Defining Motherhood

Mr. Button

2009-11-03T15:16:00.000-05:00

Over the last year, I have been absolutely amazed by Jonas’ language growth. To go from using a few words to full sentences, paragraphs and even stories has been such an incredible thing to watch. Of course being the sponge he is as his vocabulary ever-grows, we must be careful of what we say. Perhaps that is why our son sometimes sounds a bit similar to a little old lady.

I have been known to use the phrase “oopsy daisy,” much to my husband’s chagrin. He firmly agrees with “Notting Hill.” To paraphrase Julia Robert’s character, “That’s a phrase used only by little old ladies or girls with pigtails.” Or apparently 3-year-old boys. Feeling it had directional significance, Jonas soon morphed it into “upsy daisy” before creatively stepping it up a notch, believing it should work in the opposite direction as well. He can now be heard saying, “downsy daisy” as he pulls down his pants or puts down a toy. Couple this with the fact that his favorite expression is “Actually…” and he told me earlier today, “Mommy, I’ve been thinking about going to Chicago…,” and suddenly I’m beginning to wonder if this child is 3 or 83. Maybe he’s our very own Benjamin Button. But, I suppose in the grand scheme of things, having him talk like a granny is preferred to that of a trucker.

Strength

2009-10-27T16:40:00.001-04:00

During a garage sale adventure a while back, I came across an item I always wanted as a child, but never got. So, as most parents do, I decided to live vicariously through my children and purchase said item for their amusement (and mine, too). It would be a few years before they reached the appropriate age. I tucked it away for another time until Jonas discovered it during one of his pillaging adventures. He begged to use it though he had absolutely no idea what it really was. “We’ll save it for your birthday,” I promised him, thinking it would be a fun activity for the kids and adults alike.

The big day arrived and with much excitement, we dusted off the Snoopy Sno-Cone Maker and put it to use. We quickly realized that this “child’s toy” was meant for an abnormally strong kid or a willing adult. And so, my friend Carrie and I proceeded to push and crank until we produced enough shaved ice to satisfy the impatient 3-year-olds. The result: 3 cups of juice with a hint of ice, 4 tired biceps and 1 blister.

I believe Snoopy will go back into the box for now. Sure, he will probably make a return visit on another birthday, but not until Jonas has the strength to bench 100 pounds. It’s funny how I don’t remember Snoopy requiring freakish strength or calloused hands when we were children. Or maybe we were just tougher back then because let’s face it: these delicate writer’s hands were made for typing, not strenuous sno-cone making.

Trophy

2009-10-22T17:23:00.001-04:00

Over a year ago, I asked the doctor if we should try to potty train Jonas ahead of Kenna’s arrival. “Nope,” he told me without hesitation. “When he’s ready, he’ll let you know. Until then, just relax.” As much as I would have liked having just one child in diapers, I took his advice. We didn’t push the topic with Jonas. If he showed interest: great. If not, he’d get there some day. We went merrily on our way. During Kenna’s early months, I didn’t mind him still being in diapers because I didn’t have to worry about emergency potty visits at inopportune moments. So, we kept chugging along with the “relax” attitude. The whole move thing came up and we thought: why push it now when his whole world will be turned upside with the move?

But then it happened. I tried to stay calm, but the move was done, Kenna was settled and two of his friends who are his age mastered it. Maybe we should start “encouraging” him a bit. You see, he had gotten to the point where he would pee with our guidance, but the number two just wasn’t happening. Perhaps he just needed some further assistance to get there. So the bribing began. There was candy, money and visits to the “train store” (a.k.a. Barnes and Noble that has a Thomas layout). Each would stir up enthusiasm for a bit, but eventually fade away. We resorted to getting a frog potty chair, letting him sit in front of the TV while he tried to do his business. And still nothing. Then I offered something nearly irresistible to him. He was running low on toothpaste and I asked if he would like to get some Thomas toothpaste at the store. His eyes lit up. He jumped up and down with excitement. He sat down on that froggy potty and squeezed with all his might. The only problem was his cheeks seemed to clench just as they hit that chair. To both our dismay, we did not get the toothpaste.

So, we go to the doctor for Jonas’ three-year exam and he asks, “How’s potty training coming?” With an exasperated laugh, I say, “Not as well as I’d like it to be.” So I ask again, “Is there something we should do? Or should we just relax and let it happen in his time.” The doc looks at me and smiles, “Yep. When he’s ready, it will happen.” But why can’t he be ready now? Maybe because he’s scared or uncertain, or he realizes this is a big deal and he kind of likes the control thing. Or maybe it’s not about that psycho-babble at all. Perhaps he just doesn’t get it yet. Maybe we do just need to chill out and in time we’ll finally get there. And when it does happen, we shall spare no expense as we proudly and with great satisfaction present him with his trophy of accomplishment: Thomas toothpaste.

