New Parents

I have been reflecting on birth lately.  As if that is something normal that people sit around and think on, but nevertheless, I have been.

A few weeks ago, I got to hold a newborn baby in the hospital.  I got to watch as the purply little fingers changed to pink with time and much flexing. I got to feel the arm flails and kicks that were exactly the same out in the world, as they had been for months in utero.  I was amazed, not just by the darling baby, but by her parents as well.

Have you ever seen a woman after she has given birth?  There is never a time that a woman will look more beautiful.  I know, it sounds lame, but that is for real.  Radiating from the face of the mother is something so spectacular, that it makes her look different.  She will look like herself as she was meant to be.  The expression is not particularly smiley or proud, but it is as if all the crinkles of life beyond that moment are relaxed and the only thing left to read on her face is love.

And when the baby moves from arm to arm of goo-goo-eyed family members, the tie between mom and baby is still there.  It is so strongly present that it seems tangible, as if I could reach out a feel the string between their hearts.  Its not fear or anxiety that keeps them linked, but just that they haven't quite become two people yet.  Coming into the world doesn't immediately sever the oneness, as we think it does through physical actions, instead the becoming two separate people part is a gradual process and in some small way a never-ending one. The very stuff of our being is borrowed from our mothers, are we ever really distinctly apart from them?

And then there is the partner.  The one who is thrust into something so immediately and so completely without the surge of hormones and god-designed biochemistry of attachment, brought on by child bearing.  The partner doesn't have a baby, but they HAVE a baby.  It must be strange.  I can't truly fathom or appreciate that world, because what do I know of it.  Yet, I can't help but see it again in my head- the face of dads with new babies.  Amazement.  Its a look that says, "I knew it would work.  It just doesn't seem like that should have worked.  But it worked.  And now they are here."  My grandmother (due to a speech problem) often uses an adjective- "numbfounded".  It is the perfect word for the face of someone who has just seen a miracle.   It is there when they answer the nurse's questions, or stop to take a bite to eat, just this faraway look of wow.  

When I was six, my mom had a little boy.  I went to see them at the hospital and can only remember going out into the hallway so they could take my mom's IV port out and me not get squeamish.  I came back into the room a little worked up (at six I knew needles hurt, I had no concept of what child birth entailed), expecting my mom to be reacting like I had after my kindergarten booster shots.  But, there she was, a portrait of calm, delicately adjusting the blankets surrounding our brother.

It was another 13 years before I went to the hospital to see a new mom.  This time my eventual sister-in-law.  (Looking back, I can't believe she was okay with me, her brother's girlfriend, coming to see them.  But I am forever grateful that she did.)  It was so quiet in the room when we got there.  Neither parent was talking, they were just looking at their new baby.  We held the baby with such stiff arms they quivered under the seven pound bundle. And as they watched us holding their daughter, I saw those expressions, I just didn't know how to label them. 

The next time I was in the hospital with a newborn, it was my turn.  My husband took a picture of my son and I just after he was born.  It is my most beloved moment, and in it, is that look that I have only recently begun to decipher.

Less than a year after I had my son, my sister-in-law had another baby, this time a boy.  It was present there to.  The looks on both their faces, not weakened or diminished by multiple experiences.  Even with their other children present and the light-heartedness of their questions and musing.  Love.  And amazement.  Love.  And amazement.

Most recently I met my niece and as we made the nine hour drive back home afterward, my mind was swimming with all that had been stirred in me.  I kept seeing my sister's face as the baby cried and with a fountain of patience and tenderness, she just cuddled and talked to her new baby.  I kept hearing her husband say, "She was amazing. She was incredible."  Desperate to make meaning out of all I was feeling and thinking, I began plotting this blog post, but all I could truly nail down was- there is nothing like a new born baby.  And there is nothing like their parents either.




I also keep coming back to this quote from Call the Midwife:

 

This post is inspired by and dedicated to: my brother, my nieces, my nephews, and my son.

 

Felt, Glue, and Sweatpants

Last time I wrote, I was reflecting on my entrance into the world of mom, as if I had reached some pinnacle of nerdiness, but what did I really know?

On October 30th, at 10:00 pm, I found myself baking goodies for my son's Halloween party at school.  I cut the rice crispy treats apart and wrapped them quickly.   I still had a costume to make. 

At 11:00 pm, as I sewed the tail onto my son's Mickey Mouse shorts, I was again hit in the face with that feeling of being so...mom.  If my tone is negative, it is not intentional.  Each time I have this realization wash over me, the only feeling I have is complete surprise.   I don't think anyone can picture themselves gluing ears onto a headband in the late hours of the evening, nearly falling asleep in the process and therefore getting glue EVERYWHERE.  Even when I daydreamed about the future, this was a moment so insignificant that it warranted no time in the dreamscape. And yet when I found myself there it was absurdly normal and yet utterly shocking.  

