorrow, if Little One asks again, I will tell him God is meant to be experienced not seen.   God is meant to be encountered not touched.  God is meant to be and co-exist within us.  Perhaps I will come up with more age appropriate language for a four year old, but while I am chatting with him I will be thinking and missing my friend.  I will be remembering his side hugs, shoulder squeezes, and how he used to call me ... little one.  Most importantly, I will be remembering my experience of God because of his life, and even more so because of his death. SHBSY

Happy Birthday Little Two!

I can't believe it ... my little one is turning ONE! As cliche as this sounds, it seems like yesterday I was running around our tiny apartment baking Little One's birthday cake, getting goodie bags ready and hoping those really strong contractions every 6 minutes were NOT real labor! But they were ... and Little Two surprised us all by coming a month early. Little Two, here is your story ...

After Little One came into the world most people probably thought I would never do that again. It was miserable ... every single part. The pregnancy (during my first year of grad school) consisted of spending time in the hospital on IV's from the horrible morning sickness, many trips to the hospital in the middle of the night to stop contractions, and finally bed rest for the last 9 weeks. The delivery (the first night of our vacation in another state!) was a nightmare that I will tell you more about around Little One's birthday. To say the least, Husband and I were traumatized ... for months. So why (only 4 months later) did I feel the urge for another one??? I have no idea, except that I love being a mom. I love holding my little ones, caring for them, and watching them experience life ... and one was simply not enough. So husband and I waited until I was healthy enough to be pregnant again and one brisk fall morning we found out another little one was going to be joining our family at the end of June!

My pregnancy with Little Two was very similar to Little One's ... although I figured out how to keep some food in me, and thus, avoided the hospital until the 3rd trimester! For months my mornings consisted of waking up, sick, getting Little One and myself ready for the day, and at some point in the midst of all that, Little One would accompany me in the bathroom and put his hand on my shoulder (while I was throwing up) and say, 'It's ok mama ... it's ok'.

It's odd, I know, but those were sweet moments that I will forever treasure. Weeks and months went by. I thought, 'hey I may actually make it without bed rest!' Silly me because around 32 weeks Little Two thought it would be fun to try and come out, and the next 4 weeks consisted of bed rest and medication to keep him inside. Yeah, bed rest with an almost 3 year old running around ... difficult would be an understatement! But we survived and made it to the very exciting 36 week mark!

I remember that morning vividly. It was beautiful! I was so excited that the weather was going to be nice for the next few days so that Little One's birthday party (which I planned early so that Little Two's birth would not interfere) would be perfect! Games outside, cake, ice cream and all his little friends playing together. I should have known my plan would not work out because that morning I woke up feeling funny. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt funny. I had a hard time eating breakfast and then around 9 the contractions started, and they started STRONG! 'NO!!! Little One's party!' was the first thought that entered my head ... so of course I quickly began making his birthday cake, putting goodie bags together and packing a hospital bag.


Finally, around 2 pm Husband and I went to the hospital to find out that yes, Little Two was making his arrival today. Quickly we called family, my mom book a flight, and the next thing I knew I was prepped and in the OR. Up to this point, I was pretty proud of myself ... I hadn't freaked out yet! Not that I had forgotten Little One's birth experience, but so far I was calm, cool and collected ... until they brought me into the OR, and then I fell apart. It all came back to me and tears just poured down my cheeks. As hard I as tried to stop them, they just kept coming. I was so scared. What if it all happens again, but this time, I don't survive ... and Husband is left alone with our two boys?

It was like the doctors and midwife could read my mind. The instant they saw me crying they knew the perfect things to say to calm me down. They assured me they were not going to let this be a repeat experience. They knew what they were doing, they took extra precautions, and they kept a closer eye on me during recovery. They were right: no complications ... everything went as smooth as possible! Praise the LORD!



Little Two came out screaming and peeing all over the place! Clearly his lungs were fine, and when I first saw him I could not believe how different he looked from Little One! He's got his own sweet little face and personality and I could not be a happier or prouder mom :)

OurLittleThings Etsy Shop

Welcome to OurLittleThings!  It is my little shop over at Etsy where I get to create sweet little things for those little people in our lives.  Come check out my little things! 