Front Row Seat

2009-10-15T15:28:00.002-04:00

A year ago today, Kenna Grace made her speedy entrance into the world. She came equipped with the abilities to sleep, cry, nurse and poop…and often did them in that order. In just 12 months time, she can now crawl, stand and nearly walk. She has begun talking, signing a handful of words, giving hugs and blowing kisses. She can feed herself, drink from a straw and use a spoon (sort of). She has a knack for frustrating her brother, sensing when the gate guarding the stairs is down and teasing her dad. She has developed a sense of humor, a love for cats and a special place in our hearts.

I once contemplated birthdays and thought it strange that we celebrate the person who didn’t have a choice, but to be born. After all, the mother really did the work of carrying and birthing the child. Shouldn’t her labor be celebrated? But now, after seeing all these milestones in such a short amount of time, it’s hard to imagine why we wouldn’t celebrate this new, young life. I know that since the earth’s inception thousands of years ago, billions of people have reached these same milestones. But does that make it any less special? Of course not. This is a new life. A new person’s story. And I’m so glad I have a front row seat to watch it unfold. Happy Birthday, Kenna. May you have many, many, many more to come.

Monday

2009-10-12T14:26:00.000-04:00

I have dried pumpkin on my, ahem, chest, snot on my shoulder and syrup in my hair. My patience left me hours ago, taking with it any energy I had. I'm afraid my sanity may not be far behind. My to-do list keeps growing, yet all I can do is repeatedly wonder: is it Friday yet?

Mealtime

2009-10-07T22:32:00.001-04:00

If there’s one thing I’ve learned to do as a parent, it’s how to eat my own words. It began with rescinding my “no co-sleeping” statement, as both kids shared our room and even our bed at times. I figured at 2 a.m., certain concessions could be allowed because I really do love sleep. From there, I had to re-think not bribing my son to use the potty. Since then, he has received gummy worms, Starbursts and even pennies to do the deed. You’d think I had learned my lesson with the first child and would reconsider being a glutton for eaten words. Instead, I swore that baby #2 would not reject the bottle at 3 months as her brother did. Yet, we got busy, nursing was simpler and the bottles have been collecting dust for nearly 8 months. So, perhaps I should not be surprised that I am once again going back on what I stated in the child-free times of yesteryear. But now it is the mother-load of all words that I must chew, swallow and digest. And it’s all because of that minivan that’s parked in our driveway.

Yes, practicality won out. Please refrain from blurting out the I-told-you-so’s or the eye rolls. Trust me; there has been plenty eye rolling, him-hawing and rationalization going on in the Church household. Yet, in the end, we felt it was time to make the “practical choice” (read: choice lacking any fun) and become the new owners of a vehicle loved by soccer moms, pitbulls with lipstick and the mature in years. As we feast on our meal of once uttered phrases, we realize that in the grand scheme of things, the vehicle one drives doesn’t necessarily define oneself. In reality, it doesn’t matter, but principle can be hard to swallow. I mean at least it’s just a car. We’re not talking toy guns and Barbie dolls. As for those, they will NEVER be in the hands of my children….

Shadow

2009-10-01T15:03:00.003-04:00

Kenna has a new love and it’s Thomas the Train. This girl gets such a kick out pushing those little wooden trains around the track. She even makes train noises through her pacifier. But why, out of all the toys we have, has she chosen these as her new love? Is it because she is showing tomboy tendencies at a young age? Perhaps, having discarded pink, frilly toys, she is the youngest member of the women’s lib movement? Nah. It’s simply because she is learning how to be her brother’s 2-foot, 3-dimensional shadow—a role I once mastered.

As kids, I idolized my brother. I spent countless hours playing with his semi-trucks as my dolls collected dust. In Jr. High, I took up golf because he liked it so much. As an early teen, I often played Nintendo and listened to Guns ‘N Roses in his room, while he was out with his friends. Yet, while I longed to follow in his footprints, he got a kick out of giving me rug burns and hitting me in the eye with a driver. He would even force me to go down to the basement first, so if any monsters lurked in the dark unknown, they would consume me as he ran back upstairs to safety.

