Dear Second Baby (I've Learned Some Things)

I’m sitting in the same rocking chair I used to hold and feed your brother in. It’s classic, wooden, painted in soft yellow. It came from a distant relative and its history started somewhere in Florida, hauled to Kansas after the relative passed away, then to Colorado to your brother’s nursery. We brought it back to Florida two years ago, apparently it knew where its home is.
  
I've thought about getting a new one. Something bigger, softer, more modern. But I realized I don’t need a new one, I just need to modify this one a bit to make it better. I’ll get a pillow for the top, so it’s not so uncomfortable if we drift off to sleep together. I’ll find a better footstool that doesn’t leave my back aching after a thirty minute feed.

You see, I’ve learned some things.

The chair is sitting in the corner our bedroom. It’s next to a poor-man’s dresser I made out of plastic cube shelves and fabric bins that hold your tiny clothes. The other corner is for your bed. I’ve hung heat and noise blocking curtains and a bible verse print. There’s not a good space in this house for your own room so you’ll have to put up with us for awhile. I know your brother had his own, a room I spent weeks on getting just right. We brought him home and he slept in ours for four months.

You see, I’ve learned some things.

The first time around I registered for all the things to fill up all the space. Then there were the hand-me-downs, the random gifts, and we did indeed fill your brother’s room with stuff. But there were toys that were never played with, clothes never worn. I’m being more mindful this time about what you and I and we truly need.

You see, I’ve learned some things.

Yes, you will come into this world with less stuff, less space, but no less room for love. 

Love in Three Parts

I sat on the white chair in the front room, the faux leather one with the scratches in the seat from where the dog had tried to make it more comfortable. I was seven months pregnant and eating a stack of golden Oreos. The May afternoon sun was streaming in through the open blinds of the picture window. My husband was on the chaise lounge, but he wasn’t relaxed. We need to talk, he said.

Read more at Coffee & Crumbs.

The Beginning and End of Crib Season

I snagged my son’s crib off a listing on Craigslist.

It was an Ikea one, simple but sturdy, and came with the mattress. All for $40. I stood in the Craigslist stranger’s garage, surrounded by other outgrown baby gear and two kids who rode their bikes in and out without much regard for who was in the way. The original owner told me how to put it together, and as I handed her the money and put the pieces in my Jeep, I wondered if she was sad to be giving up this season of her motherhood. On the outside she didn’t seem to be. She seemed relieved that it was going, making space for the next one.  

Like many naïve first time moms, I thought that crib would be used right away.

Read more at Sarasota Moms Blog. 

Blinking

With every blink

Tick of the clock

Inch you grow

Time is taking you away from me

And me from you

Two blinks ago you were

Laying on my chest

Our souls merging

To the rhythm of sunrises

And sunsets

A blink ago you were

Crawling into the future

Dragging my heart with you

To the place

Where time stands still

In the next blink you will be

Walking into the unknown

Leaving me behind

Standing in the shadows

Blinking

Riding the Wave

The gulf isn’t known for it’s waves. You won’t find any surfer dudes down here, just tourists on floaties and locals stroking by in their stand up paddle board clubs. But recently when we went to the beach and heard the waves breaking from the parking lot, we knew some decent swells awaited us. As we stepped off the boardwalk and onto the white, shimmering sand, we could see that the crests were several feet high.

M took to the ocean the first time he met it at a year and a half old. We took him out to the beach the day we moved here, and I saw him fall in love as he touched the sand, first with just a finger tip and then his whole, chubby hand, and let the water kiss his toes. A year and some months after that first encounter, he rarely hesitates to get in.

This day was different. I’m sure a lot of it had to do with the intensity of the waves, but his fear was evident as he stayed on dry sand. Now almost three, he’s at an age where fear is starting to creep into his life more and more. At bedtime he tells me he doesn’t want the dark in his room and so he has two night lights and the door stays open until he falls asleep. Scary characters on TV elicit a “Don’t like that mommy,” and he sees imaginary monsters hiding around the corner.

  

As he starts to understand more of the world around him, he also starts to lose the sacred ignorance I wish he could keep. 

So how can I help him navigate his fears?

