Necessary and Absurd: Things I never knew I'd have to say.

There are things I swore I'd never say as a mother (most of which have come back to haunt me in the mere 43 months since giving birth the first time) - then there are things which, never in a million years, would I have dreamed would come out of my mouth.

Things like:

• Please stop trying to ride your sister like a horse.
• No, the fact that you licked all the ketchup off your plate and left everything else does not mean you ate most of your food (uttered just today).
• You may not wear your flip flops with your snow pants.
• You may only play outside if you promise not to go visit the neighbors and/or ask them for fruit snacks (the joys of sharing a backyard).
• It is not a good idea to invite strange men home to play with you (Woodstock can - and does - make friends with everyone - for this reason alone, I refuse to teach her our address and am grateful I have an out-of-state cell number)
• Please put your belly button away
• Do your really have to use the bathroom or are you just interested in seeing what this one looks like? (after realizing Woodstock always has to potty the second we enter a new establishment)
• Just because daddy shaves his chin doesn't mean it was a good idea to try it yourself
• Try not to drown your sister
• If you are going to drive backwards, please slow down in the kitchen.
• Your diaper is not a pocket - or a purse

Any one of these sentences would have been enough to question my sanity 4 years ago. And yet, in the course of 48 hours these days, I could easily utter all of them without blinking an eye.

No wonder childless adults think we've all lost our marbles.

Loving What Is

One evening, shortly after Himself and I were married, I was ata church function when what I'm sure was a well-meaning woman asked me when I was going to quit my job and stay at home.

Cue several long seconds of awkward silence while I tried to figure out if she was serious or if her attempt at humor had gone horribly awry. I responded with, "Well, not anytime soon. Himself is in school full-time."

I can't remember her response. I just remember feeling horribly perplexed as to why getting married in the 21st century would mean automatically quitting my job - even if it meant taking up residence in a homeless shelter or taking out even larger amounts of student loans than Himself already had.

Fast forward almost 8 years. I now have two children. I spent the first 2.5 years of life with children feeling guilty every.single.day. about leaving them to go to work. Never mind I've had a string of jobs each one more flexible than the last. Never mind I provided 75% of the household income. Never mind the stupid financial decisions I made in my 20s. Never mind any good that has come of it. I wracked myself with guilt. If someone asked me how I liked my job, I would say hopefully, "I'm lucky to have it?"

And then came the layoff last spring and the 3-month stint where I spent consulting. I had the time to be a stay-at-home (mostly) mom - who worked during the wee hours of the night so I could pretend I was a true SAHM. I made almost as much money consulting as I did working full-time. The girls and I took more field trips. I defrosted the freezer. I had my teeth cleaned and a mole removed and scheduled a physical - things that had been on my "to do" list for 2.5 years.

And I was miserable. I wasn't miserable being a SAHM. That part I loved. I was miserable being a SAHWM - that would be a stay-at-home-working-mom. All I ever did was think about my clients - securing new ones, doing new client proposals, keeping the current ones, all of the research and the constant flow of work that was keeping me up at night, giving me heartburn and causing my anxiety to flare out of control. I was constantly worrying about money. My guilt felt worse. I worried about the horrible economy.

And then ... a job fell into my lap. A real job. With an enormous company. I went from unknown to one of 80,000 employees in 10 days. The first words out of my mouth to Himself were, "I'm not taking it. I'd be crazy. Look, I'm home with the kids every day. We're making it work. There is no way this is the right answer."

I spent the weekend praying about it. And every time, this warm peaceful feeling came when I considered taking the job. I fought against it. Pure craziness! I was a mom, I should be doing every single thing I could to be a SAHM - even if my sanity was hanging by a single thread. And still, the peace.

So, I took the job - with the caveat that I not start for almost a full month - so I could play with my kids. I started the job and was amazed - it was uber-flexible - allowing for me to work from home several days a week. It has amazing vacation and personal time off benefits. And everyone in my direct line of reporting had children 3 and under. Best of all - I was sleeping 5 or 6 hours a night - because I wasn't working in the wee hours. I came home and didn't think about work - for the first time in years.

When I told people I had a new job, I was greeted with uncomfortable silence and then, "Well, that's nice, I guess, since you have to work and all." When people asked how my job was, I would hesitate and say, "it's nice."

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago when I was in one of my monthly head-shrinking sessions, and my headshrinker said, "Why are you not enjoying your life NOW. Why are you waiting for it to change?" She elaborated:

"We are in a culture that figuratively stones women for working. So even though
there are many women who, by necessity, must work - for whatever reason - we all impose this creed of 'Thou Shalt Not Enjoy Thyself' because, after all, you shouldn't dare find satisfaction in anything that isn't being a SAHM. And we trudge to work every day and feel guilty and grumpy and wesnap at people and we race through the week as fast as possible trying to run away from the guilt that consumes us and our own reality. And I say this: 'What is wrong with loving what is?'"

I think my jaw hit the floor. She said, "Do you like your job?" And I said, "I love my job, but ..." She stopped me. "But what? But you have kids. So you can't be allowed to enjoy it? But you don't plan on working forever, so you can't be allowed to enjoy it? But you feel like a horrible person when you say that, even though you KNOW you made the best decision for your FAMILY?"

Um. Yes.

So my challenge - my New Year's Resolution of sorts, was to Love What Is. All of it. To not wish away the imperfections, but to embrace them for what they are and find joy in living my life. If you ask me if I like my job now, I'll tell you, "I love it. I'm good at it. And it's working well for our family." I won't feel guilty. It doesn't mean I don't love my kids. It doesn't mean I'm not a good mom. It means I made a decision that was the best one for my family, and I feel blessed. I am blessed to have a flexible schedule and enjoyable work. I'm blessed to have a wonderful sitter whom the girls adore. I'm blessed to live in a place where the cost of living is low enough I don't have to sell my soul to the highest bidder. I'm blessed to have the education and skills that landed me this job.

