Getting Your Child To Sleep: First Born vs Third Born

When I was a new parent, I was dumb.

Man, was I ever dumb.

Not that I'm rolling in the neurons now. But especially as a new parent. I owned every "What to Expect Book" there was:

'What to Expect When You're Expecting'

'What To Expect the First Year'

'What to Expect When You're A Neurotic Parent and You're Driving Everyone Crazy'

'What to Expect When Your Baby Has a Slight Case of Jaundice Which is Totally Treatable and Not Really a Big Deal but You're Hysterical and Slumped in the Hallway Sobbing by the Vending Machines'

I'm telling you, I had all of them. I remember my mom visiting me and newborn Jack and she told me that I read too much. Bear in mind, this is a well-read woman. She loves books. We all do. We buy them for each other and loan them and talk about them over dessert. And here she was, telling me to stop reading.

But I really couldn't help it. In fact, when I was first pregnant with Jack, all shiny and full of hope (no really, I was shiny. My face was all oily and stuff), I even wrote out a daily schedule with all the vitamins and minerals I would need for a healthy pregnancy.

I can't hardly type that without simultaneously wanting to laugh at my old self and slap her for being so insufferable.

My plans included lots and lots of leafy greens, a colorful array of vegetables, lean protein, and, of course, a prenatal vitamin with folic acid.

And then I ended up throwing up so hard and often that nothing would stay down and I would burst the blood vessels in my eyes.

Despite my best intentions, nacho cheese Doritos are the ONLY thing I could keep down. So that's how Jack was made - with love, good intentions, and lots of Doritos.

If you're wondering when the sleeping part comes in, I'm getting there. Sometimes I ramble but that's most likely due to the high amounts of artificially cheese-flavored processed snacks I consumed a decade ago.

In the years since I first became a parent, I've had to let go of the high expectations I had of my parenting skills. It's now more a matter of survival than it is excellence.

So this is the difference between getting my first-born to sleep as a toddler/preschooler and getting my last-born to sleep (This is Noah; I do realize that Tali is my last baby but she came to us a great sleeper, probably more the result of not having enough help during the night at the orphanage and kids just learned to sleep).

Where Does Baby Sleep?

First Child

He slept in my arms because he fussed when I put him down (in his perfectly SIDS-safe crib without blankets and bumpers). Jack wore a sleep sack for both easy access for nighttime diaper changes as well as warmth without the use of frowned-upon blankets. We had a baby monitor for awhile and I would lay awake, wide-eyed, straining to listen to it, on the rare times he slept in his crib. Just in case the monitor was lying about my baby sleeping soundly, I would jump out out of bed throughout the night and put my shaking hand to his chest to make sure he was breathing. Sometimes, if I was feeling all-the-way crazy, I would wake him up, just to assure myself that he was, in fact, alive. He only slept in my arms or swaddled tightly in a safe, secure cocoon of love.

Third Child

No monitor, same crib as the first and second born - now with teeth marks. He might have slept in sleepers but probably slept in diapers or his clothes from that day. The 4 year old may or may not have helped to dress him. He might have the sleeper snapped up properly, he also may not. He had blankets and toys and socks and possibly Cheerios in his crib.

I definitely did not have a monitor (and if I had had one, it would have been packed away or in the toy box. Or given it to some poor new parent who actually cares about their baby's sleeping habits.)
Noah slept in a swing, in the car seat, next to his 6-year-old brother on the couch, on the floor surrounded by toys because I completely forgot he was playing there and he passed out for a nap.

Covered in blankets, on a recliner. A recliner!

How Do You Get the Baby/Child to Sleep at Night?

First Child

Jack was surrounded by words - lullabies, books, songs, poems. Every cd carefully picked out from a recommendation in a Parenting magazine. Songs for naptime, for playtime, for cleaning up, for eating. Every bite of food is talked about - color, texture, taste. Words were enunciated to help with verbal development - Print Rich Environment, Developmentally Appropriate Play!