Acknowledge and asses the fear. The waves were high and the noise of the force of the water hitting land was loud. The usually clear water was dark and the ocean floor was hidden. M’s fear was legitimate and he didn't know what to do with it. He turned from the water's edge and ran back to the safety of my arms. I told him it’s ok to feel afraid, but that the waves on this day, while unusual, were not too big for him to deal with.

Show the way. M saw other kids playing in the water and his Dad walk out first. Ryan encouraged M to follow, splashing the water and joyfully jumping into the rolling waves. Then, when M was still unsure, Ryan carried him out and held him as the ocean broke over them both and patiently waited until M had enough confidence to stand by himself.

Praise for overcoming. Soon M was facing the waves on his own. He saw one building, knew it was coming, and instead of turning away he jumped into it. He came to shore, sand and a smile plastered to his face. “I rode the wave, mama!” “Yes you did buddy,” I replied as I wrapped him in a salty hug, “You did so good!”

Overcoming fear isn’t unique to the little ones, and as an adult I often find myself in similar situations. My fears look different than his (although I don’t always like big waves or scary monsters either) but they can be tackled in the same way. When I’m dealing with a fear I need to figure out if it’s a warning or a hindrance. Is it protecting me from an unsafe situation, or is it keeping me from an experience that could be perfectly harmless? I need to find someone that’s been there before. Sometimes I need others to show me the way first, and I might need to be carried for a while until my legs feel strong enough to carry myself. And I need to know I did good. When I am recognized for accomplishing something despite my fears, I have faith that I can do it again.

There have been a few more big wave days since that time and M has continued to conquer his fear. Now when he knows we’re headed to the beach, he fearlessly claims that he’s going to ride all the waves. 

Mama Power

"His love for me, reflected in his eyes and bubbling over in his laugh, is one of his many superpowers. My love for him is my mama power."

My mini essay on Mama Power was published as part of Tribe Magazine's Power in Motherhood series.

A Collection of Short Poems

I hold strong⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

But not too tight⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Letting you tell me⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

When it's time⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

To let go a little more⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Letting you tell me⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

When you are ready⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

To catch the wind⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

And fly⠀

_________________________

Blue eyes so young and deep

Full of life and hope 

Still undimmed by hurt

I wish I could keep them that way⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Blue eyes so young and deep

Full of promise and future 

Still learning about what you see

I wish I could capture it all⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Blue eyes so young and deep

_________________________

Inbetween the days, we grow⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Inbetween the nights, we change⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Inbetween the smiles, we remember ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Inbetween the cries, we learn ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

In-between the bruises, we get stronger⠀⠀⠀ 

Inbetween it all, we love

To the Toddler Mom in the Deep End

Hey you, yeah you, the mama over there with the toddler that just got out of the pool and is running for the exit. I see you. I see you chasing him and telling him he can’t leave without you. I see you as he yells and twists out of your grasp until you’re just hanging on to a kicking leg. I see the anger and desperation in your eyes.

I see you.

For you motherhood was like stepping into a slightly chilly pool. Uncomfortable and unknown at times, but you always stayed where you could touch. Your head was always above the water and postpartum was more of a high than a low. You loved being a mom from day one and even though there were a few waves in the beginning the waters soon smoothed and warmed. Your baby adjusted effortlessly through developmental stages and you didn’t really relate to the mom-talk of regressions and overwhelming sleep deprivation. For a good two years you floated along with a smile on your face and a tiny bit of a chip on your shoulder. Maybe you just got lucky or maybe God had mercy on you because he knew what was coming.

Toddlerhood threw you right in the deep end where the warm water has turned to ice. You are flailing and choking and you can’t get a grip on the edge. You weren’t ready for the battle of wills, the screaming, and the talking back. You don’t know how to respond when he won’t follow a simple command like putting on his clothes. He wants to brush his teeth himself but gets mad at you when he can’t get the cap off of the toothpaste. When you give him the wrong cup at dinner he acts like you killed the dog. He uses the toilet at school but refuses to even sit on the one at home.  “Because I don’t want to” is his favorite phrase and you’re tempted to have it tattooed on him. You’re not confident in your discipline methods because nothing seems to work. He can sense this weakness and so he doesn’t take you seriously. You resort to having your partner be the bad guy. You feel inadequate and it’s pulling you under.