I'm blessed. I'm happier and I'm more charitable and I'm a nicer person to be around and live with when I am Loving What Is.

What I've found, however, is that Loving What Is is more than just being okay with my current, imperfect, place in life. I've found that it means I find myself feeling oddly happy in the middle of the night when one of the girls wakes up and needs soothing - because the nights where I get to snuggle with a warm little head pressed to my chest are finite. I find joy in walking the halls of church with Pebbles rather than counting down the weeks until she's old enough for nursery - because that time too is finite. I find joy in folding the little socks and glittery princess undies because in the not-too-distant-future, they too will vanish. I find joy in lying on the floor with the girls and building houses out of blocks that they find great joy in destroying prior to completion. I find joy in my car rides each day with them as we sing along to primary songs. And while I did not find much joy in the situation when Woodstock got carsick in horrible traffic on the tail end of a roadtrip last week, I did find joy in the spontaneous stopover at a relative's home to change clothes and get a bite to eat.

Life is fleeting, and while there are days when my heart still mourns the inability to stay at home every day with my girls, I realize how blessed I am not only to be able to provide for them, but to have a newfound perspective on life.

Here's to a fabulous 2011.

Badge of Honor: Mean Mother

I've always aspired to be a Mean Mother. Not in the grouchy, grumpy, mean-just-to-be-mean kind of "Mean Mother" way, but the "There are consequences to every action - you choose the action, I choose the consequence - no discussion" kind of way.

I anticipated it would take me awhile to achieve the title of Mean Mother. After all, little girls adore their mothers and are convinced that the women that brought them into this world really can take them out of it by wiggling their nose or counting to three or vowing to sell them to the gypsies if they continue to try to ride on their sister like a horse.

Boy was I wrong.

The other day I put Woodstock in timeout for what seemed like the 475th time that day. It was a particularly rough day, and it wasn't even lunchtime. It's rare that there are days like that, but even fair-haired, blue-eyed impish little elven children have days where the world of "bad choices" is far more tempting than the staid, boring array of good choices available to them.

As I put her in timeout, Woodstock (who was crying) said, "But I said sorry!" I launched into another rendition about choices and consequences and how being sorry is important, but so is "doing the time" for making a bad choice.

With tearstained cheeks, Woodstock looked at me and said, "You're not the best mother in the whole world anymore. You're MEAN."

She'd only been three for just over a week.

I need a new goal.

Too Noisy

The great bedroom experiment has officially been declared a failure.

Pebbles isn't (much to my chagrin) sleeping through the night as consistently as I'd like. It leads to bad sleeping habits, because I bolt in to "save the day" when she cries at night, to avoid waking Woodstock, who is Little Miss Cranky if she doesn't get 11 hours of sleep a night. (Well, so is her mother, but one of us has to be the grown up). It becomes a self-perpetuating cycle ... Pebbles now DEMANDS to be picked up and whisked away to be rocked before she'll stop hollering. She's smart. She knows I love to snuggle, but this middle of the night stuff is for the birds. She also knows snuggling wins out every single time over having a grumpy sister the next day.

Additionally, Pebbles tummy ceases to be happy 11 hours after she last eats ... so she wakes up about an hour before Woodstock. At that point, no amount of cajoling that it isn't morning until the sun comes up (what are we going to do when it rises at 5:45 a.m. in the summer?!) works and Woodstock is raring to go.

I knew it was near the end when Woodstock complained the other day, "Pebbles is too noisy."

Yes, she is. Because not only does she cry at night, Pebbles cannot wake up quietly. Oh no. She has to wake up with SCREECHING peals of laughter and loud thumping noises as she swings her legs up and lets them fall over and over (and over) again. She doesn't need to be "rescued" come morning, she is perfectly happy entertain herself - the problem is, she hasn't learned the concept of "inside voice."

This morning I asked Woodstock if she wanted Pebbles to still share a room or if she wanted her to sleep elsewhere for now. Her response was telling: "Pebbles can sweep in my room, but she's too noisy."

Let me put it this way: we've never had to use a monitor with Pebbles. We can hear her regardless of how far apart in the house we may be.

Pebbles may be banished to the guest bedroom - for now. She's adorable. I love her, but I cannot continue to endure months of waking up every single night.

The only problem is, it involves furniture rearranging and stairs and more time off than I have at the moment.

Maybe if we all don't get enough sleep no one will notice we're grumpy...?

The Grumpies

(Sent as an e-mail to The Parentals - who don't read this blog - earlier today)

--
So this morning Pebbles, who has a bad cold, woke up at oh-dark-thirty (5:40 a.m.). She slept in her bouncy chair in our room last night, since she understandably wasn't comfortably sleeping lying flat. Not wanting Woodstock to wake up (everyone sleeps with their doors open to keep from freezing to death), I bounded silently down the hall only to be met by a sleepy Woodstock at her door (she is loving the fact that she doesn't have to yell "All Done Sleeping" or anything else for that matter from her bed in the morning - she merely pops out when she feels like getting up. In this case, 5:40 a.m.).

I tried the old "It's not morning yet" trick. Didn't work. She wanted to snuggle. So back we went into our bedroom. She climbed into bed next to Himself. It really wasn't morning or time to get up (according to my sleep-deprived self), so I got Pebbles, gave her something to suck on and all four of us "snuggled." Really, Himself pretended to sleep, Pebbles moaned. Woodstock told her over and over and over (and over!) to not be afraid. I counted to 100. Silently. Hoping some fairy would drop magic sleeping dust on at least the two littlest.