I pored over the books for sleep. Books on how to send baby to dreamland with comfort. No crying it out, no break in the mother-child bond. He was rocked, tummy to tummy, swaddled, fed (but not right before sleeping! Feed then begin nighttime routine so he learns how to fall asleep). When it was finally time for Jack to sleep in his crib (8 months old. 8. Freaking. Months), I followed a program, step by step. First sitting by his crib, talking softly. Then sitting quietly. Finally moving my chair towards the door (all this time a night light is on, the white noise maker filling the room with the soothing sounds of a babbling brook) and then lastly, leaving the room after Jack falls peacefully asleep, being assured that I was there as he slept.


Third Child

I'm using what few parenting books I have left to hold up the leg of the coffee table. If I have a question, I google it. But they're usually not parenting questions. More like "What is the maximum amount of wine I can drink in a day that is socially acceptable?"and "How often do I HAVE to wash yoga pants?"

For parenting advice, I ask my mom (which is silly because she can't remember our collective childhood. Her brain has blocked it out for self-preservation) or just make it up.

I rarely talked to Noah about his food except to say "NO! Don't eat that! That cheerio was in your diaper. Gross. You know what? Fine. Less I have to clean up later."

By that time I didn't have a subscription to any parenting magazines and if I did, I would have given them to the kids to cut out and glue on a piece of paper because it would've bought me 10 minutes of business and quiet until someone stabs someone else with the scissors.

Noah slept in a crib from the first night. I got up to feed him, often falling asleep in the rocking chair. Often he ate right before sleeping, pulling off from nursing in a milk-induced coma as I snuck out of the room. Or I just put him to bed crying, told him good night, and shut the door. He might have cried for awhile or he might have fallen right to sleep. I was too far away to know either way.

Nap Time

First Born

Jack napped at proper intervals and always with a book (often about naps - appropriately themed books). Then I would whisper to Jack as we lay side by side. We would talk about the things we did that morning and our plans for later that day. Thoughtful questions were asked and answered. A kiss on the forehead before leaving. Daily events were mapped out around sleep times, because it's so crucial to brain development.

Play date at 1?

Nope, naptime. Can't do it.

Dinner at 7?

Goodness gracious, nighttime routine starts at 7:15. We can't possibly do that. Our little one needs his sleep.

Third Born

He just sleeps whenever. Sometimes it's at actual naptime, right after lunch. But if he sleeps in the car or in the stroller, we count that as nap too.

Play date at 1?

Yes, please. I need some adult talk time. If Noah is really tired, he'll just sleep in the car on the way home.

Dinner at 7?

I don't have to cook? Yippee! Load up the kids and let's blow this pop stand. If Noah gets cranky because we're out late, we'll just strap him in the stroller. He'll eventually tire himself out with his tantrum.

On the rare days Noah naps, I might lay down next to him if I'm desperate. Then I have to pretend like I'm really wanting to take a nap with him. Like I'm exhausted and it's my dearest dream to curl up on his ratty old blanket that smells faintly of pee and milk and take a nap. He knows what's happening and watches me with suspicious squinty eyes.

So then I have to pretend to fall asleep almost immediately. Mouth open, maybe a soft snore because I'm so comfortable and cannot wait to nap.

He then asks me "Can I get up when you get up?" because he knows as soon as he falls asleep, I will sneak out.

So I have to say "How about this? Whoever gets up first gets to stay up. And if the other person is sleeping, that person will keep sleeping. Could be either of us. It's a toss up."

He'll try to talk me out of making him nap.

"Mom, my heart doesn't want to nap. My heart is saying "Noah, I'm not tired. Let's get up and play."

"Noah, your heart doesn't know what's going on. Your heart wants to nap. It's tired. Your heart is a liar."

Eventually he'll start to fall asleep and I'll try to slide off the bottom bunk bed.

I put my leg and arm on the ground to begin my departure.

Sometimes Noah's eyes will pop open - suspicious, piggy, glaring at me. So then I immediately pretend like I'm sleeping.

I act like I am deep in the best sleep of my life, even if my right knee is on a lego and my right hand is still scrolling through Pinterest on my phone.

At some point he does fall asleep and I creep out.

After he wakes up, Noah accuses me of not waking him up when I left.

"Why didn't you let me leave with you?"

"Noah," I say, aghast with emotion, "Noah, I tried! I would've loved to stay up and play with you but you were sleeping so well, I couldn't get you to wake up! I was like "Noah, Noah, please play with me, don't sleep" but you just kept on sleeping."

Now is not the time for scruples and honesty.