Now, I see those same traits in Jonas who, much like Josh, is teaching Kenna that life isn’t fair, pain is inevitable and sibling love often hurts. And, much like me, she takes it in stride, dusts off her wounds and gets right back up there for more. So it might sound as if younger siblings aren’t the sharpest crayon in the box…that our carpeting doesn’t quite go wall to wall…that we may be gluttons for punishment. In reality, we are specialists in persevering, leading experts in forgiveness, slayers of basement-dwelling monsters (you’re welcome, Josh).

Vows

2009-09-25T15:53:00.001-04:00

When Matt and I married a decade ago, we made promises to one another. Before God and our loved ones, we vowed certain things to one another and swore we would always walk the straight path without falter. Yet, here we stand 10 years later, under different circumstances and life experiences. Whereas we once saw those terms in black and white, suddenly some gray has crept in and now we seem to have reached a point where we must consider revisiting those previously made promises. We must decide whether or not a certain amount of flexibility as to what those conditions actually meant is permissible.

Ten years is a long time. A lot can happen that can make one reevaluate what was once held dear. When we made this one agreement in particular, it was before two kids, one dog and an extra cat…before the mundane daily life set in…before the bills, the exhaustion and hassles. So, are we justified in wondering whether that promise to never, ever, under any circumstance buy a minivan should be upheld? I mean, yes, we still don’t like them. I corner like Mario Andretti and, let’s face it, vans don’t exactly corner like they are on rails. Not to mention the fact that no car company has yet to make a van that in any way, shape or form looks appealing or attractive. But, can the function trump the form? Look at the seating, the storage and the cup holders…oh, those glorious cup holders. I hear them calling to me. So many spots for coffee, water and countless sippy cups. But I must be strong. After all, if we falter on this one principle, where will it end? Oh, practicality, you are quite the Siren, beckoning me to turn against my principle, my promise…but wait, is that power sliding doors I see….

Dirt

2009-09-18T14:44:00.001-04:00

I have never been afraid of getting a little dirty. Or so I thought. I grew up in the country surrounded by fields and woods. My brother and I spent our days catching grasshoppers, raising tadpoles and exploring the woods. I was even the girl who got stuck calf-deep in mud in the middle of a field. All I could do was wait for my mom to come rescue me. So I never thought I had an issue with dirt…until my two-year-old decided he wanted to build a makeshift sandbox.

At our old house, our “yard” resembled more of a window flower box. It was there for decoration, but didn’t really serve much purpose. So, we never really had to worry about Jonas digging around and getting dirty. But, now at a place that has an actual yard, he has suddenly discovered the fun that can be had with a shovel, bucket and dump truck. As I watched him excitedly scoop shovels of sand into the back of his dump truck, my first instinct was to tell him to be careful. After all, he was getting his clothes messy. And don’t get me started on what his hands looked like. But midway through my words of caution, it hit me. Really? Am I telling my little boy to not get dirty? Isn’t that what kids are supposed to do? Isn’t that what I did?

It’s interesting how perspectives change with the roles we play. When I was a kid, it was all about exploring and discovery. As the parent, I’m more concerned about the laundry and how to remove the stains from the clothes. But as I stood in the field waiting to be rescued, did my mom lecture me about the evils of caked on mud? No. Or at least not that I recall. Because really, isn’t dirt a part of being a kid? Do I want to raise a boy who is afraid to get his hands dirty? Not really. So perhaps I should forget about the laundry and instead pick up a shovel and remember what a little dirt under my fingernails feels like.

Home

2009-09-09T15:40:00.004-04:00

For the last couple of weeks, we have been busy making our new house our home. We have been arranging furniture, hanging pictures, and replacing lacy curtains with some a little less…ahem…frilly. While things started coming together and our personal style is revealing itself, something still seemed…different. It’s as if no matter how many pictures we hung or how much lace we removed, it still didn’t quite feel like ours. At least to Matt and me. Yet the kids are a different story.

Leading up to the move, we did our best to prepare the kids for the big change, well, I guess you can’t really “prepare” a baby, but we did the best with Jonas that we could. We showed him the new house and referred to it as the “Big House” as he nicknamed it. We made sure he knew that everyone (even the dog and two cats) would be coming with us, and that of course all his toys would follow suit as well. We assumed there would be a transitional period for him, but amazingly, he seemed to adjust quickly. Kenna even took to the new place right away and began sleeping through the night almost instantly (let’s just say we all love her having her own room…finally). As much as we focused on Jonas’ preparation, in a sense I never considered my own.