Alas, it was not to be. We all ended up getting up. Most of us having a case of the grumpies. (Himself not so much - he got to immediately escape to work, so he was likely spared).

Fast forward to breakfast. Woodstock, who had requested cinnamon oatmeal with blueberries sat staring at her (now cold) bowl of oatmeal - missing only a single bite. The entire time I was feeding Pebbles she snuggled up next to me and said over and over and over (and over!), "I hungry mama!". Which would be why I switched up the order and gave her breakfast first instead of last thing before we left (after all, it's a long time between 5:40 a.m. and 7:40 a.m. - our normal breakfast time - for a little tummy). Of course, even though she got exactly what she ordered for breakfast, Woodstock ate only her vitamins and one bite of oatmeal. She then lay her head down on her tray and dropped blobs of oatmeal over the edge of her tray onto the floor while exhibiting a very-tired-toddler case of the grumpies. Pebbles moaned her discomfort and relative displeasure from her swing. Over and over and over (and over) again.

I said, "Woodstock, you are going to be in big trouble if you don't find a way to get rid of the grumpies." One of those vauge parental threats that all the parenting books warn you to never use, but the parenting books have never functioned for weeks on end with little sleep and an actual grumpy toddler who is really just acting in exhaustion and not out-and-out wantonness. She continued to drop oatmeal onto the floor. I continued to eat my own oatmeal and ignore her. I was determined to not have to eat breakfast in the car, like I do most mornings. (Note: I did clean up the oatmeal after I was done ... I have to mop the floors tonight anyway).

We finally got ourselves out to the car, got the car unburied from the snow that found us last night, got everyone buckled in. Headed toward Miss Jan's, with me already counting the hours until bedtime - for all of us. And feeling a little bad that I was about to unleash two of the three grumpies on poor Miss Jan.

We were blocks from Miss Jan's house when Woodstock piped up from the back seat.

"Mama, I not in bery big trouble anymore."

Curious, I said, "Oh, really? Why not?"

"Cuz I not mad anymore. I not in bery big trouble now, cuz I so happy."

And right then, my heart melted.

I still have a case of the grumpies, but they're mellowing out. Woodstock and Pebbles seemed to leave their grumpies behind as well - as both were beaming big happy grins when Miss Jan opened the door.

She has no idea how close she came to having the grumpies come to visit today.

(Totally unrelated side note: Woodstock got out of the car at Miss Jan's, bounded over to the sidewalk, looked up at the tree and said, "Hey birdies! Whas going on?" like she does every morning - grumpy or not. It makes me laugh every single morning - grumpy or not.)

Slumberless Sleepover

There are three things about being a mother I have dreaded so far, and not just casually dreaded, but dreaded-deep-down-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach dreaded.

1. Weaning Woodstock off her binky
2. Moving Woodstock into a "big" bed
3. Potty training

We accomplished 1 in December. After a month of talking about the binky fairy and a week of counting down the nights until the binky fairy arrived, one Thursday night in December Woodstock awoke to find her binky had been replaced by a note and a Curious George puzzle. (She strategically came on a Thursday night to ensure there were two non-work nights to deal with any fallout).

Surprisingly (or maybe not, since she was clearly ready to give it up), there have only been a couple of the briefest mentions of binkies since.

So I decided to tackle #2 on my "dreaded list of mothering a toddler tasks."

On Tuesday night, after having her "big" bed in her room for 5 months, Woodstock finally agreed it might be fun to sleep somewhere other than her crib.

One should note that Woodstock LOVES her crib. Never has she tried to climb out (though she can climb in - more worrisome at the moment, as the last thing I need is her trying to co-sleep with Pebbles!). Never has she wanted to sleep anywhere else (except when sick - she wants to sleep on the couch - weirdness). So it was a big deal I convinced her that it was high time she move up in the world.

Since Himself was out of town on business, I suggested we have a slumber party. I put both girls down - Woodstock on the trundle bed (low to ground), Pebbles in the crib and, after they had both gone to sleep, I crashed on the day bed. They thought this was very cool (well, I'm assuming Pebbles did, she didn't protest, after all). I thought it was a good way to spy on Woodstock to ensure she didn't try to sleep with her sister (a valid concern, it's happened before when Pebbles was in the bassinet in the other room).

They both slept like rocks all night.

I woke up every single hour. First, it was the darn nightlight that Woodstock insists on having so she can read before she sleeps (I tried turning it off after she went to bed - she inevitably wakes up and yells "my yittle yight is not on, come fix it!".

Second, it turns out that the day bed mattress is the one I put the plastic mattress pad on. I do not sleep still. It meant a night-long ordeal of hearing "crinkle, crinkle, crinkle" every single time I moved.

Third, I do not wear footie pajamas and the blanket on the day bed is not long enough for a full-sized adult (easily rectified, but annoying nonetheless).

Fourth, while Pebbles is a blissfully quiet sleeper, Woodstock is not. And since the trundle was right next to the bed I was in, it was like she was snorting right in my ear.

Fifth, Woodstock woke up at oh-dark-thirty and proclaimed "All done syeeping!". No amount of cajoling could convince her it was a full 2 hours before her normal "wake up time." Pebbles, apparently wary of missing out on the fun, then awoke herself. Realizing it had been 10 hours since she last ate, she refused to reconsider going back to sleep as well.

Somehow, my "sneaky plan disguised as fun" ended up as a joke on me.

More on Monsters (and Childlike Faith)

As I mentioned a few days ago, Woodstock has a newfound fear of monsters - which apparently inhabit every dark corner of our house.