Right now I have some of my burp cloth selections up, BUT I am also making snugglies (soft blankets baby LOVE to snuggle with about 12" by 12"), minky blankets with satin binding, and specially crafted baby bedding per your request!  Can't find that special bedding or blankets for your little one? Send me a message over at OurLittleThings's site with your special requests!

Laundry

I have been fighting this for weeks ... that is, switching Little Two's clothing.  I should have done this weeks ago.  Poor Little Two!  He has begun to resemble Gus Gus from Cinderella with his shirts popping up over his belly while his pants have either transformed into capris or the snap refuses to snap.  He looks like quite the trend setter I tell you :)

You are probably asking, 'Why the laziness girl??', or thinking to yourself, 'dude, get the little one some new clothes!'.  I completely understand those sentiments, I do, its just ... I can't bring myself to acknowledge that my sweet little one is actually turning One!  He is changing from my teeny tiny little one we brought home into a crazy, happy, babbling toddler (who gets into EVERYTHING!).   Where did the time go?

As I fold these clothes it seems like yesterday Little One was running around in these polo shirts and overalls.   Memories of outside play dates, meeting new friends, and the joys of a teetering toddler not knowing which way he is going to fall flood my thoughts.  I miss those moments.

This probably seems silly (and maybe it is), but I think many moms feel a sense of loss as we put away clothes that no longer fit and pull out bigger ones knowing all too quickly those will become too small.  It is recognizing a stage of life (albeit short) is over, that our little ones are growing up, that they are one step closer to moving out and time is quickly moving on.   If only it would stand still so I could treasure my baby little ones for just a bit longer ... 

Mother's Day

Driving me back and forth to practice, meets, friends' houses, etc.

Making my favorite dinners on my birthday

Chatting with me on phone during the day when I desperately needed some adult conversation

 Holding my hand while I was in labor with Little One, and then taking care of him when I was too sick to

Watching Diagnosis Murder together at night

 Making New York such a great home even though our family was a thousand miles away

 Being able to talk my anxiety down like no one else

Watching me do flips off woodpiles, our pool and swing set ... and not yelling at me

Getting up with me in the middle of the night when I was sick or scared

You brought me into this world and gave me life ... 

 ... thank you!

Hesed

It was about a week ago, Sunday to be exact, that something occurred to me: no matter how many things I do wrong or how many times I mess up, Little Two continues to love me. Amazing ...

In staying home that morning I thought I was being a wise mother ... prudent even.   After all, Little Two was sick (again!) and missing a nap was most certainly out of the question.  This poor little one needed as much sleep as possible to get over all the colds, stomach viruses, RSV and mono that have plagued him all winter long.  Thus, Little Two and I stayed home so he could nap while Husband took Little One to church and Sunday School.   The morning seemed to be off to a good start: Husband and Little One were up, ready and off to where they needed to be (on time I might add) while I put Little Two down for nap and rested myself (thank you Little Two for sharing a rather miserable stomach bug).

After Little Two woke up from his nap, I ingeniously barricaded him in his little nook while I finished getting ready to meet Husband and Little One.  Now, moms understand it is nearly impossible to get ready with a mobile and curious little one crawling around, which is why barricading him in his nook with toys was simply genius.   However, after a few cries (parents of more than one little one will attest that after the first one you just don't run over as quickly when they cry) I went in to check on him and saw he had pushed the coffee table over just enough so that the sharp corner was sticking into his room instead of behind the wall, and just under that corner of the table was a block he desperately wanted.  Putting two and two together, I realized he had repeatedly hit the middle of his forehead on the point in pursuit of the block.  Strike one.

Being the sympathetic and wise mother that I am, I brought Little Two into our room and shut the door to protect him from the steep stairs which were just on the other side.   My back was literally turned for 5 seconds, but when I looked back, the door was open and all I saw was one of Little Two's feet ... briefly.   Little Two was now doing the luge head first (I guess that makes it the skeleton) down our stairs, heading right for the wall and front door.   My heart stopped and I froze as I watched him fall/bounce down and then finally flip onto his back at the bottom.  Strike Two and it was only ten o'clock in the morning.