Of course I was excited and looking forward to the new place with more space and an actual yard (did I mention Kenna’s own room, too?). So why would I think I would have to get myself ready for a change? And, yet, I found myself in the Big House, with all our stuff and decorating touches, but something still felt a bit odd. At one point I wanted to say it didn’t feel like our “home” quite yet. But is that really the right word? Home? What is home? Is it just a building with four walls? As I watched Jonas burning off energy in the backyard and Kenna resting peacefully in her crib, I realized the kids better understand “home” than I do. Perhaps the Big House will take a bit of time to feel like “mine,” but I have always been home. Because after all, isn’t home just a sense of self, a designated comfort or security blanket? If that’s the case, my home is in my best friend/husband and our two little ones. Our address is just a formality.

Cohabitants

2009-08-27T21:43:00.000-04:00

Dear Scout,

I am writing this letter to you concerning the possibility of a change in your current living arrangements. As you recall, when you first arrived in our home nearly eight years ago, we had certain agreements and understandings. While I did make concessions per those agreements at that time due to your absolute cuteness, I am afraid you have put me in a position to bind you to our original pact. We are calling into question certain acts you have been committing that put you in breech of contract and could lead to your dismissal from the Church household. Erroneous acts are as follows:
1) Walking through the house at inopportune moments and crying at the top of your lungs in your high-pitch, whiney, fingernails-on-the-chalkboard wail.
2) Depositing hairballs throughout the living quarters and then harshly complaining when we attempt to treat you for such a malady. May I suggest that if you would refrain from cleaning your brother and the dog, the issue would more than likely resolve itself.
3) Leaving behind constant reminders of your existence in the form of hair on our furniture, flooring, clothing and even my morning coffee. I am sickened by the dusty replicas of you we found under our bedroom furniture during a recent cleaning. The only hair of yours we want to see should be attached to your body (also applies to number two mentioned above).
4) Causing good friends to avoid our home or risk itchy, watery eyes, sinus congestion and possible asthma attacks.

Upon review of your recent carelessness, consideration of your removal has been taken under serious scrutiny. In the past we have been lenient in lieu of my preference for felines, but due to our addition of two small human-folk, my preferences have been reevaluated and I’m sorry to say, your status is not as high as previously held.

But, during the review session you will be happy to note a recommendation from one of those small human-folk swayed the determining vote. You owe a large amount of gratitude to Kenna and her immense love of cats. Seeing her face light up when she sees you, her constant desire to touch you, and her attempts to meow or say “kitty” swayed our judgment. So our final decision is that you may continue to reside with us. But, should your negligence continue or escalate, even Kenna might not be able to save you. As for Jonas, his chasing of you and roaring at you may be permitted by us as a disciplinary act for your crimes, should that be necessary.

Best regards,
Your Owners

Baby Steps

2009-08-26T21:53:00.001-04:00

The big moment nearly 11 months in the making has finally arrived. Sure, I had hoped it would’ve come about 10 months ago, but I guess compared to the first one that took 13 months, I should just be happy the timeline has shortened. And I am. Very much so. You see, since the get go, Kenna’s nighttime sleeping has been full of baby steps, stumbles and falls with advances, set backs and hurdles along the way. Regardless, here we are with a baby FINALLY sleeping through the night…or at least she has for the last couple.

I’m not sure what has happened to bring about this change. Perhaps it is finally having a room of her own. Maybe it’s finally sleeping in a crib instead of a porta-crib (let’s just say that moving can cause certain compromises to occur). It could be the fact that I am no longer hearing every sound she makes and intervening when unnecessary. Or it could very well be a combination of all of the above. Whatever the reason, I’m just glad she has finally made it through unassisted. Now, if only I could sleep all night without waking, checking the time, listening for noises, wondering if everything is okay, considering tiptoeing in “just to be safe”…. I guess it just takes some time. Before long, I too will be sleeping all night long. It’s all about baby steps.

Cycle

2009-08-18T17:39:00.000-04:00

I read the other day that toddlers supposedly go through six-month cycles of developmental stages. During the peak of a developmental advance, their temperament can be a bit stormy, but once they have mastered their new skill, it’s six months of sunny times. As I read that, I suddenly realized why the storm clouds must have descended upon our humble abode a few weeks prior.

Let’s just say that for the past couple of weeks, my sweet little Jonas has been in Tasmanian devil mode. His favorite pastime as of recent is torturing the animals by chasing them with light sabers as he makes this growling/roaring sound that I swear is going to make my ears bleed at some point. Since the commencement of such activity, his own hearing has suffered (perhaps a side effect of his increased volume level), making it difficult for him to hear and understand my requests and commands. He has also perfected a wicked laugh and has been known to dabble in talking back to his disciplinarians. It is as if someone pumped him full of caffeine, strapped him to a seat for hours on end and forced him to watch hours of violent programming, only to cut him loose and watch his energy level nearly explode forth. One of these days I swear his head is even going to spin around.