Now is the time for sanity and yoga pants while you drink your wine in silence.

Pregnancy Dreams: I'll Take "Things That Make Me Cry" for $100

These are the days I feel like I should be posting about more serious stuff - gay marriage, the Confederate Flag, abortion, the Mexican drug cartel.

So many serious things from which to choose (it's my blog but the ghost of my 8th grade grammar teacher is standing over me, waiting for me to write "So many serious things to choose from...)

But instead I'm here to talk to you about pregnancy dreams. Because writing about womanly issues (and not serious ones) and scrubbing toilets badly and bikini waxes and toddler diarrhea is just who I am.

First off, I'm not pregnant.

No.

No.

No.

But a friend is and the night I spoke to her on the phone I had a dream about being pregnant. Well, a nightmare really. Don't get me wrong, I desperately planned and wanted my babies and so enjoyed those sweet early lives, when their heads smell heavenly and they do that thing where they stretch their arms and yawn and keep their little legs bunched up. It's so cute I can hardly stand it.

But then they grow. And while their heads now smell like dirty hair and sunscreen, so many wonderful things are in this phase of life. No more diapers (hell ya!); long, serious discussions about life and faith and the purpose of nipples; being able to leave the big kids at home for small bits of time; enjoying my Kate reading Harry Potter and Roald Dahl and so many of my favorite books for the very first time.

And really, when people feel done having kids, that's pretty much it. I can watch a diaper commercial and instead of sobbing and beating my fists and crying out to the cosmos that I want to be pregnant and why am I the only person in the world without a baby? (like when I was trying to get pregnant with Jack), I just think "Thank God those days of feces escaping even the most capable of diapers are over." I can sleep the sleep of a parent who does not expect to be woken up at night. Ever. And if I am, so help me, you'd better be puking up your boxed macaroni dinner because I sure as shooting will not be getting up because you can't find your green dinosaur at 3 am.

So it was quite a shock to have a dream about being pregnant. Especially since my brain has long since threatened my ovaries - "If you let one more sperm in, so help me I will strangle you with your own Fallopian tube."

Apparently I threaten children and body parts with "So help me..." a lot.

The point of this whole rambling story is that I had a dream about being pregnant and instead of closing my eyes in rapture and hoping with all my might and wishing on a star and praying to God that it was true, I woke up in a bit of a terror and then narrowed my eyes suspiciously at Matt.

"If you got me pregnant, I will pummel you with my purses. All of them. So help me..."

Biting Back My Wishes

You know when you wish for something and then after it happens, you regret it?

Deeply.

Over the past couple weeks I've been thinking occasionally that I wish something interesting would happen so I could blog about it.

So dumb. Sooo dumb.

Last Friday we were at my best friend's community pool for her son's birthday. Swimming, presents, cake, happiness.

After a while I heard Noah calling to me from a bathroom. I stuck my head in and he said "Wipe me, Mama."

As I walked further into the bathroom, I started seeing things. Horrible things.

Let me back up a bit.

Noah doesn't just sit back onto the toilet. He does it with style. He plants his left foot on the seat and swings his right leg over to the other side, like straddling a horse.

Unfortunately, this time he miscalculated, just a bit.

He began his bowel emptying as he was swinging his leg.

That's right. Poop all over next to the toilet.

On the trash can.

On the floor.

On the wall.

On the outside of the toilet.

I stared in blank horror for a few seconds then slowly walked out of the bathroom and called to Matt, where he was talking to some friends.

"Maaaatttt?"

He comes in and we both stare in blank horror for a few seconds.

Matt starts sputtering - "What...?  How did you...? What...?

"Are you sick?" I ask Noah.

"No," he replies, almost cheerfully from his view on the toilet (there is nothing in the toilet - nothing.).

We start the arduous (odorous?) process of wiping everything down with the only thing we had available - paper towels.

"Noah, how did this happen? This doesn't even make sense. I've never seen anything like this before."

"Holy heck, it's in the grout. How the crap do I get crap out of the grout?"

At one point, Matt stops and looks up at the ceiling.

"Why did I come to this party? Why was I born?"

While washing our hands at the sink, Matt asked Noah, "So what did we learn today?"

Noah, "It was bad."

Indeed it was.