In an attempt to help arm her with tools that she could use to banish the monsters herself - therefore preventing me from having to "rescue" her over and over (and over) again - I told her, "When you are afraid, say a little prayer and Heavenly Father will help you."

Several nights of me going in to help her say a little prayer later (thinking "this is not going how I planned") ...

Tonight Woodstock called out from her crib (yes, she's still in a crib; no she hasn't tried to climb out yet; yes, we have a real bed for her; no, she isn't interested in it *sigh*), "Mama! I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say a yittle prayer." I then heard:

"Heabenly Fader, Dank you for dis day, pa-yease bless Woodstock to not be afraid of da monsters. And help Mommy and Pebbles to not be scared of da monsters. Jesus name AMEN."

I could hardly keep from laughing for the sheer cuteness of it and crying from the absolute faith she has.

10 minutes later, the monsters returned. Woodstock called out, "I scared of da monsters, but is okay, I say anoder yittle prayer."

Sometimes, being a parent has payoffs much greater than I could have ever dreamed.

Beware of the Monsters

Woodstock has discovered monsters ... where I'm not sure, but she doesn't like to go into dark rooms because "I scared of da monsters!"

Apparently, Pebbles is ALSO afraid of the monsters - who knew an almost-5-month-old could even be aware of such things? Apparently 2-year-olds. Anytime that Pebbles yells or cries or anything of the like, Woodstock rushes to her side and yells, "Mama! Come get Pebbles. She's afraid of da monsters!"

She has also made up a song to sing to Pebbles until her very lax, very slow mother can come rescue her.

Don't be scared.
Don't be afraid.
It's okay.
Da monsters won't get you.

Of course, Woodstock thinks that in order for Pebbles to be properly comforted, she must be IN the bed with Pebbles. "Because she's afraid of da monsters. She needs me."

Certainly.

I hope they love each other this much in another 13 years.

Contemplating the Eternities

Tuesday wasn't a very good day.

First, the earthquake of epic proportions hit Haiti. Second, our around-the-corner neighbor lost his 7-week battle with cancer. He was 49, four kids - two still at home.

Gives one a lot of perspective.

I attended the funeral today and I watched his four children and his wife stand and give beautifully composed messages. I laughed and cried right along with them.

Life is too short.

As his kids talked about him and their favorite memories of him, I wondered what mine would say. Would Woodstock comment on the one where we went on her first trip to the dinosaur museum on a day when my "natural self" felt particularly burdened by the adage "work before play?" Will she realize what a massive effort it took for me to leave the house as is, shut the door, load the girls into the car, and drive 30 minutes south to spend my last weekday as a Stay-at-Home-on-Maternity-Leave Mom with my two favorite little girls? Will she ever know how much I wanted to cry as I listened to her squeals of delight about "Oooh, dat's a BIG dinosaur!" or as she played in the sand at the hands-on exhibit?

Would Pebbles realize that I inadvertently messed up our whole sleeping schedule for weeks by failing to implement a bedtime routine when I should have, because I really just wanted to stay up and snuggle her longer? When she's 13 and shouting, "You don't love me, you don't understand! You're mean!" will she realize how much I will miss having her ride in her Snugli next to my chest and how I cry thinking she may be the last baby I have that is mine?

Would Woodstock remark "Silly mommy!" (as she sometimes does) if she knew that I come in, every night, before I go to bed and kiss her good night a second time? Would Pebbles wonder if mom had lost her marbles if she knew I'm probably procrastinating moving Woodstock into her "big bed" because it means there are no more excuses for having Pebbles sleeping in her bassinet next to my bed?

Would the people I love the most know just how much I love them? Does my heart say one thing and my actions another?

Every day, my resolve to lower my expectations hammers home. Life is too short to spend it wishing it away.

Round and Round We Go

Okay, so I'm behind. I still am going to blog my week of Thanksgiving, but between an office move, a holiday and an infant who decided that sleeping through the night was for the birds, I've been in a state of "just short of self-combustion" these days.

One of the glories of my job was that it was located a mere 9.25 miles from home - in the opposite direction travelled by anyone else going to work in The Frontier. If you tacked on the short drive to Miss Jan's and back to the office, it brought it up to 10 miles even.

It was a pretty sweet deal, especially after some of the commutes I've had - the longest (mileage-wise) of which involved a bridge-tunnel in the morning, a high-rise bridge in the afternoon and 72 miles of round-trip-stuck-in-traffic-delight. The problem was, the actual office at The Office left a lot to be desired - even for a nonprofit. The rents were high, the cleaning crew was non-existent (we had a "bring-your-vacuum-to-work cleaning party the last week in the office), the landlord unstable and the digs were ... well, balancing on the fine line between modest and terrible.

So, The Office moved to swanky new digs downtown - cheaper rent, cleaner toilets, effusive landlords and space that feels akin to the organizational "feel". It's also only 8.2 miles from my house.

The problem lies in the fact that The Office, while closer to my house now (by a mile each way) is now 16 miles from Miss Jan's. Drive south 9.5(ish) miles. Drop girls off. Drive north 16 miles. Spend .3 miles in the parking garage. Repeat in reverse eight hours later. It's not so much the distance (reference the 72-mile round-trip commute above) or the traffic (after East Cost traffic, this is nothing) or the extra gas/mileage/upkeep costs (still cheaper, more reliable and faster *sigh* than public transit here). It is two-fold: the fact that I have to go south to go north and drive an extra 35+ miles a day and the fact that I arrive home 40 minutes later than usual, exhausted, hungry and cold - posessing two children who feel the exact same way - only to have to switch hats and face my other life. The life that involves dishes, dinner prep, housekeeping (ha - as if that happens), bedtime and prep for the next day (dinner prep, dishes, housekeeping, setting clothing out, etc).

