Posts
I know that sometimes, it sounds like I'm complaining about some of this motherhood stuff. I am. And I have some nerve. And almost every single day when I am knee deep in diapers and tantrums and fights and juice requests and hair that I have pulled out of my head and "mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy....", I am reminded that I should be ashamed of myself.
The other day, I was picking up Leo from pre-k when his teacher told me that her (only) son is so jealous of Leo when he hears all of his stories about his brothers and sisters. He wants a brother or sister soooooo bad. "So what are you waiting for?" I foolishly asked. "I've been trying for four years." Needless to say, as I drove away, I learned that I can drive with one foot in my mouth.
Just the other day, I posted a rant on Facebook about not wanting to teach my almost one year old the word "mommy", at least for another year or two. This was an actual thought that I have had. I can't help wondering if my mental well being will remain in tact (or at least remain hanging on by a thread) when child number four begins to abuse the word like the others do. And just now, I referred to their precious little voices uttering my name as abuse. Shameful. I can't help wondering how some poor infertile woman hasn't responded to one of these mommy rants with a well deserved "shut up and count your blessings you ungrateful witch!"
I have an amazing friend who lost a child whom she had carried full term, very unexpectedly, and only hours after meeting her. It still takes my breath away just thinking about the pain she must have endured. I had no idea, in that moment, how she would pull through that sorrow. And now I admire her as I watch her thrive as a beautiful, happy, healing, positive and thankful mother of three. No bitterness, just a newfound strength.
And just recently, I followed, in awe, a story of a woman who had died just days after her daughter was born, as a community pulled together to honor her dying wish to have her baby thrive on breast milk for the first year of her life. When her doctors told her that her body was shutting down, she told them it was healing. She was going to die, and leave behind her four children, and was at such peace with the process, that she found it therapeutic.
I thank God for my "four beautiful blessings" every night when I say my prayers. And then I apologize for all of my shortcomings as a mother that day, and ask him for more patience to be a better mother tomorrow. I won't lie, it's challenging. One healthy child is challenging for a new mother. Four healthy children can be down right maddening, even for an old pro like myself. But when I am offered up any bit of perspective from any of these amazing ladies, I have to wonder how I got so lucky. What did I do to warrant four beautiful, healthy, happy babies without even trying when there are women out there who struggle to conceive even one?
And while I know my other amazing friend who lost her baby has similar moments of feeling completely overwhelmed and yearns for the patience and strength to be a mother of three, I know that she would give anything to have her baby back, and be an overwhelmed mother of four.
My struggles as a mother of four stem from the good fortune I've been truly blessed with. My children are healthy and strong-willed and capable. When they need something (and they ALWAYS need something) they can ask me, or they may try it themselves (and perhaps make a huge mess in doing so...BREATH...It's ok), or they can try it themselves and succeed. They are growing strong so they are ALWAYS hungry or thirsty and depend solely on me to feed them and quench their thirst which means I live in the kitchen, which thankfully connects to the laundry room where I also work full time because they are also active and fun and messy. They are smart so they are ALWAYS asking questions. They are capable so they want to learn how to ride a bike, tie shoes, roller skate, swim, play sports, read, etc. , which can be utterly exhausting and magnificently rewarding. They can speak and express themselves which can sometimes be REALLY INFURIATING and other times can melt my heart. And best of all, they are HERE, and I am HERE with them.
As parents, we worry about the millions of things that could happen to our children. I have been terrified by the very idea of facing any of the challenges these other mother's have faced. I am humbled by the incredibly admirable strength and grace with which they have faced these challenges. I am ashamed of all of my whining about having to answer to yet another "mommy" from yet another of my beautiful, healthy babies.
I am sorry.
I am blessed.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Christmas in hind sight.
It all began around 6:30 a.m. the morning after Thanksgiving with a black friday crazed elf (35 It year old grown man) singing Christmas carols while yanking me out of bed to begin our Christmas shopping. I'm as eager as anyone to jump into the Christmas season, but at this particular hour, as he ripped the warm covers off of me and dragged me out of bed and held me up and made me dance to his holiday cheer, all while I was still asleep, I put him at the top of my naughty list.
A cup of coffee and a few rounds of "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" later, my holiday spirit kicked in.
I have always loved the Christmas season. And now, having four little ones to share the magic and excitement with, it's almost more joy than I can bare. I am overwhelmed with the honor of carrying on the tradition of my late mother, even if that means I have to spend days rolling millions of little peanut butter balls that many of the people I plan to share them with can barely stand the sight of (myself included).
I do my best to explain the true meaning of Christmas to my children. I put out my mother's nativity scene and tell them the story of baby Jesus. I take them to Church and I pray that they pay attention. And while they seem to want to understand, I can tell they are distracted by yet another thing they just thought of for their Christmas list. Maybe next year.
And as some of my loved ones and our traditions have slipped away from me, I am devoted to creating new ones for my children to cherish and carry on. And in spite of my better judgment, I want one of those traditions to be utter amazement when they wake up on Christmas morning; I want to spoil them. Little Leo woke up to a present so awesome that he stood speechless for a moment and then stuttered in a little whisper, "it...it's just...what I wanted. It's...my favorite...thing. I can't believe it".
And for my retribution, I spend the next few weeks opening absurd packaging, some of which actually require a screwdriver just to open it, spend days trapped in an abyss of "some assembly required",spend several infuriating hours trying to transform Leo's Transformer that has 21 steps and I'm certain states somewhere in the ultra fine print "hahahaha good luck sucker", and spend the next year staring at toys that my children only played with once or twice before I start clearing them out for next Christmas. And it's still worth it.
I used to feel so bad for my mom and dad because Santa seemed to forget all about them. And now I am as shocked as anyone to learn that it actually is better to give than to receive.
Santa is awesome. But that naughty and nice list can be tricky. How does one threaten their child with the naughty list, knowing full well that Santa doesn't have the heart to disappoint a child on Christmas morning, even if, in all reality, said child should have made the "little asshole" list?