Oh, how these weeks have been full of…teachable moments…to put it lightly. If this is one of those six-month cycles, I hope he comes out of it with some extraordinary new ability—something along the lines of flight or super speed perhaps. Because in the midst of these “teachable times,” I need to keep reminding myself there is a bigger picture, a higher purpose to this all. Or maybe it’s all at test to see if my head can go a full 360.

Habit

2009-08-13T15:56:00.004-04:00

I’ve never been the biggest fan of the baby stage. Even as a kid, I much preferred playing with stuffed animals over any kind of doll. But when one has children, one must learn how to handle babies since there is no baby boarding school (trust me, I checked). Sure there are some nice things about babies: first smiles, giggles, fat rolls, cuddles. But there are also the late-night feedings, incessant crying, inability to clearly communicate, need for constant assistance. So I have a tendency to countdown to the end of babyhood and the entrance into toddlerhood—a time of increased independence and recognizable communication. Kenna is now -2 months and counting. Woo hoo! But last night I realized that perhaps I like those roly-poly creatures more than I thought.

When I opened my top dresser drawer, I reached in and pulled out one of Jonas’ old pacifiers. I had stashed them in that drawer on Jonas’ second birthday when he ceremoniously said “bye-bye” to them. I knew that we would not be using them anymore. Even if he begged for one, the best break is a clean one. There was no looking back. But part of me didn’t want to just discard them. Why? It’s not like we were going to use them with child #2. Yet even when I came across them again, months since retiring them, I still didn’t throw them away. I looked at them, smiled and put them back in the drawer. Will he suddenly start using one again? Of course not. It’s just that when I look at them, I am reminded of that cute, round baby boy who I used to rock to sleep as he sucked away on his soother. I remember watching his peaceful little sleeping face and have somehow forgotten about the endless amount of time it often took to get him to that state. As is often the case with nostalgia, the good times come to mind much more readily than the bad.

So I suppose I keep those pacifiers as a reminder of my little baby boy who with each passing day is getting more independent (though he does still like to cuddle his way to sleep). But as he does it pacifier-free, I realize that perhaps I am the one having the harder time breaking the binky habit.

Gullible

2009-08-04T15:23:00.002-04:00

30 minute drive through Chicago traffic to Navy Pier

+

10 minutes of unloading, arranging baby in carrier, removing baby from carrier, changing poopy diaper on top of car trunk, resituating baby in carrier

+

10 minutes walking to attraction

+

$2 for first ride

+

$1 for subsequent ride

+

10 minute walk back to car

+

$50 for lost parking garage ticket

+

1 parental meltdown due to losing parking ticket

-

$50 for found parking garage ticket

+

$16 for parking fees

+

20 minute drive home

=

priceless memories of a 30 second carnie ride

Flexible

2009-07-27T15:22:00.000-04:00

Flexibility in the physical sense has never been one of my strong suits. During the physical fitness test in gym class, sit-and-reach was one of my weakest categories. Give me the running or sit-ups any day, but please don’t ask me to touch my toes and certainly not to go beyond them. Thankfully I am now happy to report that I can touch them. Even though I have always been active, I had to work at gaining the ability to reach my toes, as easy as it can be for some people. But physical bendiness aside, I always considered myself an easy going, laid back, flexible individual. Yet, my kids seemed to remind me once again that perhaps I am not as fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants as I think I am.

In attempting to sell our house, we had yet another open house this weekend, which meant our Saturday morning was spent feverishly getting everything in place to hopefully entice some buyer into wanting to call this place home. Matt attacked the outside as I stayed inside and cleaned with the two kids. Let me say that again: cleaned with the two kids. You can see where I am going. As I completed one room and headed to the next, my toddler would enter the recently finished room and in no time flat, find something to clutter the floors, mark with fingerprints or just plain disorganize. As our deadline loomed, my patience (or lack there of) became shorter and shorter. Tired of hearing myself repeatedly inform my two-year-old that we are cleaning, not making a mess, I finally sent him to help Matt clear out the litter boxes…perhaps not the most toddler-friendly exercise, but desperate times….