Transition into mom-itude has been my greatest adventure.  Never before I have I become something different than I always have been. And yet still been just the same.  It is a strange dual reality that I have just recently entered into.  My years ahead are going to be filled with the beautiful mundane realities of child-raising, the incredible life-chaning moments that come with watching a tiny version of my DNA grow, learn, and become a person, and all the while some strange and wonderful blending of myself and my momself, will continue to occur.  Bringing me ever closer to earning the title, "Mama".

I have attached photos of the three Halloween costumes I have made for my son since his birth.  Each costume was made with felt, glue, and sweatpants.  (and love.)  This is the apex of my skill set.  The purchasing of over-priced costumes is in my very near future.  

The attachable turtle shell  (1 month old)

Han Solo (1 year old)

Mickey Mouse (2 year old)

Glimmering Mom-Nerd

They say that having a child changes you.  I knew and believed this when my husband and I contemplated bringing a baby into this world.  I knew that in immeasurable ways I would develop love, patience, and gratefulness unthinkable to my childless-self.  That internal dialogue was more than three years ago, and now, in throws of toddlerhood it just struck me again.

Have you ever looked at a mom and thought-what happened to you?  When did you become such a dork?  How you become so mom?

I think, dear friends, this is the change that all the "they"s have been talking about.

I ushered in the weekend with my son cuddled on my lap, bowl of popcorn in one hand, remote in the other.  I scrolled through the netflix options waiting for the "dat one!" seal of approval from my son.  I went through the tolerable movies but "No. No. No." was all I got.  Continuing to scroll and watching the choices get more and more painful, I finally heard the screetching that meant he had made his choice- Beverly Hills Chihuahua 3: Viva la Fiesta!

We watched the whole thing.  It was awful, but, on some weird level,  I didn't hate it.

My son also loves singing the classic nursery rhyme songs, but with his speech delays, he cannot sing them himself, so he demands that I sing them.  It is a sweet and simple thing to do together, but there are only so many times I can sing "Itsy Bitsty Spider", so looking for a reprieve I fired up the Pandora Kids station.  It was two hours after I pressed play that it dawned on me, that these high-pitched jams had been blasting, and I have barely noticed.  Some of the same kids songs that used to make my skin hurt when I would babysit in my teens, were now tolerable, and in-fact not so unpleasant. In fact, we both clapped with "C is for Cookie" came on. 

Something is happening here.  I may still watch documentaries and weird indie movies that leave me feeling confused and doubtful of reality after 8 pm, but in daylight its cgi dogs making jokes and getting into shenanigans in a hotel.  I am like a vampire, but less cool.  Dark and interesting by night and glimmering, mom-nerd in the daylight.

And so I wrap up this post because the hokey pokey is on.  And dangit..

How to Succeed at Concerts While Really Flippin' Trying

I took a toddler to a concert. Maybe not my best idea, but I learned some valuable tips that I will share to other parents who also happen to like going to shows.

1.  Check the ticket policy.  I walked into the venue, little man strapped to my chest, and approached the will-call window.  I gave the lady my id and she gave me an envelope with one ticket in it.  "You need a ticket for that baby", she says unflinching.  "Oh, no, he doesn't need a seat, he will be on my lap the whole time." I retort.  "Doesn't matter.  He needs a ticket."  She starts typing on her magic ticket machine and informs me that there are not two empty seats next to each other.  Quickly, my eyes well up with tears.  I had drove several hours, with a toddler, bundled him in a carrier, it was past his bed time, I was overwhelmed, oh, and I was doing this alone. Seeing the panic on my face, a manager took sympathy and wrote me what was essentially a seat pass and let me in.

2. EVERYBODY will have something to say (with their words or actions).  My general life motto is fly under the radar, but dadgum if I wasn't a spectacle in that crowd.  Inquisitive looks in the lobby were unsettling so I rushed in to auditorium.  I took my seat.  When my son bumped into the lady next to me, she stood up and switched with the person she came with.  Later, when his foot bumped her leg, she picked it up and moved it.  Irritation and judgment all over her face.  Feeling beaten down, I snuck out before the intermission and stood alone in the lobby to collect my thoughts and debate staying. Not more than five minutes later, the crowds flooded into the lobby.  A sweet woman sought me out and tapped my shoulder, "I love that you brought your child.  His little happy sounds were great!" she grinned. A few others smiled and made nice comments.  I should have been able to revel in them, but I was stuggling to get over the initial experience with my seat neighbor. and the lady at will call.

3. Stuff every pocket with fruit snacks.  Fruit snacks are a real treat in our house, even the fruit and veggie kind are limited to every once in a while.  When he started to churn and get antsy (and loud), out came the fruit snacks and all silence befell upon us.  Mistakenly, I only had one pack, next time, I will have ten.