And how is a once sweet and innocent little 4 year old supposed to contain his excitement(hyperactivity) and joy (anxiety) at the thought of a jolly ol' man and his flying reindeer bringing him a sleigh full of anything he can possibly think of to put on his ever growing Christmas list? And when he cannot handle the pressure of the nice list or the angst of the naughty list and thus loses complete control of his behavior all together, how is mom supposed to look him in the eye and tell him Santa is watching, knowing that Santa is going to blow his mind no matter how demonic he acts, without losing all credibility as a parent?
So, needless to say, everyone made the nice list this year. And after Santa came with his haul, and mom and dad stood back to take it all in, we experienced our usual pangs of guilt at the sight of our overindulgence. But, in our defense, THERE IS NOTHING LIKE IT. There is nothing like creating a moment for your children that is so thrilling that it literally takes this ones breath away, and leaves that one speechless.
My amazing children have offered up some humbling perspective. As Madeline sat in awe at the pile of presents just waiting for her and her brothers and sisters, she said "I feel like we live in an orphanage with 50 orphans." Yes, our Christmas for our four children would have made 50 orphans very happy. Ouch.
And just yesterday, little Leo, who's behavior has been much improved since the pressures of Santa and naughty lists and little spying elves on shelves have eased, told me that he's still trying to stay on Santa's nice list, even though he does not want anymore presents, because he already got enough, "more than enough".
And of course, there are the babies, who were all together, unimpressed, and were their usual happy little selves, not because of the gifts, but regardless of them.
This was my greatest gift this year, my children and their grateful perspectives. They taught me a Christmas lesson. And in doing so, I have made it my New years resolution, or better yet, my mission as a parent and a fellow human being, to give back more, and to teach my children to do the same. We are blessed, and I want them, and myself, to not only be thankful for our blessings, but to pay them forward.
A cup of coffee and a few rounds of "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" later, my holiday spirit kicked in.
I have always loved the Christmas season. And now, having four little ones to share the magic and excitement with, it's almost more joy than I can bare. I am overwhelmed with the honor of carrying on the tradition of my late mother, even if that means I have to spend days rolling millions of little peanut butter balls that many of the people I plan to share them with can barely stand the sight of (myself included).
I do my best to explain the true meaning of Christmas to my children. I put out my mother's nativity scene and tell them the story of baby Jesus. I take them to Church and I pray that they pay attention. And while they seem to want to understand, I can tell they are distracted by yet another thing they just thought of for their Christmas list. Maybe next year.
And as some of my loved ones and our traditions have slipped away from me, I am devoted to creating new ones for my children to cherish and carry on. And in spite of my better judgment, I want one of those traditions to be utter amazement when they wake up on Christmas morning; I want to spoil them. Little Leo woke up to a present so awesome that he stood speechless for a moment and then stuttered in a little whisper, "it...it's just...what I wanted. It's...my favorite...thing. I can't believe it".
And for my retribution, I spend the next few weeks opening absurd packaging, some of which actually require a screwdriver just to open it, spend days trapped in an abyss of "some assembly required",spend several infuriating hours trying to transform Leo's Transformer that has 21 steps and I'm certain states somewhere in the ultra fine print "hahahaha good luck sucker", and spend the next year staring at toys that my children only played with once or twice before I start clearing them out for next Christmas. And it's still worth it.
I used to feel so bad for my mom and dad because Santa seemed to forget all about them. And now I am as shocked as anyone to learn that it actually is better to give than to receive.
Santa is awesome. But that naughty and nice list can be tricky. How does one threaten their child with the naughty list, knowing full well that Santa doesn't have the heart to disappoint a child on Christmas morning, even if, in all reality, said child should have made the "little asshole" list?
And how is a once sweet and innocent little 4 year old supposed to contain his excitement(hyperactivity) and joy (anxiety) at the thought of a jolly ol' man and his flying reindeer bringing him a sleigh full of anything he can possibly think of to put on his ever growing Christmas list? And when he cannot handle the pressure of the nice list or the angst of the naughty list and thus loses complete control of his behavior all together, how is mom supposed to look him in the eye and tell him Santa is watching, knowing that Santa is going to blow his mind no matter how demonic he acts, without losing all credibility as a parent?
So, needless to say, everyone made the nice list this year. And after Santa came with his haul, and mom and dad stood back to take it all in, we experienced our usual pangs of guilt at the sight of our overindulgence. But, in our defense, THERE IS NOTHING LIKE IT. There is nothing like creating a moment for your children that is so thrilling that it literally takes this ones breath away, and leaves that one speechless.
My amazing children have offered up some humbling perspective. As Madeline sat in awe at the pile of presents just waiting for her and her brothers and sisters, she said "I feel like we live in an orphanage with 50 orphans." Yes, our Christmas for our four children would have made 50 orphans very happy. Ouch.
And just yesterday, little Leo, who's behavior has been much improved since the pressures of Santa and naughty lists and little spying elves on shelves have eased, told me that he's still trying to stay on Santa's nice list, even though he does not want anymore presents, because he already got enough, "more than enough".
And of course, there are the babies, who were all together, unimpressed, and were their usual happy little selves, not because of the gifts, but regardless of them.
This was my greatest gift this year, my children and their grateful perspectives. They taught me a Christmas lesson. And in doing so, I have made it my New years resolution, or better yet, my mission as a parent and a fellow human being, to give back more, and to teach my children to do the same. We are blessed, and I want them, and myself, to not only be thankful for our blessings, but to pay them forward.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Leo vs. Santa
Two years ago, I was able to use Santa Claus and his magical powers to potty train Leo. I told him that Santa doesn't bring toys to almost 3 year old boys who poop in their pants. Sure, looking back at it now, it seems a bit drastic. But it worked, instantly.
So, for three months now, I have been reminding Leo, OFTEN, that he better watch out, he better not shout, cry, pout etc. because Santa Claus is coming blah, blah, blah. But he just can't help himself. He's just a spastic little four year old with more energy than he knows what to do with and no matter how hard he tries, sometimes it is "just too hard to be good". Like when everything does NOT go HIS way ALL THE TIME! That is NOT FAIR! Or when he is expected to SHARE his toys. That too is SO NOT FAIR! Or when I wrestle him into a shirt that he DOES NOT LIKE! NOT FAIR!