I see you and you’re not alone. I’m here too.

So what do we do? We remember that the little terrors we see in front of us today were not always and will not always be. We try to think about how the world looks to them as they try to figure out. We give them the space, options, and tools they need to express themselves. We hold on tight to the sweet moments, like when they tell you about their day in their two-year old vocabulary, give you an unexpected kiss, or laugh hysterically at something you never thought was funny before.

We can claw our way out together. I’ll give you a boost and you can pull me up. Rumor is that moms do survive this, and they’re waiting for us under the umbrellas with words of encouragement, war stories, and wine. 

The Pain In The Feeling

“What if pain—like love—is just a place brave people visit?”

— GLENNON DOYLE MELTON, LOVE WARRIOR: A MEMOIR

The other day I spent the majority of the afternoon in bed. I wasn’t sick or physically tired but emotionally I was exhausted. The week had caught up with me and by the time Sunday was here, my heart and my head had enough. And so I let the pillows, blankets, and hum of traffic wrap me in their protective space, and for the first time all week I let myself feel. I cried out my worries, confusion, and pain. I cried myself to sleep and then cried some more, but by the time I left my bed I felt renewed. Those things that I cried over were no longer such a burden on my heart. 

Read more over at The Village Magazine. 

The Climb

When my son started crawling we lived in a tri-level house with two sets of stairs. There were no easy ways to gate them, so we didn’t. Like most babies, he was magnetically drawn to the steps, his curiosity and drive to climb to the top was pretty unstoppable. We let him explore, taught him how to slide down on his tummy, and made sure we were always behind him in case he faltered.

****

We all start at the bottom, looking up at the challenges and achievements of each step. Some of us are unsure of the climb and lack the confidence to make it up the first stair. Our paths to accomplishments are filled with obstacles. A broken step, or a loose railing. Our journey isn’t easy and each success is hard-earned, one stair at a time.

Read more over at The Village Magazine. 

Surrendering the Laundry

The buzzer on the dryer sounds, it's time to make a decision. Do I let the clothes sit until nap time or do I save them from their wrinkled fate? Leaving them makes me twitchy, so I go for it. Right on cue, my little helper runs in to help me “pack”. I feel myself tense up, but take a deep breath and say, "Sure buddy, let's pack!"

I think of myself as a go-with-the-flow kind of mom, but if you start messing with my laundry, the control freak comes out. I always separate clothes by color, I remain aware of certain items that cannot go in the dryer, and wrinkled clothes are not acceptable. I usually don’t have time to fold immediately, but I do lay the clothes flat so by the time I get to them they’re not a crumpled mess. 

Having a two year old who thinks doing laundry is the best thing next to goldfish crackers doesn’t really mesh with my laundry plans. M doesn't have the patience to wait for my lay flat technique or the fine motor skills to accomplish it. For him it’s a win if he gets a piece in the basket.

Read more over at The Village Magazine. 

Rediscovering Imagination

I got a new desk a few weeks ago and besides the desk in the box there were also several pieces of heavy-duty cardboard. These pieces soon became M’s new favorite toys, and unlike some toys that only keep his attention for a day or two he’s still playing with them today.

What is it about a boring, brown chunk of pressed paper that can replace an entire room full of toys?

The answer is simple: the magic of imagination.

The cardboard is a blank canvas that he can make into anything his little mind dreams up. It’s been used as a tunnel for trucks, a climbing wall, a boat, and a trailer to haul his tractor. He’s built towers that get knocked down over and over. Just jumping up and down on a piece is enough to throw him into a fit of giggles.

When was the last time I looked at cardboard as anything other than something that needs to be hauled out to the recycle? When was the last time I really used my imagination?

Imagination and I used to be inseparable. 