As we were exiting the bathroom, holding the trashbag (that was ruined because Noah got poop all over the bag, as it was rolled down from the can), a friend remarked, "Well, at least you got a blog post."

It's a very thin silver lining but it's there, I suppose.

Haircuts and Fairy Tales

Take the Mirror!

Every time I get my hair cut, the stylist insists that I take a tiny mirror and swivels me around in the chair so I can look into the mirror at the back of my head's reflection in the big mirror. I always dutifully glance even though I don't care a bit what the back of my head looks like. With very few exceptions, my haircut in the back looks identical to what's happening on my sides and I've already seen those by the end of the cut.  Often I'll just give the stylist a vague idea of what I want (not to look like a mushroom) and then tell him or her that I trust them to figure the rest out as they go.

Last week I got my hair cut and the stylist again handed me a mirror to see the back.

"It's ok," I said, "I'm sure the back looks fine. I don't need to see it."

"No, I want you to see it."

And here she swivels me around.

(Wow, this mirror really magnifies my poor, untweezed eyebrows. Is it normal to have eyebrow hair grow this fast? Maybe it's my gummy vitamins...)

"So, how does it look?'

"What? Oh, it looks great. Really lovely."

(I really should try eyebrow waxing. It could change my life.)

The stylist nods contentedly with the knowledge that I am indeed deeply satisfied with how the back of my head looks.

This leads me to believe that stylists must be constantly plagued by customers who come back after a cut, pointing angrily to the back of their heads and yelling "What's the matter with you? The sides of my hair are amazing but the back is an absolute nightmare. People have been laughing at me, literally behind my back, the entire day."

The Brothers Very Grim

My kids will probably tell you I'm mean. Which is true much of the time.  I'm constantly harping on them to clean up, do their math, put their shoes away, and actually use shampoo in the shower and not just wet your hair because I can totally tell. I've heard that being a grandparent is the reward you get for raising your kids and I believe it. My mom tells me she enjoys being able to do fun things and spoil them because she isn't responsible for how they turn out, unlike her own children. Therefore, it's oatmeal at home and 6 bowls of Lucky Charms at my parents.

 In fact, we stayed the night at their house over this past Thanksgiving and my mom bought three different sugary cereals just for their arrival. One was open so I took it out to give to everyone.

 My dad: "No, no, take them all out. They can have whatever they want."

"But this one is open," I sputter.

"It's fine, open them all."

And I'll be darned if my big kids didn't have like 6 bowls apiece, 2 of each kind of cereal.  Seeing how different my own parents are as grandparents, happy and smiling and generally enjoying it, makes me look forward to when I have my own grandkids and I won't have to worry everyday that I'm disciplining too much or too little or that I won't have enough money for therapy someday.

So whenever I can get away with not directly sucking the happiness out of their lives I do. Which means that whenever I read a book aloud or tell a story, I will often sneak in my own sentences so it sounds like it's coming from the author and not me.  For instance:

"Once upon a time there was a little girl named Goldilocks. She was walking through the woods and spotted the house of the three bears. She decided to go in, even though her mom had told her not to but Goldilocks didn't listen to her mom at all which resulted in her almost being eaten by bears, which we'll see later on in the story."

And then later...

"Goldilocks woke up and saw the bears, screamed, and ran way. She vowed from that day forward to be an obedient kid and to always do what her mom says. The end."

Of course, this really only works for Noah. With the older kids I have to be sneakier. Like if I'm reading Harry Potter and come across a section about the trouble the twins get into and how stressed it makes their mother, I might add:

"George and Fred were worried that their mother might be disappointed in them and so they decided to do their best to make good decisions because they realized life would be more enjoyable if they weren't in trouble so much."

Stuff like that.

Of course, there is a risk that someday they'll realize that Hansel and Gretel weren't actually sent out to the woods for punishment for not clearing their dishes and also for arguing over whose cookie was bigger, but it's a chance I'm willing to take.

Chore Charts and 5ks

Bad Behavior is Actually Quite Rewarding

In the ongoing fight of disciplining children, Matt and I recently made a punishment chore chart for each of the older kids. Things that are above and beyond their daily chores - stuff like cleaning out the car, washing the windows, pulling weeds, etc. Before writing the chores down, we'd have to quickly think of a punishment. It would go something like this:

"You're not allowed to argue with me. Because you argued, you now have to...hold on, let me think. Geez, there was a chore I was just thinking of the other day. What was it? Wait here, let me call Dad. Maybe he can think of a chore."