He's a typical little four year old. There is no logical explanation to combat his illogical rationale. I remember this with Madeline when she was this age, but she didn't have the stick-to-it-iveness that he has. She was a fast learner. One time, when my father was with us, she and I were having a small disagreement about something. We went back and forth for a bit and I finally simply reminded her that I will always win these arguments because I'm MOM. My father loved that line and he's always asking me if I'm still winning all the arguments. I am. But with four kids now, there is A LOT of arsenal on their side. And the four year old is their secret weapon. He is the indestructible one, the one who is immune to all of my secret weapons, even Santa.
So this year, I've brought in back up-the Elf of the Shelf. I figured maybe little mister smarty pants has convinced himself that there is no way Santa can see him all the time if he can't see Santa. So I thought, perhaps if we had a sneaky, creepy little elf spying on us and staring at us every second of the day with a sinister little grin on his face, who's job it is to report back to Santa every night, Leo might once again be scared straight. Hardly.
I like to see Leo sweating it out a little. I see him flashing our little elf his "what exactly did you tell Santa last night" glare and his "please help me get on the good list" eyes. "I know I've been naughty, but look how sweet I am right now with my big blue eyes. Can't you pull some strings for me? Put in a good word for me? Please."
And I always know when he his fretting about the naughty list. Suddenly I'll hear a sweet little voice-
Leo: "mommy?"
Me: "Yes"
Leo: "I love you."
Me: "Oooh, thank you. I love you too."
Leo: "Do you think Santa heard me say that? Do you think I'm on the good list now?"
Let's be honest. Little Leo is going to have a great Christmas, because, bottom line, he's a special, sweet, wonderful little boy who is just, a little boy. Santa has faith in Leo. Santa knows that Leo is going to snap out of this "giant pain in the ass" phase and grow into the caring, kind, helpful, thoughtful, fun little boy we all know he is in spite of himself. Santa could never break Little Leo's heart on Christmas morning. Santa...is a sucker.
So, for three months now, I have been reminding Leo, OFTEN, that he better watch out, he better not shout, cry, pout etc. because Santa Claus is coming blah, blah, blah. But he just can't help himself. He's just a spastic little four year old with more energy than he knows what to do with and no matter how hard he tries, sometimes it is "just too hard to be good". Like when everything does NOT go HIS way ALL THE TIME! That is NOT FAIR! Or when he is expected to SHARE his toys. That too is SO NOT FAIR! Or when I wrestle him into a shirt that he DOES NOT LIKE! NOT FAIR!
He's a typical little four year old. There is no logical explanation to combat his illogical rationale. I remember this with Madeline when she was this age, but she didn't have the stick-to-it-iveness that he has. She was a fast learner. One time, when my father was with us, she and I were having a small disagreement about something. We went back and forth for a bit and I finally simply reminded her that I will always win these arguments because I'm MOM. My father loved that line and he's always asking me if I'm still winning all the arguments. I am. But with four kids now, there is A LOT of arsenal on their side. And the four year old is their secret weapon. He is the indestructible one, the one who is immune to all of my secret weapons, even Santa.
So this year, I've brought in back up-the Elf of the Shelf. I figured maybe little mister smarty pants has convinced himself that there is no way Santa can see him all the time if he can't see Santa. So I thought, perhaps if we had a sneaky, creepy little elf spying on us and staring at us every second of the day with a sinister little grin on his face, who's job it is to report back to Santa every night, Leo might once again be scared straight. Hardly.
I like to see Leo sweating it out a little. I see him flashing our little elf his "what exactly did you tell Santa last night" glare and his "please help me get on the good list" eyes. "I know I've been naughty, but look how sweet I am right now with my big blue eyes. Can't you pull some strings for me? Put in a good word for me? Please."
And I always know when he his fretting about the naughty list. Suddenly I'll hear a sweet little voice-
Leo: "mommy?"
Me: "Yes"
Leo: "I love you."
Me: "Oooh, thank you. I love you too."
Leo: "Do you think Santa heard me say that? Do you think I'm on the good list now?"
Let's be honest. Little Leo is going to have a great Christmas, because, bottom line, he's a special, sweet, wonderful little boy who is just, a little boy. Santa has faith in Leo. Santa knows that Leo is going to snap out of this "giant pain in the ass" phase and grow into the caring, kind, helpful, thoughtful, fun little boy we all know he is in spite of himself. Santa could never break Little Leo's heart on Christmas morning. Santa...is a sucker.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Return to Church
I've started going to church. I went back to the church I was raised in. The one my mother devoted so much of her life to. The one I resented all those years, because it was violating my weekends. The one that I turned my back on the moment I turned 18 and had the choice. And the one that I delivered my mother's eulogy in, and had not been in since.
I was so torn about going back there. I couldn't imagine worshiping in any other church. But I was nervous to go back to the place where I had last seen and said a final goodbye to my mother. Granted she was in a closed casket, but through the powers of my grief induced x-ray vision, I could see her, beautiful, and resting in peace.
The first time I went, I was welcomed by so many people confirming how very happy my mother would be to see us there. I think our being there filled a void for my mother's church family, just as they did for me. One woman sitting behind me asked me if it was strange or comfortable to be back there. I said "it is strangely comfortable." That it was. I felt a noticeable absence without my mother sitting next to me in our usual seat (which I was so relieved to find seemingly reserved just for my return). And I even missed her embarrassing tummy growling at the most inappropriate moments that always gave us the very embarrassing and inappropriate giggles. But...she was there. I could feel her, so glowingly happy and proud to see me there by my own choice, with my own children. And I sat with a lump in my throat and tear brimmed eyes the entire time.
But I don't go just to make mom happy (although that makes me happy). And I don't go just because it is the one place I can go where NO ONE is aloud to speak to me for ONE WHOLE HOUR, other than God (although that makes me VERY happy!).
I go to God's house because it gives me a peace and calm and solitude that I rarely get in my own home which is bursting at the seams with children and their boisterousness. I pray for an ounce of this peace in my home...this week.
I go because I am blessed with a house full of healthy, happy, boisterous children. I pray for that to last...forever.