With 15 minutes to spare, we finished getting the house in order, loaded up the family (and the dog) and headed out. On our drive to kill time, I sat in the car realizing what a horrible mood I was in. And why? Because Jonas spent the morning trying to be a kid? All he wanted to do was play and have fun. Typically that is exactly what he should be doing. And typically I am better equipped with things to distract him or ways in which he could help out. But on this particular morning, I was tired and I didn’t feel like exerting more energy to divert his idle hands. Instead, I wanted him to suddenly mature a few years so he could better entertain himself and understand our objective. It was at that point that I realized perhaps I’m not quite as easy going as I thought. I mean I am if the mood is right or we have more time to spare, but in the heat of the moment, I cramped up. Sadly that wasn’t the first time and I’m sure won’t be the last. I sat in the car wishing for a quick remedy a sort of Bengay to rub on and help me relax, or even an Advil to pop in my mouth and feel better. But unfortunately I realized that in parenting we don’t have those easy fixes. Instead, I suppose it will just take training and stretching over time. It worked with my toe touches. Hopefully with enough diligence it will also work with my parenting skills because let’s face it, the litter box is not an appropriate task for a two-year-old.

Paradoxes

2009-07-24T15:40:00.001-04:00

Why do we spend so much time trying to get kids to use inside voices and yet when they suddenly become quiet, we get suspicious?

Why does “hurry up let’s go” translate to “take your time and go as slow as possible”?

How is it that kids’ shoes are so small and yet cost about as much as mine?

If kids have sensitive hearing, why do toys come with volume settings “louder” and “loudest”?

Why do we spend good money on toys just so the kids can be more entertained by the packaging?

How can a two-year-old with little legs and little feet sound like a stampeding elephant when running through the house?

Why do we encourage and entice our children to walk and talk as soon as possible, but then we find ourselves wishing they would sit down and be quiet?

Why does food that I can easily wipe away with a napkin stick like super glue to my son’s face…and hands…and arms…and legs…and dining room walls?

How is it that the same people who forbade me from overdosing on sweets as a kid now find delight on filling my little one with ice cream, chocolate, soda, cookies…?

How can the same child throw a head-spinning tantrum and still look so angelic while slumbering peacefully?

Average

2009-07-22T15:32:00.001-04:00

Not many parents wish for an average child. Instead most desire one who will be the first to say their ABCs, shoot the most three-pointers, score highest on the SATs or get a scholarship to an Ivy League school…even if they humbly claim otherwise. While we openly admit to having high hopes for our children (little Federer and Serena), in some regards, average isn’t all bad. Take for example the growth chart.

Our petite Kenna spent several months of her life off the chart thanks to her plumpness. Of course we joke that it just means there is more baby to love…much, much more. Nonetheless I am happy to report that she is once again within the boundaries of the chart. No longer does the dot representing our little chunk lie above the lines that symbolize 99.99% of other children. Oh, no. Now the dot lies comfortably above a mere 95% of other children. Did I mention her height is just above 50% of girls her age? Meaning the stature that I had hoped she would inherit from her elevated grandmother instead came from my vertically challenged family. So if these numbers mean anything beyond the present, perhaps our aspirations for Serena will have to change as I’m not sure a short, little tennis skirt would be the most flattering option.

Nostalgia

2009-07-13T22:10:00.001-04:00

I remember when I used to look good…when I would leave the house without dried snot on my shoulder…when I would brush my teeth at least twice a day…when a ponytail was reserved for athletic activity…when I could choose an outfit without wondering if I was 1) trying to look too young or 2) looking too much like my grandma….when my hair knew what to do and always complied…when I didn’t worry about walking into a store while bearing an unbeknownst sticker on my backside…when accessories weren’t chosen just because of their durability and integrity…when my stomach also had durability and integrity…when I had energy and even a little spunk…when I wondered why moms always looked tired with an added hint of defeat.

Storm

2009-07-09T17:02:00.001-04:00

This morning was nice and relaxing. While the littlest one napped, I kicked back and read magazines before playing trains with the oldest. There was stuff to be done, but instead I thought I’d take a breather. I now refer to those blissful moments as the calm before the storm. As I focused my attention on my reading, I failed to notice the storm clouds brewing above me. Even with the first claps of thunder at 11:15, I didn’t know what lay ahead.

