Mother's Day

(I sent this essay to my mother for Mother's Day this year)

Every year for Mother’s Day I walk the aisles of Target, peruse Etsy, and search Pintrest for the right gift.  Every year, the options fall short, because what is the kind of gift that says “I am sorry for giving you lice”?  Mother’s Day is tomorrow and my mom is still washing her bedding and replacing hair brushes.  What kind of gift could possibly negate the damaging effects of having been given an invasive parasite?

My mom’s favorite Mother’s Day gifts were the handprint crafts we made at school.  Add in some googly eyes or some cotton balls and that craft was definitely a keeper!  Being 32-years-old, it seems like a reach to break out a stamp pad and some construction paper, but what then do you give to say, “Look at the life you made!  Good job!”? 

While head lice is the most recent of the inconveniences afforded my mom by her children, it is not the worst of it.  I can think back to time when my siblings and I all had the chicken pox, one right after another, leaving my mom with at least one whiny, fevered, and grumpy child for a full six weeks.   Or the multiple times she (alone) made 12-hour drives with the three of us in tow (and on multiple years at least one kid was in diapers). Not to mention the last-minute costumes, forgotten permission slips, dirty laundry, the homework, the bleeding knees, the stomach viruses, the dates of the sporting events, the beautiful flowers planted years ago in anticipation of a spring bloom brought into the house in the dirty fist of a child, packed lunches, that year I grew four inches and had to get new clothes and shoes (twice), oh, and that other time I brought home head lice.

The things we have done to our moms. 

Since becoming a mom, I have found myself scrubbing vomit out of car seats, or lying in the cold tub with a fevered child, or losing a lot of sleep due my children’s bad dreams.  In those fearful, exhausting, and frustrating moments, I think of my own mom and I think- I know what to do because it was done for me.  

In my efforts to find the right gift, it finally dawned on me- the only gift I could give my mother, is love my children well.  To repress the gagging and smile at the sad, sick boy with his head in the trash can.  To sit next to my daughter’s bed at 2:30 am and rub her back, soothe, and assure her.  To stop what I am doing and savor because these are very moments that will float back to my children’s consciousness when the sweet weight of parenting lands on them.  When the decision to choose self or other is before them, they will, without thought, pick up the child covered in bodily fluid and love them well.

Facing (my biggest) Fear

A few months ago my son got lost at the beach.  So lost that we had to call 911.  The next month, my daughter was incoherent, burning up with fever, and ended up in the ER.  I started a long detailed blog post about those events, but in usual form, I didn't finish it.  It felt cathartic to write out what had happened, but it didn't feel good to read it.

The purpose of writing it was to acknowledge my deepest fear.  The fear of losing a child. It is a fear that lives in all parents and motivates us to fight endlessly for our children's survival, but it is not a sentence that we say out loud.  I feel that many people like me, fear the fear of that fear.  But what is that?  Fearing the fear that is caused by a fear? I have had enough cognitive behavioral therapy to know that that is load of crap and I have been challenging that fear recently.

After facing two situations where losing a child became a real possibility, the retaining wall I had built around that fear began crumbling.  And I was left facing it.  It is possible to lose a child.  It is possible for me to lose my child.

When it was my turn to step to that line of possibility, I felt myself at a decision.  While my breath escaped me and heart raced, my mind was on high alert and working beyond normal bounds. In both crises I went into action recalling all the tips and tools offered to me over a life of experiences.  I remembered in blaring clarity to activate a team of people to help find my son.  I found myself laying in a cold bath with my daughter, yet I don't remember undressing or turning on the tap.  Each word of advice from parents before me was accessible and ready for use.

I felt fear in those moments, but I also felt this great perseverance.  There was no stopping or giving up or thinking of myself, there was only action and energy and focus.  In both of these situations, the fear that has haunted me since my first positive pee test, stood before me. And while it existed as rapid breathing and shaky fingers, it had no power over my mind.

To have both situations resolve with the best possible outcome has brought me gratefulness and joy- two things that are opposite of fear.  Those feelings have stayed with me.  They forced me out of "what if" and into now.  And I look back wondering- how much of my life has been lived in "what-if"?