4. Accept that you will not be comfortable.  I had tried holding my son on my lap, but he got squirmy and didn't want to sit still any longer.  I put him back in the carrier, but I could not sit down.  I creatively tried to lean on things or rest a cheek on the chair rail, but alas, comfort was not mine to have.  With my 30 pound babe strapped to my chest, I took my place in the dark eaves of the concert hall, and gave in to the mama sway.  For 90 minutes, we swayed, sang, and affirmed my initial motivations in undertaking this challenge- sharing something meaningful with my son, because ever since he was born I have wanted to show him the world and beautiful things it took me nearly 30 years to discover.

5. If you feel like going somewhere, even if it is somewhere that is severely inconvenient with a toddler but going there will restore some part of yourself that may have been unfed since becoming a parent, try it.  It may be really hard most of the time, but perhaps you too will leave with a memory of dancing your child to sleep with their little head on your chest as you sing:

Cheers parents!  May your children know good music and may your lyrical soul be satisfied.

Lyrics from "Method Acting/Cortez the Killer" by the Dave Rawlings Machine.  Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxPTQDP2bRQ

A Quick Update

Today my son peed in the potty and jammed/lost a cd in the VCR.

Winning.

Treating the Fever

It is summer time.  Everyone at every public place I go to is pregnant and beautiful.  A-line dresses and belted tops abound and I start to get the fever.  

Baby fever.

Admittedly, I have had the fever for a while and this post comes out something like a confession.  I know that babies (and God) laugh at our human-y life plans, but that does not stop us from making them.  My husband and I had a plan.  It was create baby two in the spring/summer of 2014.  "But wait, Ms. Fartsonparade", you may be asking yourself, "are you up the spout now?"

"No", is the answer to that question.

I have a handful of dreams and aspirations in my life.  Chiefly among them, are to grow our family and to grow in my education/knowledge.  And wouldn't you know it-the two are pitted against each other.

The plan to expand our brood in spring of 2014, was made so our kids would be nicely spaced apart, I would get a year off from using my body to feed or house another human, and it is such a freaking miracle to carry a child and deliver them into the world and we felt ready to do that again.

In the same month that it was okay to let this baby become a possibility, I got an offer. The most generous and needed offer I have ever been given-a chance to get a FREE master's degree from a leading university that would help me specifically with teaching urban students.  (If you are wondering why I need help with this, see Reflections on My First Year of Teaching in an Urban School)

I panicked.  Here were two things I had laid awake at night dreaming about.  Hoping for.  And both possibilities were open to me, and I had no idea what to do.

Initially, I decided to decline the offer to keep with our family plan, citing that family is more important than work, but decided I should complete the application process anyway, thinking that if my application was not chosen, then I wouldn't really have to make a decision.
 
In order to apply for the program, I needed take the GRE. I spent 30-90 minutes each night studying and taking practice tests.  Stretching my brain and learning something new, felt refreshing and welcome.  And when I finally took the exam and passed, the delight I felt should have indicated my true desire.

But still I felt torn and confused.  
 
Then I talked to my husband, for real.  We had talked about all of it a million times before, but it felt unresolved, so I started to hash it all out again.  What I thought would be a long and painful process turned out to be a brief and cherished moment of our marriage.  Tearfully and honestly, I told him I wanted to pursue the program.  To invest in myself, but I admitted that I felt guilty for doing this for me and sad about missing out on bringing a new baby home in the next year-ish.  But what he said next mended my heart and gives me motivation to start this program in two weeks.  He said, "We are not losing a baby now. Whatever baby is born later?  That one will be ours, and that will be the baby we love."

Cheers, blogosphere.  This mama is starting graduate school.

Reflections On My First Year Of Teaching In An Urban School

Friday was the last day of the school year.  After lots of hugs and high-fives, I stood in front of my school with all my fellow teachers and waved and cheered our students out into the world for summer.  After sending them on their way we celebrated with a faculty cookout and toasted our veterans who decided to move on to their next adventure.  Then all the teachers headed up to their rooms to begin the checklist of tasks that are required before a teacher's school year is over.  I, however, went outside and sat in my car.  In total silence.  For 30 minutes.  Just stunned at what a year it has been.

This was my first year in an urban school.  Having attended a variety of rural schools as a student, including one of the top five smallest schools in the great commonwealth of Pennsylvania, I was unaware of what to expect.  It was nothing like the experience of Michelle Pfeiffer or Hillary Swank in their happy ending movies.  This year was a bit more Stand and Deliver, but without the intense math instruction and the ensuring of the better livelihood for 50 eighteen-year-olds in Los Angeles.  It was something all it's own.