I go because I am exhausted and perhaps a tad resentful from slaving away at my thankless job as a stay-at-home mom all week. I pray for one thank you...this week.
I go to thank God for blessing me with the amazing man who loves me and works hard to provide for our family so that I may stay home and raise our children. I pray for the strength to be worthy of this task and to remain loveable to him...this week.
I go because only God could make sense of all of this.
I go because I don't have to explain myself to God. I don't have to whine and vent and complain for him to understand. I don't have to say a word. And yet he answers me:
"I know it's hard, giving everything you've got, every second of every day, and feeling like it's not enough. I know it seems impossible to handle all that you have taken on. I know that you want only the very best for the people you love so very much. I know that you sometimes feel neglected while you are struggling to love and care for everyone else. I know that sometimes, you just miss and need your mother. TRUST ME, I know that unconditional love can be very trying."
"I know that this world scares you sometimes. I But stay focused on your children, and I will stay focused on mine. TRUST ME, it scares me too sometimes."
"I know that you are under the spell of good intentions. Everything you do is for the good of your family. Even those screaming fits you have and instantly regret are only because you are momentarily convinced that repeating yourself LOUDLY and scaring the hell out of your children may have a better outcome than the first 50 times when you asked calmly and nicely. I get angry too sometimes. It's ok. TRUST ME, I know all about unruly children."
"I know that you are still the patient person you wish to be. But I also know that you are the mother of four, and you are only human. TRUST ME, I know that human beings are not perfect."
"I know that when you say 'Lord help me' a million times a day, it's because you genuinely need a heavenly hand, and not a sarcastic plea for pity.
"I know that when you ask one of your children 'WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD ARE YOU DOING?!' you know that even I may not have the answer to that."
"I know that you do not need to hear 'thank you' to know that they are thankful for you. TRUST ME, I know all about seemingly ungrateful children."
"TRUST ME, I know this parenting thing is hard sometimes. You are doing well. You are loving and you are loved. You are blessed and you are thankful. You are here today, and I am with you, always. And you've made your mother very happy. TRUST ME."
"Go now, in peace (at least for the moment)."
It's amazing what you can hear when there is no one around to ask you for some juice every 15 seconds. And somehow, I feel a little less crazy and overwhelmed, at least for the next few days, until we meet again.
Amen.
I was so torn about going back there. I couldn't imagine worshiping in any other church. But I was nervous to go back to the place where I had last seen and said a final goodbye to my mother. Granted she was in a closed casket, but through the powers of my grief induced x-ray vision, I could see her, beautiful, and resting in peace.
The first time I went, I was welcomed by so many people confirming how very happy my mother would be to see us there. I think our being there filled a void for my mother's church family, just as they did for me. One woman sitting behind me asked me if it was strange or comfortable to be back there. I said "it is strangely comfortable." That it was. I felt a noticeable absence without my mother sitting next to me in our usual seat (which I was so relieved to find seemingly reserved just for my return). And I even missed her embarrassing tummy growling at the most inappropriate moments that always gave us the very embarrassing and inappropriate giggles. But...she was there. I could feel her, so glowingly happy and proud to see me there by my own choice, with my own children. And I sat with a lump in my throat and tear brimmed eyes the entire time.
But I don't go just to make mom happy (although that makes me happy). And I don't go just because it is the one place I can go where NO ONE is aloud to speak to me for ONE WHOLE HOUR, other than God (although that makes me VERY happy!).
I go to God's house because it gives me a peace and calm and solitude that I rarely get in my own home which is bursting at the seams with children and their boisterousness. I pray for an ounce of this peace in my home...this week.
I go because I am blessed with a house full of healthy, happy, boisterous children. I pray for that to last...forever.
I go because I am exhausted and perhaps a tad resentful from slaving away at my thankless job as a stay-at-home mom all week. I pray for one thank you...this week.
I go to thank God for blessing me with the amazing man who loves me and works hard to provide for our family so that I may stay home and raise our children. I pray for the strength to be worthy of this task and to remain loveable to him...this week.
I go because only God could make sense of all of this.
I go because I don't have to explain myself to God. I don't have to whine and vent and complain for him to understand. I don't have to say a word. And yet he answers me:
"I know it's hard, giving everything you've got, every second of every day, and feeling like it's not enough. I know it seems impossible to handle all that you have taken on. I know that you want only the very best for the people you love so very much. I know that you sometimes feel neglected while you are struggling to love and care for everyone else. I know that sometimes, you just miss and need your mother. TRUST ME, I know that unconditional love can be very trying."
"I know that this world scares you sometimes. I But stay focused on your children, and I will stay focused on mine. TRUST ME, it scares me too sometimes."
"I know that you are under the spell of good intentions. Everything you do is for the good of your family. Even those screaming fits you have and instantly regret are only because you are momentarily convinced that repeating yourself LOUDLY and scaring the hell out of your children may have a better outcome than the first 50 times when you asked calmly and nicely. I get angry too sometimes. It's ok. TRUST ME, I know all about unruly children."
"I know that you are still the patient person you wish to be. But I also know that you are the mother of four, and you are only human. TRUST ME, I know that human beings are not perfect."
"I know that when you say 'Lord help me' a million times a day, it's because you genuinely need a heavenly hand, and not a sarcastic plea for pity.
"I know that when you ask one of your children 'WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD ARE YOU DOING?!' you know that even I may not have the answer to that."
"I know that you do not need to hear 'thank you' to know that they are thankful for you. TRUST ME, I know all about seemingly ungrateful children."
"TRUST ME, I know this parenting thing is hard sometimes. You are doing well. You are loving and you are loved. You are blessed and you are thankful. You are here today, and I am with you, always. And you've made your mother very happy. TRUST ME."
"Go now, in peace (at least for the moment)."
It's amazing what you can hear when there is no one around to ask you for some juice every 15 seconds. And somehow, I feel a little less crazy and overwhelmed, at least for the next few days, until we meet again.
Amen.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Children at play...baby on board...kids crossing...BEWARE OF CHILDREN!