My husband has been on a journey with mediation and mindfulness for the last year.  I have taken on some of the ideas and practices, and there is a quote I recently heard that has stuck with me.  A small truth about our projections, our fears, and our doubts.  Something that comes from a place of reflection.  Like for me- encountering my fear and then looking at it square on.

"We suffer more in imagination that reality."- Seneca

There are poignant things to be said here, but I would fail to do them justice. I want to you encourage you if you read this at a time of fear.  You won't feel this way forever.

Poor Old Michael Finnegan Begin Again

Do you remember that song?  The one about the poor old man who's beard kept growing out and then back in again?  I feel like he probably just wanted to have a beard or not have a beard, but the cycle just kept repeating.  That is me and this blog.  I go weeks without thinking about it, then log in and start another draft (currently up to seven) and never finish it or post it.  Then feel guilty about not sticking with it, and that I have done less with this post since my second child was born (i.e. she has fewer posts), and that so much time has passed that to do a recap would be an affront to the amount of life lived between posts.  So I won't recap.  I also wont post anything of substance today.  I'll just make a post.  The Finnegan beard?  It is back out again.

Butt cheeks!

Somehow the little hummingbird that started this whole adventure into motherhood and led to the creation of this blog, started kindergarten this week.  

It seems impossible.

Regardless of how it seems to me, he is in fact enrolled and attending kindergarten at public school.  I  have watched him get prepared over the last two weeks- counting down the days left at daycare, celebrating with a daycare/preschool graduation, getting a light-up backpack and supplies, and generally morphing into a school-aged kid.

We prepped him on the important things like listening to the teacher, being brave and talking to new friends, and being calm with his voice and body.  He sort of listened and we felt we had done to the due diligence required for the starting school pep talk.

After the first day of school, we asked him a million questions to try to learn all we could about the school routines and skills covered in kindergarten.  He vaguely answered some questions, lots of "I don't know", and lots of changing his original answers.  At this point, it was clear that he had done his best all day and was starting to come unglued.   

First, it was just some bouncing on the couch, then he was standing and jumping on the couch, then he was jumping on the couch yelling, "Butt cheeks!  Butt cheeks!  Butt cheeks!"  He was hysterically laughing as he continued to let loose his string of profanity and jump up and down.  I turned away and felt the tears well up in my eyes as I tried not to laugh.  I couldn't resist- I too started laughing loudly watching him explode into life.

It was clear that he had kept it all together just as long as he possibly could and it was now the time to unwind and let go.  It was funny.  It was Monday.

Tuesday brought additional jumping and also an excessive amount of gas.  Wednesday brought "the worlds most uncooperative dinner attendee" out of him.  Thursday he got some special dad-hang time and we were mostly spared from explosions.  Friday he was deciding how to feel and picked sad- "I am going to be sad because I miss God."  (this was interesting for a variety of reasons).

It is clear that school is a transition unlike any other.  He has been in daycare since he was 10-weeks old, but this is so very different.  He doesn't nap anymore.  His sister is sad every morning because the kindergartener and I leave before she is dropped off at daycare.  I now have a chatterbox along for my morning commute.  We have to do way more laundry (stupid dress code).  All of us are feeling the effect.

But I feel happy about it.  I love seeing the papers that come home demonstrating scissor work.  I like hearing him talk about keeping is choices-tracker on green.  I like hearing about the mean girl and hearing him talk about dealing with her.  I like that he is growing and becoming ever more his own person.  I like knowing that my husband and I managed to get him this far, even though he was once just a bunch of farts on parade.

Three Posts Started in 2017 and Never Finished- A Summary

Below are there titles and summaries of blog posts that I never finished.  I feel like there are little nuggets in each that I care to remember and share for posterity, so I will post them in mini-version here.


Okay, so where did we land?
A 2017 check in, notable changes: baby that walks, a kid in the pre-k lottery, a husband that left his established career to pursue a graduate degree and new road forward, and a me with a diagnosis of Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.  It was a summary and reflection on how far we have come and where we are going with extra focus on continual change but an underlying joy.