Not very effective. The kids would try to be helpful and offer suggestions:

"Should I help organize the Halloween candy? Maybe sort through all the old stuff, you know, candy the other kids don't want..."

We've had the charts in operation for a week or two now and it's working pretty well. Takes the thinking out of it - which works out really well for me. There is precious little space in my brain for new information and I'm not about to waste it on things like this. Not when I could be trying to remember the words to "Hit Me Baby, One More Time."

It's been really nice having some of these chores done. Chores that would normally fall to me. This puts a parent in the strange position of almost wanting the child to disobey so that something will get cleaned. Pretty soon I'll resort to desperate measures when the kitchen needs to be mopped:

"Are you arguing with me?"

"No, ma'am. I'm really sorry."

(Internally: "Darn!")  "Ok, thank you for your apology. Wait, did you just blink at me? Don't you blink at me - That's it! Get the mop! I will not tolerate rebellious blinking."

Running with Children 

This morning I took Jack and Kate to a local 5k. It was a really great cause - a couple of area churches worked together to organize the run that raised money for needy families and Thanksgiving meals.

My in-laws stopped by to watch the race and my father-in-law decided spur of the moment to run with us. He and I ran together for awhile, along with Jack, Kate, and a friend's daughter. After a bit, Matt's dad ran ahead with Katie. I stayed with Jack and Kaylin, which was perfect for me. Stupidly, I had decided to run 4 miles this morning before the 5k so by the second run, the plantar fasciitis in my left foot was really flaring up.

It was a good combination, me with my planter fasciitis and two kids who alternated between asking to walk and wondering what flavors of Gatorade awaited us at the halfway point.

There was a little excitement when a neighborhood dog excitedly jumped on the kids for 10 minutes before his owners came to get him. That certainly quelled the running for a bit. And then a motorcycle passed us on the road and Kaylin, thinking he was part of the race, called indignantly "Hey! That's not fair - he has a motorcycle! He's cheating!"

It was strange not to have my music during a run, just the melodious sounds of my own voice calling out "Guys - get over to the left!" on repeat.

In the end, it was a really nice morning. Kate beat Grandpa, despite his trash talk before the race began on how she was going to eat his dust. She told me that it was in fact Grandpa who did the dust eating. Jack decided that his mom ran ok, despite the fact that she was by all accounts much, much, much older than him and with far less energy.

My next solitary run? Can't come soon enough.

Toddlers, Preschoolers, and Kids - Oh, My!

It seems to be a magical threshold when children turn from 2 to 3 - they cross over into preschoolerhood and leave their toddler years behind.

No. No, not really.

Take, for instance, going to church with a three year old:

If I am wearing a skirt, he will absentmindedly run his hand up my leg while standing next to me, taking the skirt up with him.

♪Come thou fount of every blessing...♪

(mutters under breath) "Stop putting your hand up my skirt!"

♪tune my heart to sing thy grace.♪

Then there is the awkward apologizing to the people behind you - "Oops, sorry about that, what with the skirt and the leg and the hand and all. Nice to meet you, by the way."

If I'm wearing jeans, he'll quietly sit behind me while I stand to sing and trace the rhinestones on my back pockets (that's right, I said rhinestones. Glamorous.) Having someone trace designs on your behind while you sing hymns is really as odd as it sounds.

And the biting. Oh, the biting.

My older two kids never bit anyone, as far as I can remember. Which really doesn't mean much. My own mother, when asked how she handled certain situations with us as young kids, will say she honestly doesn't remember much. I got enough spankings to realize that raising me was so traumatic that my mother blocked out memories of my childhood as a self-preservation technique. And really, I can't blame her. I have fuzzy memories of my older two as babies. Some stand out because they were so very sweet or so very horrific but most of it fades into a pleasant, buttery blur in my mind.