Once this week, it was too much. I was late picking the girls up, the traffic was in rare form (2 accidents, 1 construction zone = nightmare no matter which way I drove) and I just wanted to yell "Forgetaboutit!" and calculate the horrors of moving into a cardboard box and eating top ramen for the next 10 years.

Instead, I hung my head over the sink and sobbed as I wondered how long I'd have to pay for my sin of overindulgence and foolish financial management in my twenties.

The moment passed and the next day dawned sunny and hopeful - as new days have a tendancy to do (even in The Frontier winters). That night, my boss gave me a letter of appreciation and indicated that I'd be receiving a small bonus in my next check. I remembered that he didn't bat an eye earlier in the week when I announced that Miss Jan's relative had died suddenly and she would be closed for the funeral - he merely agreed that working from home would be fine. My paycheck came. Woodstock proclaimed how much she loved seeing her friends at Miss Jan's. Pebbles slept through the night again. I got more than 4 hours of sleep (only 5 1/2 actually, but that's better than 4). I remembered that I had a good, flexible job with a good paycheck in a crummy economy. I remembered that I had a fantastic, dependable, trustworthy, salt-of-the-earth sitter - who only charges me the rate for one child, even though she watches two.

And I realized that sometimes blessings come in the most unexpected moments. I still dislike my new commute, but there are far worse things in the world - and someday, I'll settle into a routine and laugh at how inefficient and inept I used to be.

A Week of Thanksgiving, Part II

As a child, I didn't play with dolls. I did, however, have a beloved teddy bear, for whom my grandmother and mother made clothes.

As a teen, I didn't love babysitting. There was one family, however, for whom I actually enjoyed it. I watched their three children every week for a year.

As an adult, I determined that since I didn't really have an affinity for small children, I probably shouldn't have any of my own. Gratefully, however, my o adwn personal Jiminey Cricket told me otherwise.

I adore being a mom. Today I am grateful not just for my kids but for everything being a mother allows me to feel, to be, to say, to experience.

I love being a mom for the excuses it gives me to relive favorite parts of my childhood without having to explain why.

I love being a mom for the fact that my daughters think I am the greatest human being (next to their daddy) on the planet ... and don't care that the world thinks otherwise. Somehow it makes having a lumpy stomach, chronic dark circles under my eyes and a cheering section in the bathroom when I pee all worth it.

I love being a mom for the excuses it gives me to learn or ponder about subjects in which I haven't been interested since childhood - what kind of bird makes a home in our backyard (a mocking bird), what kind of noises giraffes make (turns out they are mute - thanks to Erin for that!) or which monster on Sesame Street is my favorite (Grover).

I also love being a mom for how close it brings me to divinity. Some say that women are the scorned lot of Christianity in those religions that don't "allow" women to hold the highest levels of authority. I counter that my place as a co-creator and bearer of children is as close to divinity as a flawed human being can get. Through being a mother I've learned about unconditional love, about truly voluntarily bearing the pain and burdens of others, of wanting to be better than you already are, of true sacrifice - the kind that you take on without making big sighing noises and rolling your eyes.

Most of all, I love being a mom for the moments when Pebbles sighs and snuggles into me after her tummy is full or for the times when, like last night, Woodstock pipes up from the back seat and says, "I'm so happy mom!"

This week of Thanksgiving, I am grateful that I have the opportunity to be a mom, I realize it is truly a gift not to be taken for granted.

Perspectives

The Sunday before last the speakers were a young (very young) couple who had recently moved into the congregation. It was immediately apparent how young they really were (before they even revealed their ages - further highlighting how very young they are - no one else reveals how old they actually are!) when they began using exclusively stories from high school to illustrate the doctrinal points they were trying to make.

I feel terrible - I don't exactly remember what doctrinal points those were because Himself leaned over at some point and said, "Do you realize she was born AFTER I graduated from high school?!" To which I responded, "But you're OLD!"

It was then I realized that she was 7 when I graduated from high school. That made ME feel old.

And then, one of them (can't remember which one) revealed that the wife is pregnant.

For some reason, that made me just want to leap up and hug her and cry and say, "I'm so sorry," which is an utterly ridiculous sentiment to have because a) she's an adult b) she's married and c) the birth (or pending birth) of a child should ALWAYS be a celebration.

It's hard to see the world through someone else's lens. All I could do was see her life - only 2 years out of high school, no college, young, newlywed, pregnant, and her husband in much the same position (minus the pregnancy, obviously!) - through my lens.

I turned 20 days before I set off on the grandest adventure of my life - a year-long stint in Washington, D.C., which radically altered the course of my life in more ways than one. When I married, I was a college graduate (and had been for a couple of years)and lived in my own apartment 2,500+ miles from home. When I had my first baby, I was well out of the honeymoon stage of married life.

So looking at her life through my lens made me want to cry, because there is no way I would trade what I did and who I became in the nearly 11.5 years between graduating from high school and giving birth to Woodstock. I needed that time to develop who I was, become stronger in some areas and less insistent in others. I needed to develop a sense of self, needed to experience certain things.

That doesn't mean everyone needs to, I keep reminding myself. And yet, it also made me compose a mental list of things I want my girls to want for themselves - an education beyond high school, time on their own as their own people, opportunities to know themselves and their spouses, enough income to cover the basics.

It doesn't have to take 11.5 years beyond high school. In fact, I wouldn't even recommend it (though it worked for me). I just hope it takes more than 2.

Have You Ever Wondered...?

Have you ever wondered what a giraffe says?

Yeah, me either.

However, Woodstock is going through a (very long) phase of wondering what EVERYTHING says. And, since she managed to get us to scramble and obtain a giraffe costume for her for Halloween (*story below), she is now insisting on knowing what a giraffe says.