As I held my screaming little one (while thanking God he was screaming and moving), it occurred to me that even though it was my fault Little Two did the skeleton down the stairs and had bruises on his forehead, he still wanted and needed comfort from me.   Often times I hear people talking about how being a parent has allowed them to understand how much God loves us ... that is very true and I, too, have experienced that ... but in this moment, while Little Two was holding on to me, I felt this unconditional love completely free from judgment that I most definitely did not deserve that morning.  In that moment I was not the parent loving my little ones as God loves us; instead, I was the imperfect little one receiving the perfect loving kindness God bestows on us.

A New England Winter wonderland?

I think it is the weather.   All the snow.  All the cold.  All the insideness.  It makes even the best of us go crazy.    There is only so far to run inside an apartment.    By January the rooms seem to shrink, the ceiling gets a little bit lower, and my history in Firefox is filled with links for homes in North Carolina, South Carolina and Texas.   For those of you who do not understand what a New England winter is like, I would tell you it is something worth experiencing, but NOT with two boys under three and a half in a small apartment!

There is just nowhere to go in the winter that does not require A LOT of effort: bundling up Little One and Little Two (and myself), going out in the cold (and I mean cold!), snow, and ice that just seems to grow exponentially for months at a time.   It gets depressing really.  You turn on the news and hear there is yet another blizzard looming ahead.  Little One hears the word 'snow' and immediately begs to go outside.  I say no (at first) but then think, 'you know, I forget what it looks like outside, why not?'.   So, thus begins the process of getting warm clothes, snow pants, boots, hats, gloves, and coats on my little ones ... only to promptly turn around and march back up the stairs because Little One says its too cold outside.  

Days continue to come and go.  Then all of a sudden its above 40 degrees again!  I see patches of green, and there is rain instead of snow!   Life is exciting ... soon the weather will be warm.   Husband and I will be taking Little One and Two to the beach, having cook outs and doing all of our favorite summer things.  My sanity will return and I won't understand why some people do not want to live in New England :)

In the midst of all the bleak wintery days I watched something magical happen.  I saw a friendship develop between Little One and Little Two.  I watched as Little Two began to interact with the world around him, as Little Two began to recognize his big brother and squeal when Little One would come into the room.   I watched Little One learned to comfort Little Two, share his toys (yes even his CARS!) and make him laugh.   Nothing brightens a gloomy wintery day like watching Little Two and Little One wrestle and giggle together.  I guess there is something special about being stuck inside for months at a time ...

Questions!

Knowing myself as well as I do, I think sometimes I am going to need inspiration for posts, and what better inspiration than your questions!  I love hearing what people think (or ask in this case) ... so ... look over to the right side of the blog towards the bottom and submit a question and I will answer.

We're waiting ... :)

Who cares ...

Sundays are days we all relax and don't do much.  It's a day without cleaning, laundry and work.   We enjoy time together without the burden of 'getting things done', and I like that.  One of my favorite things is sitting down in the evening (little ones asleep!) and watching TV.   Tonight I am watching Secret Millionaire, and while the wife is talking about people she met with HIV she said something profound. "Often times I was distracted about how people became infected with HIV, but who cares??"

Who cares? Who cares how people end up where they are.   Who cares if they are different.   They are people, real people, with real pain and real needs.   Isn't it easier to justify not helping because of how they contributed to their situation?  Isn't easier to look down on them ... after all, it's their own fault right?  I am ashamed to admit those thoughts have gone through my head.   That I judge other people before I hear their story.  That I think I'm better for some reason. 

What if we stopped caring about why.  What if we said 'who cares' about their past decisions and loved the person standing in front of us?  What if we smiled instead of walking the opposite way?  What if we taught our children to serve instead of expecting to be served?  What if we had compassion on those around us instead of being afraid of our differences?

I think our world would be a better place.  I think we would see past skin color and clothing, and into someone's heart and realize that it looks a lot like our own: broken.  We are all broken in one way or another.  We all need help and a kind word now and then.  That is what I want to teach my little ones.  I want them to say who cares.  I want them to help other people and be kind to them because they are people, real people with real pain and real needs.

Life as we know it ...

I took a personal day this afternoon.  Usually during nap time I am cleaning the house, making dinner, working on sewing projects, paying bills, etc., but this afternoon I decided to stop, sit and watch a movie: Life as we know it.   I'd seen the previews.  I knew it was a chick flick, but I thought it would be mindless.   It ended up being anything but mindless.  You see, the whole basis of the movie was that parents die and leave their infant daughter in the care of their best friends.   While there was a great deal of humor ('cause who doesn't laugh watching someone learn to change a diaper for the first time!), I couldn't stop seeing Little One and Little Two's faces.