Anyway, it came as quite a shock to me that Noah uses his teeth more than his words. Or, alongside his words: "No, Tali!" *bite* "That's my car!" *nibble*

She, of course, does the same to him. Having children who bite really puts a damper on my feeling like a good parent, or even an adequate one. If there's anything that consoles me, it's the thought that someday, years and years from now, one of my children will say to me "Mom, how did you handle it when we fought?" And I will put down the book I will be reading, wrinkle my brow in concentration, take a sip of my frozen drink, and say "You know, I really don't remember you guys fighting much at all."

Adventures with Toddlers: Potty-Training Edition

Yesterday morning I sat down at the computer and was looking up information on Mali (because we're all intellectual and multi-cultural like that) when Jack called out for me. He didn't sound desperate so I asked him what he needed. He then nonchalantly strolled into the homeschool room and let me know something had happened in the bathroom involving Noah and a certain bodily function. I sprinted past him, as fast as my flannel pajama pants would take me.

Remember that scene in Princess Bride in the Pit of Despair? The horror, the shrieking? It was like that. Feces and urine and water. All over the floor. A toilet roll was slowly absorbing the mess; a toilet bowl brush was laying on its side, defeated. Poop on the wall, the stool, the outside of the toilet. Noah has no pants and has taken off down the hallway in order to prove his absolute innocence - despite the copious amounts of fecal matter on his legs. No matter - run away, run away! She'll never guess it was you!

Talitha is standing sans pants in the mess - happily brushing her teeth with one of the big kid's brush. There is poop on her shirt. She is laughing. I put both toddlers in the bathtub (Noah is wrangled and most likely perplexed as to how I figured out the culprit - boy, that mom is good...) and have Kate wash them up while I start the cleaning process. One of the side effects of potty-training is that the stock of Bounty paper towels has gone up considerably. You're welcome, economy. But..not environment, I guess. It's a wash. 

There I was, mopping up my dignity along with unspeakable things. I was really upset because it's right next to the toilet, c'mon now. So I was working up some pretty strong words, which in our family amounts to things like "Gosh darn it!" and "Why the heck did you do this?" I know - powerful.

I got it cleaned and vowed to write a really nice letter to whoever invented Lysol. Noah made it through his nap time in his underwear and then we headed off to the store. He dutifully told me he had to go to the bathroom so we hustled into the family bathroom. He does his thing and I wash his hands and then tell him not to touch anything because store bathrooms are yucky. I wash my hands and he strolls right over to the toilet and starts picking up the seat and touching the rim. I quickly yell "No!" and run to grab him to wash his hands again. He proceeds to throw a monster fit face down on the floor in the Walmart bathroom (If I remember correctly, one of Dante's circles of Hell takes place in a Walmart bathroom). He literally has to be carried out of the bathroom yelling and then strapped into a grocery cart (at this point we now have two carts, one for each toddler. We're like a parade but with no balloons or happiness).

Today it was a downpour all morning and our fantastic septic system stopped working around 2 pm (when I walked in on Tali and Noah in our bathroom, playing in the seat-high water in the toilet bowl).  I was really hoping to get through the afternoon with nary a bowel movement. I'm looking in the fridge "Now let's see, what causes constipation?" I tried just having Noah pee into the yard along with Jack but it's like taking out a chihuahua - Ooh, this patch of grass looks nice - No, this one! - Oh look, a bird!

After 20 minutes of standing out in the rain with him, I stomped back inside and slapped a diaper on him.

I've probably just obliterated the training done this last week, holding a single gummy bear in my hand so that he'll pee in the toilet. These things tend to happen just as I'm feeling smug. By the third child I feel like I've got this - sleeping through the night, potty-training, eating vegetables. Just when I feel like I can sail through solely on my experience and, let's be honest, intellectual prowess, bam! You're elbow deep on the bathroom floor, mopping up a mixture of fecal matter and pee, wondering where it all went so terribly wrong. You think you're pretty awesome at this whole parenting thing and then a toddler comes along and suddenly you're Googling "How to get Vaseline out of a Shop Vac."

I was such a good parent before I had kids. The best. Now? I just don't know.

What Happened Last Night

You know, with a title like that, I really wish this were a more interesting post. Like on our wedding night, Matt and I went in search of an all night diner and got hopelessly lost at 1 am in a bad part of town. We got picked up by a cop who was driving a deliciously steaming stack of pizzas back to his precinct (or whatever that's called) and taken back to our hotel and I was slightly miffed he didn't offer us a slice because it was our WEDDING NIGHT and we were hungry.