11:15 Baby awakes with enthusiasm.
11:17 Sensing that one-on-one time with mommy has ended, toddler begins to act out.
11:20 Toddler crawls into crib with sister and begins to poke, jab and make her scream.
11:25 Change baby’s very messy diaper and listen to her whine and wail as I lather her with sunscreen.
11:32 Change toddler’s very messy diaper and listen to him whine and wail as I lather him with sunscreen.
11:47 Take business call. Watch son raid desk drawer and remove headphones and earbud covers, which he then takes to his little sister believing they are appropriate toys.
11:49 Wrap up phone call. Explain choking hazards to toddler.
11:58 Place smallest in stroller. Strongly suggest to oldest that he had better climb in for himself as mommy’s patience is running low.
12:02 Finally leave for Farmer’s Market 35 minutes later than forecasted.
12:27 Repeatedly ask toddler if he would like some fresh bread. Decipher his desired response from his 5 “no” and 7 “yes” answers.
12:38 Allow toddler to exit stroller and run a portion of the way home. Repeatedly remind said toddler that he must keep moving so we can get home for lunch and so he doesn’t get run over.
12:45 Instruct toddler that it is time to get back in stroller as busy street lies ahead. Hastily chase toddler as he runs towards busy street.
12:46 Wrestle toddler back into stroller and firmly reprimand.
12:58 Sit down to lunch with sounds of whining baby in background.
12:59 Remind toddler that lunch is for eating, not singing.
1:18 Excuse toddler from the table with nearly all his food left on his plate.
1:32 Decide to get baby ready for nap in an attempt to squelch her whining.
2:05 Place baby in crib as she finally sleeps after repeated screams and flip flops.
2:12 Inform toddler it’s time for bed.
2:19 Lay down with toddler. Hear cat loudly meowing through house.
2:20 Chase cat.
2:24 Lay down with toddler. Hear baby cry.
2:38 Make first attempt to lay baby back in crib.
2:55 Make second attempt to lay baby back in crib.
3:07 Wake baby due to a tickle in my throat.
3:47 Wake up to tickle in my throat. Squelch before waking baby. Make third and final attempt to place baby in crib.
3:52 Grab crackers and hummus. Sit in front of computer to get some work done.
3:55 Go to crying toddler. Decipher whines to finally understand he wants me to lay with him.
3:58 Hear noisy cat. Plot revenge.
4:00 Relieved that cat has quieted.
4:01 Wonder if cat is eating hummus.
4:03 Leave sleeping toddler’s room.
4:11 Hear baby wake. Hear toddler crying. Again.
4:12 Call husband and desperately beg him to get home. ASAP.
4:19 Feed starving toddler leftover lunch.
4:20 Ask why he’s crying. Try to examine “hurting teeth.” Decide to try later.
4:22 Ask why he’s crying. Try to examine “hurting teeth.” Tell him time to whine is over.
4:23 Frantically call husband for his exact location and ETA as background cries intensify.
4:24 Retreat to backyard for self-imposed timeout. Contemplate staying there all night. Ponder feasibility of driving to airport and taking first flight. Destination TBD.

Rooster

2009-07-01T15:55:00.002-04:00

Apparently Kenna got the recessive early bird gene. True, her 7:30 a.m. or later wake-up time might be late according to some people’s standards. But in a house that prefers to sleep late, it can feel like the crack of dawn. Rather our family’s dominant sleep gene revels in late nights and late rises, thus making Kenna a bit of an anomaly. Stranger yet is the way in which she wakes up.

First let me explain that Matt’s preferred morning routine is to hit the snooze for an hour until he forces himself out of bed at the last minute. I just get irritated with the fact I can’t sleep longer. For Jonas’ first year, he would cry himself awake. Regardless of nighttime or naptime, the wails coming from his room alerted us to his rising. (I think it was because he was angry at realizing we had tricked him into sleeping.) But our sweet little Kenna has her own way of letting us know her day has begun. She coos and claps until someone comes to get her. And then she smiles and giggles. It’s as if she is saying, “Oh, what a beautiful day. I am so happy to be awake. I cannot wait to start the day.”

Of course I enjoyed Jonas’ 9 o’clock rise time, but the manner in which he woke left something to be desired. Hearing Kenna’s soft little voice and happy chatter makes the earlier time almost bearable…almost. Coffee helps make it more so.

Shrill

2009-06-24T16:53:00.001-04:00

I’m growing very tired of my own voice:

Jonas, get off the cat.
Quit chasing the dog.
Jonas, be gentle with Kenna.
Let go of her hand.
Don’t kiss her too hard.
Get the blanket off her head.
Only Mommy and Daddy carry Kenna. She’s too heavy for you.
Yes, it hurts when she falls on the floor.
Let’s play in the living room.
You’ve seen enough videos today.
Are you all done coloring?
Please put away your crayons.
The ones all over the table…and floor…and couch.
They go in the bucket.
Well, where did you put it?
The bucket.
That had the crayons.
The ones on the table and floor and couch.
They go in the bucket.
Did you look under the couch.
There it is.
Yes, there’s a train outside. Focus on the crayons.
I don’t know where it’s going.
Yes, it’s on the tracks.
Yes, it’s going fast. Now focus. The crayons.
In the bucket.
All of them, please.
The bug won’t hurt you.
You can step on it.
You can do it.
You can do it.
Just put your foot on it.
There you go.
Now, back to the crayons.
The ones on the table.
In the bucket.
Get off the cat.