I pictured someone telling Little One Mommy and Daddy wouldn't be coming home.  That Mommy and Daddy had died and he wouldn't see us again.   I pictured Little Two screaming because he was waiting for me to nurse him.    I heard them crying for mommy and daddy, but we weren't there.  

That is one of a parent's worst fears: to die and leave our little ones at the mercy of someone else.   Little Two would be okay, in fact, after awhile he probably wouldn't remember us, but Little One would be devastated.   He would understand enough to know Husband and I were not coming back, but he wouldn't understand why.  He would be confused, scared, and the thought of him being afraid and his world shaken like that literally brings tears to my eyes.    So I begin to think.   Who would be the best people to care for my little ones?  Do we have EVERYTHING all set if that were to happen?   Why have I not made an in case we die folder that spells EVERYTHING out?? I mean EVERYTHING!  What they eat, when they nap, favorite toys, what comforts them, doctor and family's numbers ... everything I can possibly think of to make the most horrific transition just a little bit easier.

Husband and I are organized, we plan, we are in control.  We prepare for parent-teacher conferences, write down our questions for the doctor, and leave detailed instructions for babysitters.  We take our role seriously, and that is good, but at what point do we, as parents, have to let go?    To trust that if something happened to us the guardians (we picked) for Little One and Little Two would also have their best interests at heart.   That another mother would love my little ones as much as I do.  That other parents would raise our children just as well as we would, but perhaps differently, and that differently is okay.  That despite all the scenarios I've dreamed up in my mind, my little ones would be okay. 

The thing is, when we love our little ones as much as we do we can't help worrying.  We can't help over planning, and it is nearly impossible to 'let go'.   So we write out schedules, leave numbers, have meals planned, and encourage our little ones to find comfort and security in things outside of ourselves ... sometimes ... all the while, desperately trying to remember we are not the only people who love our little ones dearly, and that the God who entrusted them to us in the first place will take care of them if He calls us home before our time.

I love you more than ...

 


Little One and I have a game we play every night before bed.   I say 'I love you more than ... peanut butter and jelly!' and he responds 'I love you more than ... ICE CREAM!' and we go back and forth, back and forth.  Today, however, was a terrible no good very bad day and I did not feel like playing that game before bed!  Little One pushed every boundary and button possible ... and he knew it.   I contemplated hiding in the corner and just surrendering to these crazy little ones until their Dad got home.  It's amazing how they know exactly what will drive us crazy! 

You would think, 'It's just a baby and a three years old, how difficult can that be? Just play with cars and trucks and let them jump on you, right?'  WRONG!  First they just get silly.  That I can handle, but that is how they wear you down.  They push the limits with the silliness and soon I am saying 'Don't take that from your brother!  Stop taking your clothes off!   No you cannot jump on the furniture!'  This is where the frustration begins to build.  Then the next thing I know laundry piles are towers being knocked over, toys are flying in the air, Little One is catapulting himself from one couch to the other, and Little Two is sitting in the midst of the chaos laughing so hard I am sure he is mocking me.   At this point I am no longer laughing at the silliness ... I am wanting to glue Little One's bum on a chair so he can't move and I can recover some sort of authority in this Lord of the Flies moment!

But what actually happens bothers me.   My little ones have succeeded in pushing my buttons to the point where I get angry.   I am tired of saying no.  I am tired of pulling Little Two off the bookshelf or away from the TV.  I am tired of putting the couch back together and tripping over toys, but more importantly, I hate that in losing my patience I want out of my home today, and to skip my precious game with Little One at bedtime.    In my frustration (and lack of patience) I valued neat and orderly over my little ones.   I lost sight of the humor that is a three year old running around in nothing but their CARS underwear with a pink penguin in their mouth, a 9 month old's mischievous smile, and the brotherly bonding taking place during the chaos.  While I did not thoroughly enjoy this day my two little ones most definitely did, and because of my little getaway this afternoon (thank you husband!) I can tell Little One that I love him more than peanut butter and jelly in the morning ...