I often wonder just how crazy I look to my neighbors when I dare to take all four kids outside to "play". Last week, I finally got Madeline riding a two wheeler. I've tried the previous two summers, but I was (WAS!) always pregnant and a pregnant woman running behind and holding up a teetering child on a bike is not effective...and just plain ridiculous. But something clicked the other day, and now she is a two wheelin' bike rider.
And now Leo MUST be a two wheelin' bike rider too. So I ventured out just before nap time with all of them, including a tired and cranky, but stubborn and insistent 4 year old who would half-assed attempt to coast down the hill trying to strike a balance, but no way in hell was he dragging that "dumb bike" back up the hill to try again. But he WAS going to DO IT AGAIN(!) so would I "PLEASE JUST BRING THE DUMB BIKE BACK UP THE HILL!" for him? With that kind of enthusiasm and those good manners, of course i will.
And while I'm carrying his bike, I'll continue to intercept the out of control 22 month old on the battery powered, 5 mile an hour tractor as he is sort of getting the hang of it and screaming at me to BACK OFF so he can do it himself (loosely translated), even as he keeps driving off into the forest and then screaming in frustration until I rescue him. And then I will go peel Madeline off the pavement and break up the fight between her and her bike which she now "HATES!" and she "HATES BIKE RIDING TOO! IT'S HORRIBLE!" and she will "NEVER DO IT AGAIN!" because she is "THE WORST BIKE RIDER EVER!" And as I pour on the "ya gotta get back on the bike, honey. Falling is a part of learning. But you gotta get back on!" inspirational speech, I can hear the FORD F-150 slowly coming down our quiet, dead end, family friendly street. And by the time I turn around, the truck and my toddler on a toy tractor are now playing chicken in the middle of the road. Fortunately, my stone faced, unflinching kid is winning, or at least my neighbor has been kind enough to stop his vehicle, give me a patient wave, wait for me to drop the two bikes I'm towing, dust of my daughter, scan the road for Leo who is sitting in our driveway and being NO HELP AT ALL, and a baby in a stroller (who has been no where near the the road and resting contentedly under a shady tree with a rattle and a smile, but just in case she too lost control of her vehicle...), and drag toddler and tractor to safety.
I realize this entire experience sounds a bit out of control and riddled with anxiety, but it was great fun. And rest assured, anyone who turns down my street while we are in the middle of it could not possibly miss my family and our convoy of vehicles, bicycles and strollers up ahead. In fact, it is quite possible that my kind neighbor began to yield when he surely heard the whining and bike bashing and felt the the earth shaking stubborn, frustrated foot stomping from miles away.
Baby Ginger's face, in the midst of all this cautious chaos, summed it up perfectly...with a silent smirk and laughing eyes "These people are crazy and this woman is in way over her head but I'm so happy to be here."
Friday, August 12, 2011
my cup runneth over
It's not easy to give every ounce of love that a mother's heart can hold to five people every single day. And I don't want to divide it up and dole out shares. I want each of my babies and the love of my life to have it all; to be smothered and drenched in my love and adoration for them. It's one of my greatest daily challenges...to love my family enough.
They annoy the hell out of me most of the time, like, it's actually their favorite pastime. But... unconditional love, unconditional love, unconditional love. We'd all be doomed without it. I'll be the first to confess that, once upon a time, I would have been utterly un-lovable without unconditional love. I love these wonderful, rotten, precious little monsters more than I can even handle sometimes. And while I am sure they know this, I also know that they can't possibly really know.
I love them so much that I have nightmares and sleepless nights at the thought of all the terrible things that could happen to them.
I love them so much, that twenty minutes after someone has given me a reprieve from them as I have dreamt about all day long, I miss them and worry about them and want them back and I consider never letting them leave the house again for fear of one of those terrible things happening to them.
I love them so much that I want them to have everything in the whole wide world that they want. I love them enough to NOT give them everything they want.
I love them enough to want to spend every single second with them, making them laugh and smile and enjoy life. I'm so tired.
I am only one person. Granted, I'm a mother of four, so I'm kind of super-human, but even as a super human, I struggle. But it's ok if I'm not smothering them with my love every single moment of the day, it really is. And truth be told, they can be rotten and sometimes they don't deserve to be smothered in my love.
But when they do...
I really try to seize the moments. I have come to know the pure joy of the simple pleasures in life, thanks to my little monsters...I mean muses...
Last night it was a heart to heart with my beautiful, smart little seven year old. It was the first one that I do believe she genuinely listened to and contributed to and...took to heart. She wants to be good and kind, even when others aren't. She thinks it can be hard sometimes, to be GOOD and KIND (it can), but it's what she wants. She is "REALLY gonna try". I can see her good intentions and kind soul in her eyes.
A few days ago, I went out for an escape, I mean a run. The kids had been especially evil that day and I couldn't wait to ditch them when Darren got home. I also had to stop next door at my mother in laws to feed her animals because she was away. I thought to myself:
"Perfect, I'll swim at her house after I run, ALL BY MYSELF in PEACE and QUIET. Because if I go home to swim, those little psychic, psycho, swarming vultures will surely spot me the moment I get back and insist on swimming with me and invading my alone time. "
Two minutes later, I caved and decided maybe Leo would like to swim with me. Yes, Leo would like that. I went home, jumped in the pool (without telling a soul that I had returned) and right on cue, came my little Leo. He stood at the glass door with his hand on the knob thinking once (not twice) about disturbing me, and came out with a little grin on his face, knowing that I had missed him while I was gone and was ready for him to torment me and love me again. We swam and splashed and jumped and cannon-balled and laughed, just the two of us. Perfect.
I've been taking Lennox on long bike rides with me. I have always loved doing this with my kids. But there is something extra special about whisking away child number 3 and taking him out for a solo adventure. People always think that #3 becomes the forgotten one. I could never let that happen to little Lennox...well, there was that one time...but never again.
He sits in a little baby seat right in front of me, between my arms, so it's like I'm giving him a hug the entire time we're riding. He usually eats a juicy peach while we ride and the sticky peach juice pours down my leg, and he hums Twinkle Twinkle the entire time, only pausing to use his few words, pointing out any truck, tractor, choo-choo, dog and a few others that I can't make out at all although he seems certain of. He loves it, I love it, he loves me, I love him. It's magical.