Vacation

2009-06-22T22:26:00.001-04:00

Matt and I love taking vacations. We like exploring new places, seeing new sites and experiencing what the unfamiliar has to offer. We have rafted white waters, dwelled in big cities and snorkeled the aqua-blue ocean. So when we decided to pack up and head south for our first four-family-member getaway, I questioned what sort of experience we would have. No sandy beaches, dusty rock walls or bright city lights awaited us. Instead our adventure took us to a small town’s railway station where a big, blue tank engine named Thomas awaited us. To my surprise the memories we made in just a few, hot, sweaty hours are ones I’m sure we will keep forever—at least Matt and I will. But this time it wasn’t about us. It was about a two-and-a-half year old with a deep-rooted passion for everything trains.

We feared that perhaps the trip was premature. Would he be too young to appreciate it? Would he be scared by the enormous scale of Thomas? Or would he be completely disinterested? Our questions were answered as we pulled up to the station and heard our little one cry out, “There he is! There’s Thomas!” In that moment, the blistering temperatures, endless detours and ridiculously winding roads we had taken to get us there didn’t matter. They were small prices to pay to see such excitement and awe. It made me realize that perhaps this wasn’t the same as parasailing in the Bahamas or riding to the top of the Empire State Building. In some very important ways it was so much more.

Slumber party

2009-06-12T15:49:00.002-04:00

Ten years ago today, I gave my (then future) kids one of the best gifts possible: I married my best friend. Yes, we were young at the time. No, it wasn’t a shotgun wedding…unless my gestation period is 7.5 years. We were young and in love. After three years of dating, we knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. During those first months of marriage, we would joke about how it felt more like a slumber party than any sort of serious, adult commitment. I’m happy to report that a decade later, the party continues, but with a few added guests…one dog, two cats and two kiddos.

We have learned a lot over the years, such as don’t ever take the Amtrak, get to know one another before bringing kids into a relationship, always have a rainy-day fund (you never know when the transmission is about to go out), goals change and eight years of college don’t always lead to a doctorate. But one thing remains constant: I am so blessed to have Matt as my husband. I keep realizing this truth in different ways.

The other night the two guys (Matt and Jonas) went on a walk, while I put Kenna to bed. It was a simple enough walk around the block. But as nearly a week has passed and each night Jonas has begged to go on another walk with “just Daddy and Jonas,” I understand that it was so much more. Every time Jonas asks for a guys-only walk or Kenna grins so big her nose wrinkles when she sees her daddy, I fall even further in love with this man I have shared over a third of my life with. And I just hope and pray that this sleepover lasts for many, many more years.

Pastime

2009-06-04T16:05:00.001-04:00

Back in the pre-kids day, I loved sleeping in. I was a masterful sleeper inner, so much so that my good friends knew not to call before 10 am. If they did, they ran the risk of speaking to a groggy, cranky and confused Meagan. On a few occasions, upon hearing my what-time-is-it-and-why-are-you-calling-me-now voice, the person on the other end would simply apologize profusely, promise to call back later and promptly hang up the phone. You see, my true friends understood my passion for sleeping late…either that or they feared the wrath of waking me too early. Of course now in my post-kids days, sleeping in rarely occurs. Okay, sure I do typically get up at 8 am, which to some is sleeping in. But I beg to differ. Anything before 9 am cannot be considered sleeping in. Nothing beats that feeling of waking up when the sun has long-since risen to roll over, look at the clock and see that the day has already begun. For the last two days now, I have experienced that bliss. And with complete gratitude, a thankful heart and a tear or two of joy, I thank my children for that opportunity.

I don’t know what has happened that has led to my precious little ones catching another hour or more of sleep for the last two mornings, but I refuse to question it too much. Instead, I will just delight in this opportunity to once again experience a pastime I so deeply missed. Perhaps after Sleep In Day 1, they realized how much happier their mother was upon waking and in a Church Kid Tribunal, decided that it was in everyone’s best interest to proceed likewise the next day. But I know the possibility of a repeat performance again tomorrow is probably too much to ask for. More than likely their desire for cuddling or running or eating or something will trump my preference for morning slumber, so I will simply cling dearly to these two blissful mornings with the thought that perhaps in retirement, sleeping in will once again be attainable.