And I'm totally stumped. Other than the sound of munching leaves, I'm not sure I've ever heard a giraffe make a noise. And I've seen a lot of giraffes.

Of course, she also insisted on wearing her giraffe ensemble to Miss Jan's this morning. After I dressed her, she was wandering around the house quacking. I said, "funny girl, giraffes don't quack." She stopped, looked at me and said, "Giraffes say?" (translation: "what do giraffes say?")

Um ... still no idea.

Silly mommy.

*How Woodstock came to be dressed as a giraffe instead of a lion:
We'd planned on Woodstock being a lion this Halloween. However, at some point she's developed rather strong opinions on things - one of which is apparently about suitable Halloween costumes. She INSISTED she was going to be a giraffe. For days, every time someone asked her she'd say "I be a giraffe." Every time we'd tell her, "How about a lion?" She'd reply, "No, I be a giraffe."

Oooookkkkaaaaay. Except I couldn't find a giraffe costume that didn't cost a small fortune that would fit her. And I'm far from being one of those moms who can just "whip something up."

The last straw came when she told the pediatrician, who asked what Woodstock was going to be for Halloween, "Not a yion (lion). I be a giraffe."

Fortunately, my mom happened to mention the above funny anecdotes about Woodstock to a friend. Her friend (bless her, bless her!) said, "I have a giraffe costume for a 2-year-old you can borrow!" Happy days. The package (mailed priority) arrived yesterday. Woodstock has only taken it off to sleep.

She does make an awfully cute giraffe.

Things That Make Your Heart Melt

Sunday was the children's program in church, as a result, the opening hymn was "I am a Child of God."

Woodstock, who loves music almost as much as Pebbles, looked at me with delight - as she knows the words to two of the verses.

She sat there, all 25 1/2 months of her, and sang all the words to the first two verses.

I had to concentrate on the chorister so I didn't start crying.

I love that kid.

You Know You've Grown Old When ...

In my twenties, I lined up for things like concerts, movies, free tickets to the Kennedy Center's Sing-a-Long Messiah, obscure Washington tours, etc. I endured dark, cold, long lines, crowds, and ridiculous crowd management.

Something must have happened when I crossed the threshold into "thirtysomething." I found myself dragging the girls out at oh-dark-thirty to stand in line so Woodstock and I could get stuck by a needle. Except, well, the entire known universe also came and by 7 a.m. there were 3,000 people and a line 6 blocks long for 1,700-2,500 shots.

I took Woodstock and Pebbles out to breakfast instead.

Please don't cough on us.

Charity Never Faileth ... But Sometimes it Goes Awry

Tuesday night I stood in my kitchen, a newborn happily swaddled and sitting in her bouncy seat on the counter (shhh! don't tell the child safety police), and toddler standing next to me on a dining room chair, peppering with questions like "whas dat?" and "chocat chip?" every 30 seconds. I was attempting to make pumpkin bars for a funeral.

Wait ... first week back at work, second day in, sleep-deprived, infant with acid reflux, toddler who developed "selective hearing" on her second birthday ... BAKING? For a funeral?! Are you insane?

Probably.

But I decided that I need to do more to help others out - because I've been on the receiving end a lot of late, and as much as I'd love to claim that I'm a big-hearted saint of a woman, it's really more half-truth than truth (half-truth because I aspire to be that, but I'm not so much). Besides, how hard is it to bake a batch of pumpkin bars for the funeral of the sister of a woman from church I'm assigned to visit?

Rather complicated, as it turns out.

So the baking went fairly well, but I had to frost them before I went to bed, so I could deliver them the following evening to another woman from church, as they wanted the deserts to be dropped off at 8 a.m. on Thursday - the morning of the funeral - and I'm lucky to get us all out of the house fully clothed and fed by 8:30 these days.

Anyway, the bars hadn't quite cooled, so the cream cheese frosting melted a little into the cake-like bars, but still ... not so bad. Except, remember the toddler, who was still helping - which means that the bars defintely tasted much better than they looked. And the newborn who had given up on peaceful slumber and was wailing that she might starve to death in the next 30 seconds if I didn't drop everything and feed her rightthisverysecond. Instant gratification starts early!

Fast forward to last night (Wednesday). I remember suddenly that they'd asked that we bring the "individual serving desserts" (ie cookies, cupcakes, bars) on something that was disposable, so the family wouldn't have to return the dish. Complication. It appears that in all my stocking-up, paper plates are not to be found anywhere in my house. And since there is no such thing as a "quick trip to the store" when it involves a newborn and a toddler, well ... never mind, I thought, I had to drop the bars off at someone else's house that evening and maybe she would have something suitable.

Meanwhile, it turns out Woodstock can reach way back on top of the chest freezer. Turns out she can reach a lot of things these days I didn't know about (like my vitamins - thank heavens it was just the Vitamin D!) Turns out toddler finger prints make a really big mess in cream cheese frosting. I smoothed it out the best I could - at least her fingers were clean.

I called the neighbor to see if she was home and I could drop off the bars. Pebbles picked that moment to need to eat rightthisverysecond (Murphys Law says that if the baby is crying, the phone will ring, and if you pick up the phone, the baby will start to cry just to spite you). Above the wailing, I heard the answering machine picked up. No worries, the evening was still youngish ... another couple of hours until my eyes would be so bleary I'd have to head to bed, whether or not I had accomplished anything.

Bedtime came and went, two middle-of-the-night feedings came and went (payback for falling asleep early and not waking up to feed Pebbles at 10:30 p.m. - curses!), the alarm clock came ... and went. (Twice this week I've slept through the annoying little artificial birdies that are supposed to wake me). This was the day - the pumpkin bars needed to be on something disposable and delivered to the relatives of the deceased by 8 a.m.