I asked for this urban teaching job.  I taught for three years in a suburban school, that was challenging for it's own reasons, but I always felt a pull to support my community and teach in my neighborhood school.  My motivation for working in an urban school comes from the heart and with good intentions.  Believing so strongly in the ideal, "I want to be a positive, stable adult in their lives," that I probably declared it in my job interview. 

And when the kids rolled in on that first day, I said it again to myself,  "I want to be a positive, stable adult in their lives."  I tried to keep reminding myself of that as my classroom management fell to pieces over the coming weeks, and as I filled out office referral after office referral.   I chanted it again as I looked over the failing grades on the benchmark assessment. I muttered it when winter break seemed like it would never come and my students were as cold and unwelcoming as the weather.

I tried everything I could think of to reach my students, both on a human level and an educational one.  I designed creative activities and planned field trips, but my class discussions became opportunities to show out and put others down.  My "fun ideas" became belabored tasks.  But I soldiered on.

Believing that all children should see some part of themselves reflected in their education, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea.  Instead of using boring sentences like, "Sally jumped up.", I decided to use quotes from many famous people as a way to teach how to use quotation marks.  Monday, Tuesday ,Wednesday, were a breeze, but then came Thursday.  When my students read a respectable quote about not judging people by Lil Wayne, the intellectual discussion about how it is important to know a person before making a judgment about them, did not occur.  What did happen is about fifteen kids began rapping loudly and off rhythm about "smokin' weed".  (hashtag:outtatouch) And so instead of teaching the correct punctuation, I spent fifteen minutes trying get my class settled down.

Shortly there after I sought out advice from my administrator about respect.  What respect looked like when I was on the other side of the desk was much different that what I was receiving as the instructor.  I carefully expressed concern about how students often huffed and puffed and stomped their feet when given directions or asked to do something.  She said, "That is how they see adults fight for power and they feel powerless in their lives."  I took that to heart and repeated, "I want to be a positive, stable adult in their lives."

This creed got its greatest challenge in February.  After constantly correcting a child for their behavior, the child spouted, "You are a racist."  And before I could put on my brave teacher face, my non-teacher-just-human-eyes welled with tears and my cheeks flushed, but again, "positive, stable adult" came back to me.  I explained what that word truly means and stated plainly that that was not who I was.  I cried the whole way home and a few mornings after that, but for the next 85 days, I smiled at this child and kept teaching.

I tried so many strategies and hot ideas that I felt emotionally exhausted.  I could not come up with a way to reach these children as people. 

The ending of this story is not that we all got along fantastically and I was actually Miss Honey from Matilda and I adopted the smartest child in my class, but the ending is one that fills me with hope.

As I had reached an emotional pit of despair, I gave up all fancy strategies and hot ideas from internet searches.  I began talking with my students as they were waiting in line for the restroom.  At most there would be about ten of them there.  As a small group, we managed to have casual discourse about weekend happenings and sibling rivalries while using our inside voices. It happened so inconsequentially that I truly thought nothing of it until a week later, when I noticed one particular kid not acting quite as particularly challenging.

In college, each want-to-be-teacher is made acutely aware of the line between teacher and friend.  Fear of lawsuits and false claims instilled a wall of me and you.  Eliminating the idea of an us- a family word, a friend word, a two or more people together word.  Fear of crossing some imaginary line is still very real for me, but I could not go on like before.  I would not have been able to survive trying so hard to be separate from them if something didn't give. 

We spent the last month of the year on a poetry book project.  I decided to make one, too.  I wrote an example poem for each new topic and shared little pieces of my heart with them: the love of my family, the intrigue of nature, and how music has played an important role in my life.  As the unit continued my students shared more with me about their hearts. 

When the state test scores came in, I didn't gripe through clenched teeth, "I want to be a positive, stable adult in their lives."  I felt no mantra.  I looked at the scores and then stopped looking at them.  I went on to do something else.  The scores were not good, but the scores were not my students.  They were playing basketball, and obsessing over minecraft and watching Disney Channel XD.  They were origami, skating, and Takis.  They were small and scared and brave and learning.  

And I almost didn't see it.  

The year nearly slipped by without me really seeing my students and without them really seeing me.  What a tragedy to have gone unseen for months!  I sat there in my car thinking all these things and feeling the pressure of how to do a better job next year when it hit me.  Defining myself by two criteria: positive and stable, kept me from other, necessary things.  My good intentions (you know what they say about them) had not been sufficient.  As I put the car in reverse, I settled into a new mantra.  I drove out of the parking lot, over 500 index cards that a child let fly out of a bus window, looked back at the school in the rear view and thought, next year, "I want to be me."

I Want To Be A Writer

Not in a, "I want to quit my job tomorrow" way, but in a quiet, genuine way.