It's the simple, intimate times; the ones that catch me off guard at exactly the right moment, the ones that remind me how special and awesome each one of them is in their own special and awesome way and how lucky I am to be their overwhelmed, underappreciated mother. The moments when I can just stare at one of them, frozen in a love trance, and they'll say "I know, I know, you love me." The moments that I will never take for granted, because no matter how many I am blessed with (and I am very blessed), it will never be enough.
My cup runneth over.
They annoy the hell out of me most of the time, like, it's actually their favorite pastime. But... unconditional love, unconditional love, unconditional love. We'd all be doomed without it. I'll be the first to confess that, once upon a time, I would have been utterly un-lovable without unconditional love. I love these wonderful, rotten, precious little monsters more than I can even handle sometimes. And while I am sure they know this, I also know that they can't possibly really know.
I love them so much that I have nightmares and sleepless nights at the thought of all the terrible things that could happen to them.
I love them so much, that twenty minutes after someone has given me a reprieve from them as I have dreamt about all day long, I miss them and worry about them and want them back and I consider never letting them leave the house again for fear of one of those terrible things happening to them.
I love them so much that I want them to have everything in the whole wide world that they want. I love them enough to NOT give them everything they want.
I love them enough to want to spend every single second with them, making them laugh and smile and enjoy life. I'm so tired.
I am only one person. Granted, I'm a mother of four, so I'm kind of super-human, but even as a super human, I struggle. But it's ok if I'm not smothering them with my love every single moment of the day, it really is. And truth be told, they can be rotten and sometimes they don't deserve to be smothered in my love.
But when they do...
I really try to seize the moments. I have come to know the pure joy of the simple pleasures in life, thanks to my little monsters...I mean muses...
Last night it was a heart to heart with my beautiful, smart little seven year old. It was the first one that I do believe she genuinely listened to and contributed to and...took to heart. She wants to be good and kind, even when others aren't. She thinks it can be hard sometimes, to be GOOD and KIND (it can), but it's what she wants. She is "REALLY gonna try". I can see her good intentions and kind soul in her eyes.
A few days ago, I went out for an escape, I mean a run. The kids had been especially evil that day and I couldn't wait to ditch them when Darren got home. I also had to stop next door at my mother in laws to feed her animals because she was away. I thought to myself:
"Perfect, I'll swim at her house after I run, ALL BY MYSELF in PEACE and QUIET. Because if I go home to swim, those little psychic, psycho, swarming vultures will surely spot me the moment I get back and insist on swimming with me and invading my alone time. "
Two minutes later, I caved and decided maybe Leo would like to swim with me. Yes, Leo would like that. I went home, jumped in the pool (without telling a soul that I had returned) and right on cue, came my little Leo. He stood at the glass door with his hand on the knob thinking once (not twice) about disturbing me, and came out with a little grin on his face, knowing that I had missed him while I was gone and was ready for him to torment me and love me again. We swam and splashed and jumped and cannon-balled and laughed, just the two of us. Perfect.
I've been taking Lennox on long bike rides with me. I have always loved doing this with my kids. But there is something extra special about whisking away child number 3 and taking him out for a solo adventure. People always think that #3 becomes the forgotten one. I could never let that happen to little Lennox...well, there was that one time...but never again.
He sits in a little baby seat right in front of me, between my arms, so it's like I'm giving him a hug the entire time we're riding. He usually eats a juicy peach while we ride and the sticky peach juice pours down my leg, and he hums Twinkle Twinkle the entire time, only pausing to use his few words, pointing out any truck, tractor, choo-choo, dog and a few others that I can't make out at all although he seems certain of. He loves it, I love it, he loves me, I love him. It's magical.
It's the simple, intimate times; the ones that catch me off guard at exactly the right moment, the ones that remind me how special and awesome each one of them is in their own special and awesome way and how lucky I am to be their overwhelmed, underappreciated mother. The moments when I can just stare at one of them, frozen in a love trance, and they'll say "I know, I know, you love me." The moments that I will never take for granted, because no matter how many I am blessed with (and I am very blessed), it will never be enough.
My cup runneth over.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Pregnancy Perils
Pregnancy Perils
Disclaimer: I love, love, love my children. I would have ten of them if I did not have to grow them inside of me for nine months. But I do, and it’s hard. And it gets harder every time. So hard, that I spent a week after finding out about #4 wondering if I could possibly survive another nine months of this again, as if I had a choice.
For me, it’s not so much about the physical hijacking of my body, despite the unimaginable discomfort, months of sleepless nights and a new painful ailment every month. My challenge is with my mental health; I struggle to remain recognizable and loveable, or at least tolerable, to my loved ones…and myself. Last night, Darren asked me what I was writing about. I said “pregnancy” and he said “are you writing mean things about me?” Poor guy. He deserves better than pregnant me. Our babies are my very best attempt at a peace offering; Thank you for putting up with me. Please accept this gift as a show of gratitude…and remorse.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I would bash those women who use pregnancy as an excuse to bitch and whine and make everyone around them miserable unless they are constantly catered to. Not me. I was blissful. Ok, that may be a stretch. Someone will surely call me on that, probably my sister-in-law who tells me that she knew I was pregnant due to the amount of sleeping, eating and whining I was doing. I suppose I wasn’t quite myself, but to the best of my knowledge, I could not have been happier. I remember the way it would suddenly strike me that my baby was growing inside of me, and I would smile and feel warm and tingly. I felt honored and blessed. And when someone would ask me how I was feeling I was always “great”. Never mind that I was puking every twenty minutes or so morning, noon and night, or that I was painfully tired but I couldn’t sit or lie down for fear of my body bursting into flames from the heartburn raging through my entire body like wildfire. “Great. I’m great. Thank you for asking.”
By my second pregnancy, I was still blissful and honored and blessed blah, blah, blah. But I quickly discovered that, ironically, pregnancy and children do not mix. This time around, I did not have the option of sleeping my way through my body’s inability to function sanely and rationally. Instead, I had to keep up with a three year old. I had to be alert and creative and patient and fun, in between all the puking. Have you ever tried puking with a three year old in your face asking you why you’re puking and “could you please stop and get me some juice”? Yeah, blissful.