Wasn't going to happen.

I ran through various scenarios in my mind as I seared short ribs in my pjs in hopes that the crock pot would magically turn them into dinner by the time I got home. I could just not drop them off...except that invalidated the whole purpose to begin with and really who needs to be stuck with a sheet pan full of bars frosted with cream cheese, butter and sugar? I could try and see if anyone else in the neighborhood was dropping theirs off - and could they drop mine off too? But that required too much time.

And what to do about the #$%#$%^#%& disposable plate problem? In a flash of MacGuyver-like inspiration, I cut the flap off of a diaper box (of which we have plenty) and covered it in tinfoil. Voila! Disposable pumpkin bar transporter.

I slogged through the morning, barely able to keep my eyelids open. Of course, because I needed to leave the house early, everything (and everybody) moved in slow motion. We left the house at 8:40 a.m. - and gone were both my chances of making it to work or delivering the goodies reasonably close to on time.

I drove up to the home of the family to whom the bars needed to be delivered. Good sign - all vehicles were still present and accounted for. I rang the bell. For a moment I felt sheepish about ringing someone's doorbell at 8:40 a.m. - then realized of course they'd be up - today was a funeral after all.

The man of the house answered the door in his pjs. Odd.

He looked at me quizzically when I said, "These are for you," so I added, "For the funeral." He thanked me, still puzzled. I drove to work, slightly amazed at how much work it took to produce 24 pumpkin bars for a fumerarl, and put it out of my mind.

Until I checked my voice mail on my cell phone this morning.

"Sara, this is Sister X. I wanted to let you know we got the date of the funeral wrong. It is FRIDAY. Not Thursday. So you can drop them off at 8 a.m. Friday."

Odd. I don't remember missing any calls on Tuesday or Wednesday. I looked back through all of my calls ... not a single one that indicated it was missed. I simply just had a voice mail show up.

Creepy.

And aggravating! No wonder the man of the house appeared baffled and in his pjs. No wonder the woman I'd arranged to take my goodies early wasn't home the night before the funeral.

Do you think pumpkin bars - cut and placed on tinfoil-covered cardboard - will last until mid-day tomorrow and still taste okay?

I give up. Maybe I am insane.

End Radio Silence

We're still here.

We're (er, I) am sleep-deprived, a bit overwhelmed and not at all sure if my sanity is in tact, but ... I have two of the cutest little girls on the planet, so that makes most of it tolerable.

Pebbles is starting to make cute baby noises and Woodstock is chattering non-stop about anything and everything and is making herself heard, even when we'd rather not hear her. Like when the phone rings. Apologies to anyone who calls. You'll be met with a shrieking, "MOOOOOOM!" in the background followed by "Who's it?" (who is it). She'll pause for the answer, then regardless of said answer she will respond with, "Talk to her?" (or talk to him) If the answer isn't "yes," (it rarely is), she pulls out all of her 2-year-old weapons of ear drum destruction. Oy.

I was never much for phone conversations, but this takes my telephone hibernation to a whole new level. Play phones are no longer satisfactory now that she's discovered the real ones talk back!

"The End"

We had "the talk" this month. The one where we both confessed to each other, out loud, that this might be my very last pregnancy.

It's hard for me to imagine, less than 4 years after having "the talk" that determined we needed to try for a child, that we would be having the talk that would book-end it, discussing whether or not this second child would be "it" as in "the end."

I'm making no decisions, no promises, no anything else, for a couple of years, but I don't want to look back and mourn the fact that I didn't properly appreciate what may well be my final pregnancy. I don't want to lament that I didn't cherish the good parts of pregnancy - the internal acrobatics, spontaneous hiccups (except when they occur near a very full bladder), the feeling of being able to protect one's child from absolutely everything - even if for just 9 short months.

The whole thing has been on my mind a lot lately, as my pregnancy draws near to the end (3.5 weeks until the "estimated" day of delivery). Every time I outgrow another outfit, every time I lose my breath walking up the stairs, every time I look like a circus sideshow act putting on my granny hose in the morning (I can no longer reach - or see - my feet), every time I feel Pebbles kick ... I think, "this might be it." Yet, having the courage to voice it out loud has been nearly as difficult as finding a suitable real-life name for Pebbles.

Last night, we did it. We opened the door of possibility. I didn't know what to expect, how to feel - but a myriad of emotions washed over me. Tentative relief. A bit of sadness. A dose of selfishness and guilt. After all, my body is apparently (surprise, surprise) able to conceive and carry children. The same body, however, is apparently bound and determined to make it as difficult as possible each subsequent time. All of the testing indicates that all subsequent pregnancies would require the same treatment as a precaution - the 6+-month course of expensive, painful injections. The numerous lab visits, the coordination of care with a perinatal specialist, the side effects (extra fatigue and nausea). It all seems like such a small price, but I'm feeling barely human these days. Twice in the past two weeks I had to nap before I left for work at 8:30 a.m. One day I nearly danced in glee that I had to stay home with Woodstock who had a mysteriously high fever for a single day - because it meant a 2-hour afternoon nap.

I worry constantly about what all the medications are doing to Pebbles. I know statistically she'll likely be fine. But neither drug was studied for long-term use, and drugs, as a general rule, aren't studied using pregnant people as subjects. I worry about what they are doing to MY body - and then feel guilty. Anything that has "death" listed as a side effect tends to make one a bit queasy, but there is an internal component built into mothers that automatically makes them sacrifice for the good of their child. I just don't want my sacrifice to be so great I leave two little girls without a healthy, fully functioning, stable mother.