Attending Funerals with My Children
This was a post about the five funerals I have attended since becoming a mom.  The highlights- at four of those funerals I held an infant in my arms while looking into a open casket (talk about unavoidable self reflection on the matters of life and death), comforting my son as he grapples with loss, and notes about unspoken agreement with my husband about how to support each other in these events. The general vibe? Immeasurable love and a good bit of sadness.

The Name You Carry
This about seeing the first pictures of my daughter's namesake.  Summary- I had only ever heard stories about the woman whose name my daughter carries, but (during a funeral) I saw the first pictures and was reminded of the excitement and weight of naming our children.  There is a feeling of guilt if the chosen name only comes from one side of the family, but that there is also an absoluteness about the name choice upon getting to know your child over time- its like "Of course that is your name!  This is who you are!  You couldn't be anyone else!" I also love looking at my cousins, nieces, and nephews and knowing that their name and identity is directly connected to someone worth honoring with a name.

"Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness"

I have been rewatching The Wonder Years. It is one of my top five favorite shows of all time.  Today I watched the episode called "The Wedding" (S:5, E:22) in which the older sister, Karen, gets married.  I have cried every time I have seen that episode, but in the emotion explosion due to my baby turning one, I really cried.  I have always loved the poem that Karen's mom reads and so I looked up. It is powerful, spot on, and so wonderful I wanted to share it here. Enjoy.

Happy Birthday, Beans.

It is nearly the baby's first birthday and I still haven't written her birth story. 

My girl was born a week after her due date.  I was dilated (to a 5!), fully effaced, and sitting at home not in labor.  My doctor decided to induce me on the 18th of January.  On January 17th, my boys and I ate ice cream and stayed up late to savor the last few moments of "just the three of us".  I was not sad, but I felt something strong about it all. 

We arrived at the hospital at 6:00 AM, ready to get the show on the road, but until I did the paperwork, got put in a room, robed up, and ready, it was nearly 10:00.  My doctor came in and broke my water in an effort to jump start labor without drugs.  For one glorious hour I had great contractions that were gentle rising and bearable in a variety of positions.  I also had a sort of elation that I was going to experience birth as is intended to be.  But alas.  It stalled.

At 12:30 I was put on a Pitocin drip and thus began the familiar rapid and intense contractions that silenced the conversation my husband and I had been sharing, limited my movements to sitting still on the bed, and sucked me deep inside myself and simultaneously outside myself all at once.  Lost in a swirl of waves, the repetition of the word "open" in my mind, and nothing but my husbands hand to ground me, I was suddenly and intensely jolted into my surroundings. Push time.  It had been less than two hours on the Pitocin, but I knew this feeling.  The nurse doubting my rapid progress, checked me and called for the doctor.  He arrived and I got to work.  I knew this work.  I had done it before.  This time I remembered the cues of how I should position myself.  Unlike the time before in its quiet, I let myself be loud.  Never screaming as that wasn't the response I needed.  But loud.  Powerful.  I felt my face curl into an awful grimace, but I allowed it. I did work.  In a few short minutes, I birthed my baby into the world.  I looked down to see that this child I had been carrying was a girl.  My girl.  And as I reached for her, I felt something I never expected to feel.  Fullness. Contentment.  Satisfaction.  Completion.  As she lay crying (and I was crying, too) and wriggling on my chest I felt us begin the transition of being two separate selves-this girl that I had just met and yet always known, and me as a single individual with only one heart inside me.  I felt my soul make the same commitment it made once before-a guarantee to stay connected to this soul for the rest of my life.

The next months were exhausting, hard, and rather dark.  The delay of this birth story is due partly to busyness and partly due to only recently feeling brave enough to recall those early days.  Postpartum anxiety took a deep hold on me.  I was home alone with kids too early.  My grandma died.  My body was weak.  My daughter couldn't feed right.  My son was angry, sad, and confused.  And I was terrified.

Was terrified.  It is important to note that I was terrified.  And even more  important to note that I am no longer terrified.  I am amazed.  Amazed that we made it out the other side ok.  Amazed at the joyous bond between my kids as siblings.  Amazed at the way I love my husband on a new level.  Amazed at the baby girl who has become talkative, active, playful, and funny.  Amazed at the boy who has become a helper, caring, curious, and kind.  Amazed at the way our family still keeps me feeling full. Content.  Satisfied. Complete.