Pregnancy #3; the novelty has worn off. We found out I was pregnant this time during our family vacation in Disney world. I was already well aware of it as the revolting signs that a baby is inside of me, sucking the life out of me, had now become unmistakable (to reiterate, I love, love, love my children). But I kept it to myself until Darren returned one morning with a pregnancy test (I guess he has his own unmistakable signs). It was an amazing and unforgettable trip, and despite my unbearable exhaustion and perpetual nausea , I spent the week dragging myself through every amusement park at Disney with a smile on my face, because, let’s face it, you can’t walk around being a miserable bitch in the happiest place on earth.
But once I was out of Mickey Mouse’s site and back to reality, I started to become a bit unglued. Now I had two demanding children to fend off, I mean take care of, despite my anguish. I also had a house with walls that were closing in on me at mere thought of an addition to our family, and a mother on her death bed whom I had to accept would never get to meet her latest grandchild and I’ll never even know if she heard me tell her the news that day when she was fighting for her life and they told us she might not make it through the night. It was too much. Certainly enough to break a lesser woman, but I was about to be the mother of three which meant this was no time show fear. And to be honest, I was truly afraid that if acknowledged every emotion that was threatening my well being at that time, it would have been harmful to my unborn child. But this time around, when someone asked how I was feeling, I was “Miserable! I’m over it! Screw you for asking”, more or less.
Considering some of these extenuating circumstances, which I have only just put into perspective as I write this, I feel somewhat justified in confessing that I did, in fact, unleash the beast during pregnancy #3. I remember quite a few episodes that left me wondering who this crazy fat bitch was that was running my life and praying that my loved ones would forgive me or assuring my children that their real mommy would be back soon. Like when we were house hunting and the crazy fat bitch demanded that my very kind, generous and obviously patient boyfriend “get me that house or I’m gonna be really pissed”, or when I started growling almost everything I uttered to my poor kids through clenched teeth just because they had the nerve to touch me or call me mommy. I wasn’t even aware of the teeth clenching thing until one day I heard Darren warn the kids not to make mommy use “the scary voice”.
And now, pregnancy #4. I have a pack of birth control pills in my cabinet that I requested after #3. I decided against starting them when Darren reminded me that they make me a little crazy. Neither of us anticipated we would be dealing with drastically crazy again so soon. And while life in general is far more manageable this time around, with a big, beautiful new home and my mother now at peace, most of the challenges and joys of pregnancy remain constant, and my sanity remains…hanging on by a thread.
As usual, I had just gotten back into my skinny jeans when I found out I was pregnant again. As usual I am forced to choose between not eating and dealing with the puking and migraine consequences, or eating and instantly feeling like my insides are a raging inferno. As usual, I am in a love/hate relationship with my children; I love, love, love them, but I hate the fact that 95% of their sentences begin with “mommy, I want…” “mommy I need…”, “mommy, where is my…” “MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY!!!!!!!!!!” As usual, I am wrought with guilt over not being able to “play” to the best of my ability or lie down with my daughter at night because laying down is not an option until around 11 p.m. when the heartburn has fizzled out. As usual, my brother and father are left speechless over the news of another child (anything beyond two is just inconceivable to them). As usual, I have baby mush brain which leaves me struggling with everything from a simple game of Candyland, to the basic “why does Cookie Monster eat his cookies like that?” type questions who’s answers once seemed so obvious to me. As usual, I find myself simultaneously snapping at my children and wanting to kick the crazy fat bitch’s ass for talking to my kids that way and putting that fearful look on their innocent little faces. And despite believing that I had held off on the crazy clenched teeth growling for much longer than usual until the other day when I snapped and then turned to Darren and proudly stated that that was the first time I had unleashed it, he was quick to point out, “No. No. You’ve been doing it for weeks.” And these days, if you ask me how I’m feeling, I can usually muster a “pretty good”.
It appears that writing this has been therapeutic as I awoke this morning with a renewed sense of calm after writing late into the night. While helping my daughter get ready for school today, Darren asked, “wait, where is all the yelling and arguing this morning?” I told her that I was sorry for being so grumpy when I’m pregnant and reminded her that it would help us both if she could be a bit more cooperative. She suggested that it would be even more helpful if I would say things like “Madeline, you don’t have to clean your room the whole time I’m pregnant.” Ah, the six year old art of negotiation.
Pregnancy is hard. Four pregnancies in seven years are downright agonizing. Those nine months are so seemingly eternal that the idea of the unbearably excruciating pangs of childbirth is eagerly anticipated. I genuinely enjoy labor because as soon as that first contraction comes on and I feel the familiar anguish of my body being ripped apart, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. About 8 hours and several secret thoughts of removing my (or Darren’s) reproductive organs with my own bare hands later, I will be holding my precious child in my arms and anticipating eating anything I want with no threat of heartburn. I will also have almost entirely forgotten what was so bad about it all in the first place. I’ll be a mom, again. And every time I meet one of my children, I feel like the luckiest person in the world. Who wouldn’t want that four times over?
Disclaimer: I love, love, love my children. I would have ten of them if I did not have to grow them inside of me for nine months. But I do, and it’s hard. And it gets harder every time. So hard, that I spent a week after finding out about #4 wondering if I could possibly survive another nine months of this again, as if I had a choice.
For me, it’s not so much about the physical hijacking of my body, despite the unimaginable discomfort, months of sleepless nights and a new painful ailment every month. My challenge is with my mental health; I struggle to remain recognizable and loveable, or at least tolerable, to my loved ones…and myself. Last night, Darren asked me what I was writing about. I said “pregnancy” and he said “are you writing mean things about me?” Poor guy. He deserves better than pregnant me. Our babies are my very best attempt at a peace offering; Thank you for putting up with me. Please accept this gift as a show of gratitude…and remorse.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I would bash those women who use pregnancy as an excuse to bitch and whine and make everyone around them miserable unless they are constantly catered to. Not me. I was blissful. Ok, that may be a stretch. Someone will surely call me on that, probably my sister-in-law who tells me that she knew I was pregnant due to the amount of sleeping, eating and whining I was doing. I suppose I wasn’t quite myself, but to the best of my knowledge, I could not have been happier. I remember the way it would suddenly strike me that my baby was growing inside of me, and I would smile and feel warm and tingly. I felt honored and blessed. And when someone would ask me how I was feeling I was always “great”. Never mind that I was puking every twenty minutes or so morning, noon and night, or that I was painfully tired but I couldn’t sit or lie down for fear of my body bursting into flames from the heartburn raging through my entire body like wildfire. “Great. I’m great. Thank you for asking.”