I have been narrating through my journey of motherhood for over two years.  I enjoy sharing the day-to-day blood and guts of what it means to be a mom, but I always feel there is more to say.  And then I think, who wants to read the inner workings of my brain?  Not that I am so concerned with how I will be received, but I have this guilt about being self-gratifying and indulgent.  Then I struggle to take myself seriously.  Even now, as I edit these words the voice in my head is Carrie Bradshaw's and I envision that this is not an open jar of peanut butter next to me (that I am eating by the finger-swipe-full), but instead, some fancy red wine that I drink while nestled in my white, down comforter.

I also fear that I will contribute to the mountains of empty words that have been freely given to the internet's users.  I loathe most circulated blog posts- catchy titles for articles excusing people's shitty behavior.  I don't want to be another contributor to the masses of unfounded opinions and half-inspired stories.  So it is with fear that I admit that I want to jump onto this ship.

As someone who has anxiety, I have learned enough about myself to know, that my anxiety is greatest when I am trying to shut myself up.  Trying to quiet the stirring of ideas and options in my mind, and resisting newness, make my problems greater.

Yet, still I want to write.  

I did something crazy and applied for graduate school, not for writing, but for teaching.  I am nearing 30 and have one child under two.  I work full time and my husband has a job that requires a lot of travel.  Everything is nuts right now, but I really hope I get in.

I went to the campus last week to see some of the work the current students are doing and I was so inspired.  Walking the halls of academia, even using the lavatories of academia, rejuvenated me!  Things were quiet there.  All the learners were there on their own volition.  I remembered studying.  I remembered I was a thinker.  I remembered I was a scholar.  A spark of pre-mom me was awakened.  A spark I had ignored in recent years.  The spark of seeking knowledge and using my brain in creative and constructive ways.

I left that night feeling so much.  I wanted to write it all down, so I decided to start a new blog.  Some other anonymous channel full of philosophy, musings, short stories, and poems.  But as I pulled into my driveway, thinking of my son inside, it hit me.  I truly believed that my creative-self and mom-self were so separate from each other they each deserved their own web address. 

Sinking into this realization, I saw the fatal flaw of dividing myself in half.  I felt the heaviness of realizing that I already had.  I made a decision to put it all together.  To be both a mom and artist. (I use that term very loosely.)  I will allow myself to be both those things.  

So with that- Farts on Parade will be adding some new subject matter to the pages.  Not all the time and it probably won't be good (at least not for a while, writing takes practice), I am going for it.  I will still write about my little bubba and his antics, as this blog is my love letter to him, but perhaps a little snippet of my writer's dreams will come along with it.

Destination Destin

Photo Credit: Emerald Coast CVB

Ahh, Destin, Florida.


I am not a vacationere (a word that I made up to sound fancy, that means, "Someone who frequently takes vacations to beautiful and exotic places").  The last three vacations I have taken in the last six years, have all been to the same place: Destin.  As you may have predicted from the title, I am there now.  Sitting quietly, trying to eat all the leftover food and drink the leftover wine that cannot make the trip home tomorrow, and I am finding myself feeling more than a little reflective.

My first trip to this area was in 2008.  My then-boyfriend-now-husband and I made the trip in a wildly unreliable car with less than fifty dollars in spending money.  We stayed at a really special little hotel that ran us a tab of $29.99 a night and ate sandwiches every meal.  We laid around on the beach and felt like we were a million miles away.  We were young and amused by both the people and the spectacle of the touristy town.  I specifically remember one day of laying on the beach, mostly asleep, marveling in the newly acquired freedom in my life.  I was happy.

Fast forward two years, and again I am on the Emerald Coast.  This time with my husband and in-laws.  I was three months pregnant.  Just preggo enough to look fat, but not cute and round.  I wrote a blog post then about my swimsuit mishap (How I Ended Up Flashing on Spring Break), but that is not the only memory I have of that trip.  We had all gone down to the beach, and my father-in-law sprung for the rental umbrella and beach chairs (we had longed for them last time).  I climbed in into the chair and covered myself up in a towel.  I daydreamed about our baby.  When I wasn't doing that,  I was reading one of the three Louis Erdrich books (which soothe my soul) that I had brought along, and I occasionally looked up from my book to find my husband tromping through the waves in his own version of beach joy.  And I was happy.

And now, here we are again, another two years later, this time with an 18-month-old kiddo in tow.  We knew we were not treading into easy territory with the long car ride, studio-style hotel room where we can all see each other all the time, and a first introduction to the sand and saltwater, but we wanted to spend sometime together as a family and share with him something that was special to us.  Each interaction with water was only minutely better then the one before.  He was still crying in the pool at day five, but there was no more screaming.  The beach also took some getting used to.  There was a lot of confusion and hysteria, and it wasn't always just the baby.  It can be very draining to contain a child in certain circumstances.