And then there is the anxiety - the feeling of losing absolute control when there are more than 3.5 people in the room at any given time (it is artifically high this week, given I have charge over two teenage boys and a toddler while 9 months pregnant). Chaos makes me physically ill - completely unable to function. We already guessed this would limit our "creating humans" capacity, but I'm only beginning to bring it out into the light of reality to examine it.

I knew the minute I gave birth to Woodstock that I wanted another child. I had baby lust FAR more after giving birth than I ever had before. Pregnant women, women with new babies, women planning on more babies, all made me pine for another one - even when I had a barely-sleeping-through-the-night infant of my own at home. I knew as strongly as I knew anything that there was another child waiting for me. It makes me wonder what crazy emotion will wash over me this time in the after-delivery delirium that makes women insane enough to think "it wasn't so bad, I can totally do this again!"

If it says, "Have another one," so be it, but I have to be prepared to give the "okay" to myself, to my body, if it doesn't. If Pebbles really is my last baby, I resolve to be the best two-child mother I can be and focus on those delightful spirits entrusted me, knowing I left no one out.

Still, there is something so ... final, so emotionally draining about even uttering the words, "The End."

I See My Mother Kneeling...

There is a children's church song that was one of my favorites when I was a child, "Love is Spoken Here." The first verse goes:

I see my mother kneeling with our family each day.
I hear the words she whispers as she bows her head to pray.
Her plea to the Father quiets all my fears,
And I am thankful love is spoken here.

As a child, a teen, an adult, I generally thought of the "her plea to the Father" as one of those of the "Father, please keep my children from driving me insane and selling them to the gypsies" variety.

This morning found me with those lyrics running through my head as I knelt in the middle of my bed, pleading. Only my pleas weren't of the "please keep my child from driving me insane and selling her to the gypsies" variety. I realized about halfway through that I really hoped this was one "plea to the Father" that Woodstock wouldn't hear, because what mother wants to admit she's pleading to be as good as her child?

It sounds, in words on paper (in cyberspace), ridiculous. But I have a strongly held belief that until the age of accountability, children are, in essences, perfect spirits. That, combined with Woodstock's utterly gentle, loving nature, makes me want to weep at how much she's taught me. It hardly equates with me teaching her the letters of the alphabet or that big green harvesting machines are called "Combines" (she's really into trucks at the moment - obsesively into trucks, I might add).

Yesterday was a no-good-horrible-very-bad-day, for a dozen of little reasons. I kept it mostly together all day. Shortly before Woodstock's bedtime, I began fighting off tears. Tears of hormonal pregnant insantiy, to be certain, but tears nonetheless.

As I rocked Woodstock before bedtime, tears pooling in my eyes, she looked up at me and said, "Momma sad," and snuggled into me, resting her little blonde head beneath my chin. As I put her down, for the first time, unprompted, she said, "Love you Momma."

This morning, after the emotional fog had cleared and I was again thinking with some form of rational process, I struggled to express myself to my own Father - who has certainly never felt that I was better than He - He whom I must have disappointed thousands of times over and over. How does a mother, four days before Mother's Day, pay homage to her Father for the gift he has given her that has opened her heart to so much goodness, so much love, so much clarity? How does one say "thank you" for a little person's wisdom and insight? How does one plead with her Father to help her refrain from screwing things up as she tries to protect the love and goodness inside the snuggly lump of purple fleece in the other room?

How indeed.

This Mother's Day, I want to thank Woodstock - for teaching more than I could ever hope to teach her.

Note to Self: Never Trust a Toddler With a Secret

Two reasons one should never trust a toddler with a secret:

Reason One
Saturday I purchased a DVD for Himself for his birthday (3 weeks hence) at Costco. I had a coupon that was expiring, so I had to buy it that day. Since it was, in theory, from Woodstock, I showed it to her when I got home - never imagining a 20-month-old could spill the beans so to speak. I said, "Woodstock, look what we got daddy for his birthday!"

Then I put it in the bag of things that needed to go downstairs. About 10 minutes later, Himself came up from the basement. Woodstock gleefully ran to the bag, grabbed the DVD and handed it to Himself, saying, "Happy Birthday Daddy!"

She was so proud of herself. Himself melted into a big puddle - although puzzled by why I had entrusted Woodstock with such information as to what his birthday gift was. I was torn between adoration that she got the context perfect and mild irritation that I was dumb enough to think Woodstock wouldn't "get" it and therefore wouldn't share it.

She then launched into singing "Happy Birthday" - complete with "Happy Birthday to Woodstock," which is the only way she ever sings it. :)

Reason Two:

This was not, actually, a secret, but a good lesson that children have no known boundaries about what should and shouldn't be shared repeatedly.

Himself and Woodstock trekked to the Great Frozen North Sunday for a 2-day trip to see Himself's dad and sister. Himself, in all his parental wisdom, opted to go for "travel light" and didn't bring the pack-n-play. "Woodstock can sleep in a big bed," he said. Um, sure.

On the way home, Himself called to tell me to not be alarmed by the bruise/rug burn on Woodstock's forehead because, well, because she had fallen out of the big bed. I bit my tongue, aching to say "I told you so."

When I arrived home, Woodstock ran into my arms, then said, "Mama. Fall out bed. Ouch head," and pointed to her souvenier of the event. Since then, any time she approaches her (or any other) bed or touches her head, she repeats, "Bed. Fall out bed. Ouch. Head," or some variation. Including sharing this piece of information repeatedly with the sitter.

Good thing it's just a rite-of-passage-for-every-toddler moment. I didn't need to say "Told you so," because it appears Woodstock is never going to let Himself live it down. Four days later and she is still reminding us about "Bed. Fall out bed. Ouch."