Reading was our meeting place and we could burn through a book or two a day, escaping into whatever world the author had created for us. We would be on the prairie with Laura Ingalls one day and on a train with the Boxcar Children the next. She helped me draw, paint and glue together construction paper and Popsicle stick dreams. Imagination took me by the hand as we skipped out to the playhouse and made sand pies and hose-water tea for our guests. Up in my room she was there with the Barbies as they prepared for the pageant.  

Then college, work, and the Internet happened and imagination got buried beneath the unimaginative demands of adult life, but I’m attempting to uncover her. Watching my son discover his imagination makes me want to be back in that place where she and I were best friends. He’s helping me do this every time he sits down to play with play dough and he wants me to make a cat, or when he takes his truck to papa’s farm, or when he transforms that cardboard into a race track.

I’m coaxing out my grown-up imagination by doing this thing called writing, something I had shut down long ago because…I don’t really know why now. I guess it was a lack of confidence and belief in both myself and her. Back in June she was gently nudging me when I signed up for the writing workshop and I think she plans on sticking around. Sometimes she happily comes out to play, other times require a little bribing. I’m trying to read more like I used to and find imagination in other creative outlets. When I’m doing a DIY project, journaling, even baking, I can feel her with me.

Thank you M, and the box full of cardboard, for reminding me that imagination was always there, I just needed to let her back in. 

This one thing

I never realized what a judgy place it is out there in mommyland until I was pregnant with my son. Scary mommies, sanctimommies, all-up-in-your-business mommies. I dipped my toes in a few forums and Facebook groups but pulled out pretty quickly. I know there are some safe places out there but most of it is crazy town. I’ve never understood judging someone for the personal decisions they make or basing your decisions on what others might think.

For the most part I’ve made my mom and parent decisions without much angst. I drank coffee while pregnant (sometimes even a little wine, shhh don’t tell). I breast and bottle fed, both in public. I co-slept when I needed too and didn’t hide it. I don’t have a problem sharing the way I raise my son because I just don’t care what you think about it.

Except for this one thing.

When my son was about a month old I dropped him down the stairs. Literally dropped him. I had just given him a bath and was taking him downstairs to say goodnight to Ryan. I was walking down to the lowest level of our tri-level house and my foot slipped off the edge of a stair. When I fell he flew out of my hands, rolled down the last few steps and onto the floor. I thought I had killed him.

Ryan calmly picked up M and comforted him while at the same time tried to calm me down. I was almost hyperventilating and hadn’t moved from the spot where I’d landed. I felt paralyzed, and horrified, and Oh My God, what did I do?

I took M from Ryan, and while still crying and shaking, I examined his little body for the damage I was sure I would find.  Although M seemed fine, I was convinced that I had irreparably injured him. We took him the ER to get checked out and to save my mind. Telling the ER doctor why we were there made me want to throw up. What kind of mother drops her teeny-tiny baby?!

Fifty hours later (why does it take sooo long?). M got the all clear and we went home. I was still sure that something was wrong. That his brain was bleeding or there was a broken bone they just didn’t see. I held him, and cried, told him I was sorry, and barely slept that night.

He was fine, of course. Babies are like little rubber balls apparently and much more immune to falls than grown-ups. He didn’t have a mark on him; my bruise stuck around for a good month. My body wasn’t the only thing bruised though, so was my sense of self-worth as a mom. Telling the ER doc that I dropped my child was bad enough, I couldn't imagine telling my friends or even my own mom. Forget about telling internet strangers. I would surely be ripped apart. “Well if you were wearing him that wouldn’t have happened.” “This is exactly why I don’t have stairs in my house.”

It seems silly now, not telling, because I know accidents happen all the time. Moms fall down stairs. Babies roll off changing tables. Kids get away from you at the mall.

I’ve also come to realize that in the aftermath of an accident like this this is when I actually find my mom-worth. The same goes for when M falls and skins his knee and looks to me for comfort. Or when he is sick and finds some peace in my arms only. In these moments I am completely focused on him and all my motherly instincts kick in.

As mothers, our worth is not defined by when we drop our babies down the stairs, let them roll off the table, or lose track of them for a second at the mall. It’s in after, in how we respond to these situations, that our mom-worth is revealed.  

From now on I will share my accident stories proudly. Those fourm moms need some new stories to clutch their pearls over anyway.