The night before leaving, we found a great little local coffee shop called, Starbucks, maybe you've heard of it?  This one was real fancy-inside of a Target.  We sprung for Ventis and hit the beach at dusk.  Walking down to the shore, our son's wind-up started.  It is a combination of turning into a screaming noodle if he is being held, or a limp, leg-less, scream machine if he is holding hands and walking.  We scooped him up, made a few long strides, and quickly sat down facing the water.  After a few seconds,  he realized we weren't going to make him go in the water, and he calmed.  He reached down and grabbed handfuls of sand (something that took us days to convince him was ok) and he began to amuse himself.  The screeching stopped.  He started to chatter at us and laugh at the feeling of the sand.  We admired the silhouette of him and immediately forgot about the screaming, that had ended just minutes before.  My husband and I began to quiet.  Really quiet.  We sat there in the dark, drinking our cold coffee, looking back between the water receding into the dark horizon and collection of stars we had forgotten existed since we moved to a city.  Meanwhile, our son walked in circles around us lovingly putting fistfuls of sand onto both of our heads.  And we were happy.

Super Saturday

Sometimes I doubt my ability as a Mom.  

I am a fine the-stuff-of-life-mom.  The doctor-appointment-making, food-prepping, make-it-to-work-on-time-mom.

But not Mom.

You know, that magical creature who manages to pull off powerful and meaningful life experiences daily.  Mom who does holiday crafts.  Mom who joyously learns all the words to every kid's song.

This is not a cynical or judgemental view of these incredible women, it is just aspiration.

All mom's have guilt.  We are given it free-of-charge with the birth of our children.  And us working moms, have a special brand of guilt.  Often failing to realize that the happy moments of laying (exhausted) on the floor, allowing our child(ren) to jump on our stomachs while laughing hysterically, counts as meaningful and valuable together time.  I know that I feel inadequate because on many days I see my son for 2.5 hours a day.  That is a small number.  It is very hard not to feel guilty about it.  The other 21.5 hours are spent sleeping or at daycare. Which makes that ability to be Mom, feel like an impossible task.

But as I mentioned, it can be a great motivator.  

Last Saturday, I planned a Mom and son day.  We got up in the morning, and I packed everything under the sun to be prepared for our day of adventures.  He rode around in the backpack carrier while we shopped for books.  He sat across from me at the table of the chicken-fil-a delightedly eating his chicken and yogurt, laughing and engaged in a pretend discussion with me.  He dozed as we made the long drive to the rural park where we would spend the day.  We scaled the playground.  We chased the ducks.  My son ate some duck pellets, so did the ducks.  We walked 5 miles along a beautiful river, feeling the fresh air and sunshine and letting ourselves be restored.  Blissful in this time of quiet engaged-ness with my son, I began to feel like Mom.  

After the 5 mile loop, we went back to the car, loaded up, and started home.  I passed back some crackers and water and contendedly we made the long drive home.  As we neared our neighborhood, a thought popped into my mind.

Oh.my.

I had not changed his diaper...all day.  That diaper was 8 hours in the trenches. 

I pulled into the driveway and knew what I was in store for as I went around to the side door to open it.  Grinning in the seat, was my soggy drenched son.  Wet through his clothes, and sitting in a pee-soaked car seat, was my urine-coated-happy-boy.

Here's to you Moms.  

I am not there yet.  But I am trying.

Why I Am Actually Grateful I Got A Bad Stomach Virus and Had To Spend The Day Alone With an 18-Month-Old

I got a stomach virus on Saturday night.  I felt the anger in my stomach start to brew, so I took a handful of tums and went to bed.  In hopes of sleeping it off, I squeezed my eyes shut tight and dared not move.  However, 6:00 AM appeared and I was flinging the blankets off and heading to the bathroom.

Sparing you the details, I will just say I had to be in there about five times an hour for most of the day.  Add to that that my husband had to work and could not get anyone to cover for him and I was home alone with our 18-month-old.  

It was an interesting day.  I had to create a number of diversions to get a few minutes in the bathroom without my darling boy.  It mostly resulted in him eating copious amounts of animal crackers.  

Anyone who has had a stomach virus knows that it completely wipes you out.  Energy is gone.  Heartbeats in your head.  Zero strength.  So, I spent the day laying around watching our son.

It was the first time, maybe in his whole life, that I just watched him.  I wasn't trying to cook dinner, trying to get ready for the next day, wasn't trying to clean, wasn't even trying to watch a show, or check my email.  I just watched and I was amazed.