By my second pregnancy, I was still blissful and honored and blessed blah, blah, blah. But I quickly discovered that, ironically, pregnancy and children do not mix. This time around, I did not have the option of sleeping my way through my body’s inability to function sanely and rationally. Instead, I had to keep up with a three year old. I had to be alert and creative and patient and fun, in between all the puking. Have you ever tried puking with a three year old in your face asking you why you’re puking and “could you please stop and get me some juice”? Yeah, blissful.
Pregnancy #3; the novelty has worn off. We found out I was pregnant this time during our family vacation in Disney world. I was already well aware of it as the revolting signs that a baby is inside of me, sucking the life out of me, had now become unmistakable (to reiterate, I love, love, love my children). But I kept it to myself until Darren returned one morning with a pregnancy test (I guess he has his own unmistakable signs). It was an amazing and unforgettable trip, and despite my unbearable exhaustion and perpetual nausea , I spent the week dragging myself through every amusement park at Disney with a smile on my face, because, let’s face it, you can’t walk around being a miserable bitch in the happiest place on earth.
But once I was out of Mickey Mouse’s site and back to reality, I started to become a bit unglued. Now I had two demanding children to fend off, I mean take care of, despite my anguish. I also had a house with walls that were closing in on me at mere thought of an addition to our family, and a mother on her death bed whom I had to accept would never get to meet her latest grandchild and I’ll never even know if she heard me tell her the news that day when she was fighting for her life and they told us she might not make it through the night. It was too much. Certainly enough to break a lesser woman, but I was about to be the mother of three which meant this was no time show fear. And to be honest, I was truly afraid that if acknowledged every emotion that was threatening my well being at that time, it would have been harmful to my unborn child. But this time around, when someone asked how I was feeling, I was “Miserable! I’m over it! Screw you for asking”, more or less.
Considering some of these extenuating circumstances, which I have only just put into perspective as I write this, I feel somewhat justified in confessing that I did, in fact, unleash the beast during pregnancy #3. I remember quite a few episodes that left me wondering who this crazy fat bitch was that was running my life and praying that my loved ones would forgive me or assuring my children that their real mommy would be back soon. Like when we were house hunting and the crazy fat bitch demanded that my very kind, generous and obviously patient boyfriend “get me that house or I’m gonna be really pissed”, or when I started growling almost everything I uttered to my poor kids through clenched teeth just because they had the nerve to touch me or call me mommy. I wasn’t even aware of the teeth clenching thing until one day I heard Darren warn the kids not to make mommy use “the scary voice”.
And now, pregnancy #4. I have a pack of birth control pills in my cabinet that I requested after #3. I decided against starting them when Darren reminded me that they make me a little crazy. Neither of us anticipated we would be dealing with drastically crazy again so soon. And while life in general is far more manageable this time around, with a big, beautiful new home and my mother now at peace, most of the challenges and joys of pregnancy remain constant, and my sanity remains…hanging on by a thread.
As usual, I had just gotten back into my skinny jeans when I found out I was pregnant again. As usual I am forced to choose between not eating and dealing with the puking and migraine consequences, or eating and instantly feeling like my insides are a raging inferno. As usual, I am in a love/hate relationship with my children; I love, love, love them, but I hate the fact that 95% of their sentences begin with “mommy, I want…” “mommy I need…”, “mommy, where is my…” “MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY!!!!!!!!!!” As usual, I am wrought with guilt over not being able to “play” to the best of my ability or lie down with my daughter at night because laying down is not an option until around 11 p.m. when the heartburn has fizzled out. As usual, my brother and father are left speechless over the news of another child (anything beyond two is just inconceivable to them). As usual, I have baby mush brain which leaves me struggling with everything from a simple game of Candyland, to the basic “why does Cookie Monster eat his cookies like that?” type questions who’s answers once seemed so obvious to me. As usual, I find myself simultaneously snapping at my children and wanting to kick the crazy fat bitch’s ass for talking to my kids that way and putting that fearful look on their innocent little faces. And despite believing that I had held off on the crazy clenched teeth growling for much longer than usual until the other day when I snapped and then turned to Darren and proudly stated that that was the first time I had unleashed it, he was quick to point out, “No. No. You’ve been doing it for weeks.” And these days, if you ask me how I’m feeling, I can usually muster a “pretty good”.
It appears that writing this has been therapeutic as I awoke this morning with a renewed sense of calm after writing late into the night. While helping my daughter get ready for school today, Darren asked, “wait, where is all the yelling and arguing this morning?” I told her that I was sorry for being so grumpy when I’m pregnant and reminded her that it would help us both if she could be a bit more cooperative. She suggested that it would be even more helpful if I would say things like “Madeline, you don’t have to clean your room the whole time I’m pregnant.” Ah, the six year old art of negotiation.
Pregnancy is hard. Four pregnancies in seven years are downright agonizing. Those nine months are so seemingly eternal that the idea of the unbearably excruciating pangs of childbirth is eagerly anticipated. I genuinely enjoy labor because as soon as that first contraction comes on and I feel the familiar anguish of my body being ripped apart, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. About 8 hours and several secret thoughts of removing my (or Darren’s) reproductive organs with my own bare hands later, I will be holding my precious child in my arms and anticipating eating anything I want with no threat of heartburn. I will also have almost entirely forgotten what was so bad about it all in the first place. I’ll be a mom, again. And every time I meet one of my children, I feel like the luckiest person in the world. Who wouldn’t want that four times over?
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