I laid curled on the couch while he destroyed the living room, ripping toys from the toybox, tearing clean, folded, laundry from the baskets, and dumping his snack cup crumbs onto the rug.  Our house was being completely destroyed and in my sick state, I did not follow behind cleaning up his messes, I just laid among it and watched.

My son would walk over to something, investigate it, then start to take it apart.  Upon prompting, he would put it all back exactly were it was.  Then start all over.  Then he would come stand by me for a minute to check in, then he would go repeat this cycle of destruction somewhere new.

As the day went on, he would cuddle me and watch cartoons.  He would feed me his snacks.  He would respond (in nonsense words) "I love you, too" when I told him how much I loved him.

At 11:15, I had no choice, but to give him a cup of milk and put him in his crib.  I was nearly in tears with guilt listening to him babble and jabber while I laid in bed.  Eventually we both gave in to sleep and woke no worse for the wear.  

Later, I took him out to the deck where he played with sticks and grilling tongs, while I again laid there watching.  I noticed that he would look back and check to see if I was still there and still watching him.  He would do this every few seconds and he would look at me with the most trusting look, as if to say, "I can play with this seat cushion because you are here and you are looking out for me."  

As the night came over us and illness raged on, I put him in the tub for a 40 minute bath, which is ideal because the tub is a fun place to play and it is toilet adjacent.  He played in the tub and looked at me with that look again.  He would look at me longer than adults look at each other.  We avert our eyes after a few seconds.  Especially when there is no dialogue between us.  But not children.  My son would just hold the look, really looking at me.  And I looked back at him, feeling like I had never really, really, looked at him.  Like looked into his eyes and into his person.  

By bedtime, we were nestled into a mess of blankets on the couch watching Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood and feeling as connected as when he first arrived. 

I am grateful for his independence and the development of his own identity that have blossomed in the last year and half, but failed to realize how much he trusts me.  Truly trusts me.  And what stirred me the most, was realizing that this is not new.  It is the same trust he had on his first day here on the planet, but I had gotten busy and forgotten it.  Laying there too sick to be busy, I saw it and felt that reciprocal feeling come back.  That mutual love and dedication to the other, which I lost in chaos of raising a toddler who seemingly takes more from me than gives back.  I knew he loved me, but lost the feeling.  I know now that that is wrong, his love is a quiet trust and faith that mom and dad are the best, most special people on Earth, who are bottomless fountains of love and patience.  But that that couldn't be so if they weren't there watching. Returning the look that means, "Yes, you can do that because I am here to protect you, because I love you."

An Old Married Couple

This is a pregnancy and parenting blog, but for those of you who are in a relationship and you have kids, you ultimately learn that those worlds are intersecting and will become a jumbled tangle, also known as your life.  Parenting is not it's own entity.  Marriage is not it's own, either.  This is how I learned this lesson.

Over Christmas break, some lovely friends came to visit.  They stayed for several days and we enjoyed exploring our city and spending time with them.  They are couple who have been together for two years and are beautifully caught up in each other's love.  Their physical proximity never strays more than a few feet apart and they have this look of general delight at the existence of the other.  It was sweet.  

And then it hit me...I had not so much as kissed my husband that entire day! How did this happen?  How did we become...an old married couple?

My husband and I were lucky enough to meet early in life.  We were spared the journey of time and miles searching for each other.  We met in middle school.  In high school, I fell in love with him and 11 years later, I am still in love with him.  

We have been married almost four years and have a good life.  Yet, seeing our friends still falling in love, made me feel something like sadness.  I wanted it back.  I wanted the hand holding and the offering to hold doors and the long looks, and the tenderness.  I wanted it back.  

So, naturally, I tried to recreate it.  Standing close, sitting close, all of it.  You know how that went?  We tripped over each other in the kitchen, got super mad at a restaurant, and had a tearful argument when everyone else was sleeping.  It was a lot of stress and emotions and when I thought about it, it was all something I made up.  I let jealousy in and I got bit.  Even as it was happening, I knew better, but the wave continued to crash over me, until I was upside down, freaking out, and had a mouthful of sand.  I thought of all the articles and blogs that blow up my social media feeds about how women are princesses and men should do this, that and the other thing to please them.  While I don't take issue with these things inherently (a man should honor his wife), I feel that these messages teach us to be dissatisfied.  To be thinking only of ourselves.  Sure, I would love back rubs and surprise dates, but really, what I want is someone to unload the dishwasher now and then and listen to me talk about how my day was.  

I saw our friends' budding life together, and I started thinking of what I wanted and forgot about what I had- a husband who fixes everything that breaks, a husband who works insane hours for the good of our family, a person who loves me as the disheveled, perpetually exhausted, anxiety-ridden, no-make-up-wearing-self.  We may have left behind the elaborate dates, but we became a couple who works together to achieve our respective goals. We may have left behind the physical closeness we used to know, but we became a married couple who carried each other through job loss, a car accident, a cancer diagnosis, and lost family members.  We became an old married couple who loved each other so much, there was enough left over to make an entirely new human being.

Potty Problems

There were some parenting decisions and obstacles I had mentally prepared for before the arrival of my first born.  There were other future dilemas that I was at least aware of.  The one thing that I forgot to think about and make some sort of plan for, was bathroom time.

I grew up in a house where bathroom doors were always shut tight.  I like it that way.  I have known my husband for eleven years and the thought of using the facilities with the door open and him being home, makes my skin hurt.  I have a very Eliott Reid policy on potty time. 

Then I became a mom.  In my first few weeks as new mom, I brought my son to the bathroom with me every time I had to go.  Terrified to leave him out of my sight for a minute, he would lay patiently on the bathroom rug while I took care of things.

Shortly there after, there was this beautiful and fleeting time where I could leave him in the living room and go to bathroom...alone.  I left the door open so I could hear him, but again, it was just me and the porcelain throne.  

Several months later, the babe was mobile.  He kept close tabs on his mama and always followed her into the loo.  I could usually give him a hair brush or his tub toys and he would be contented.

But now friends, things are different.  As the aforementioned stages were occurring, I thought nothing of them.  I thought nothing of this mom and baby bathroom time extravaganza, until a week ago.

I went on a camping trip with some moms and babies.  It was a delightful time where everyone was always snacking and napping.  I went to use the bathroom and did not want to leave my child screaming on the other side of the door for the other moms to deal with, so I let him in.  He was wandering around opening cupboard doors and investigating, while I was on the john.  Then with the pride in his eyes, that only comes when a child thinks they have done something novel and kind, he tore off some toilet paper and handed it to me. He just stood there, beaming, holding out his little scrap of an offering.  Smiling, I reached to accept his gift and he giggled joyously when I took the paper from him.

I quickly got off the pot and nudged him out the door, while I washed my hands and started thinking things through.  My first thought?  "Oh no.  He is going to have some fleeting memories of being in the bathroom with his mother and being an active part of her human processes."  Everything after that is a thought about scaring him for life. I vowed, to try to use it alone from here on out.

Skip ahead two days, and you will find us in the bathroom of the Cost Cutters.  My husband has a razor up to his head and cannot watch little man so that I can pee.  (I should mention that my ability to "hold it" has suffered greatly since childbirth.)So, there I am, holding my son on my lap, while I am using the komode.  I would have put him down, but he doesn't understand "no" very well, and the bathroom was too big for me try to keep tabs on him while I was sitting.  Plus he would touch everything. Great.  I made it two days without potentially ruining his life.

I really don't know what to do.  I don't know what is okay and what is the stuff of repressed memories and mommy-issues.  Any ideas?

Mine.

Lately, my son reminds me of this cat.

photo courtesy of reddit

Let me explain.

My sixteen-month-old little booger has recently become very possessive, NOT possessed, please note the difference in suffix and level of terror.  And what is he most possessive of? 

ME.

Yes, my physical being. My attention.  My love.  My food.  My bathroom time.  My laundry.  My utensils. 

Everything that is mom's must also be baby's.  Or so he believes.

We went to visit family for the holidays, and that is precisely the moment that my kid decided that he owned me and no one else should even interact with me, let alone look at me for too long.  And how dare I give someone other than him attention?

This developmental change is equal parts adorable and exhausting. I love seeing him light up for me, hug me, and try to tickle me to make me laugh.  He could be in a room of the friendliest grandma-type women and kids his own age, and he would always pick me.  Unless there were puppies.  Then he would definitely pick puppies.

It is sweet to be the object of your child's adoration.

What makes it hard is when I am trying to cook him something to eat and he is standing next to me, pulling my pant legs, screaming, and banging his head on the cupboards, because I am paying attention to the food and not to him.  A few days ago, he bit my husband's hand because it was resting on my shoulder.  If I get a hug from anyone, it sets him off in a fit of hollering. Just yesterday, I was loving on a friend's sweet daughter, while my child was smacking his head with his open hands and whining from afar.

His displeasure with my apparent free-flowing love has become almost debilitating at points.  It causes him great distress to see me sharing close physical proximity to other people, so I often abandon those positions in an effort to assure him that things are fine, but I don't really know if that is the right move.  He will eventually figure out that people can love more than one person at time, but am I supposed to teach him that now?  I am to ride this out and hope he comes out of it ok?  Or should I just take lots of video of his undying love for old Mom and embarrass him with it at age sixteen?

Suggestions?

Name Game

I read this article with fine-toothed comb, and loved every minute of it. I thought I would share it.

http://www.waitbutwhy.com/2013/12/how-to-name-baby.html

p.s. please note this is NOT my work.