But that's not this story.

It's been pretty cold here in FL lately. Like frost at night and bundling up for the sunny 45 degree afternoon and feeling like your face is going to crack with cold.

We've become wimps about the weather. Sometimes we'll turn to each other and say "How did we survive Alaska in the winter?" Of course, it was Kodiak Island, which is pretty darn south of most everything else in AK and it was basically rainy all the time. We did get snow in the winter and I vividly remember one day our heat went out and we took the dog to a local state park and trudged through the falling snow waiting for the oil to get delivered. You could see your breath in our house. And yet we were pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. The saving grace to all of that was that Kodiak Island is hands down one of the prettiest places ever. On a sunny day, you almost crawl out of your skin with the sheer beauty of it all.

But the fact is, I love the Sun. I really really do. I like flip flops and floating in my pool with a book and feeling the warmth on my face.

Now if it's cold we wear multiple layers and make a fire and drink hot beverages and curse our very existence. It's like 50 degrees outside. Pathetic really.

So last night we dressed the kids in fleece pajamas and sent them to bed with lots of blankets. Our room and the girls' room are on the outside walls so they get pretty cold in the winter. We put a heater in the girls room for these nights. On our bed is the top sheet, the quilt, the down comforter (hauled down from AK) and a fleece blanket. I was wearing a long sleeved shirt and flannel pajamas and slept on a heating pad because that's how ridiculous we are now.

Maybe it was the heating pad or the avocado dip last night. Whatever it was, I had a dream last night. I dreamed Matt and I were adopting two 4 year old boys from different countries - Greece and Albania (it was here in the retelling that my friend Rosie said "So a nightmare?"). I woke up and my right hand was asleep, probably exhausted from trying to slap me awake.

This morning Noah woke up at 6:30, which is the usual time for all of time (We keep saying "You guys can sleep in as late as you want! No school! You have no idea how lucky you are!). Strangely, all the other kids were still asleep. So I brought him back to our bed and he fell asleep for another hour. At 7:30, Matt was in the shower and Kate and the dog, Toby, rushed into our room. Toby licked me as he ran past the bed and I said "Aw, no."

Noah: "What, Mama?"

Me: "Toby licked my head."

Noah cocked his head and pointed to mine and asked quizzically "That one?"

Parenting: Where Everything's Made Up and the Points Don't Matter

Social media sites seem to make life more complicated sometimes. Not a day goes by that there's not an article posted on the danger of a certain food or something.

If you buy inorganic apples, you are basically biting into a big ball of pesticides.

If you cut up an onion, it immediately starts a downward spiral into poison.

If you drink cow milk, you are pouring yourself a cold, refreshing glass of hormones.

If you keep your cell phone in your bra, it is attracting carcinogens to your lymph nodes like a siren song.

You read these posts, put down your onion sandwich, take your phone out of your bra and think "Well, now what?"

Throw parenting advice into the mix and it's enough to make parents want to curl into a fetal position and whimper.

If you vaccinate your kids, you are deliberating injecting them with autism.

If you don't vaccinate your kids, you are standing on the front porch just hollering for polio to come on over and make itself at home.

If you let your children watch tv, their little brains will dissolve into a puddle of mush.

If you don't let your children watch tv, they will never see Leapfrog and learn their phonics because you sure as shootin' don't have the patience to sit there and teach letter sounds for 6 months. Also, you will never make dinner. Or mop the floor. Or write a blog post.

On top of all this often contradictory advice, it seems like parents, and especially moms, have some sort of amazing talent. Like it's not enough to keep small humans alive and fed, but now I've got to make quilts or take professional style photos or make ruffle pants or bake souffles.

It is all I can do to make it through the day sometimes and all this pressure to be crafty and quirky and fabulous just ends up making me feel inadequate.

In all honesty, I don't know what I'm doing almost all of the time.

For instance, did we make the right decision in taking away Noah's bink bink at such an emotionally perilous time for him? I have no idea. He's doing great now, by the way. Sleeping through the night and all. So it feels right but perhaps there is some unseen damage done to his little psyche. I imagine him lying on a therapist's couch, wailing through Puffs about the time his mom stormed into his room at 2 am and told him his binkies were gone and to stop crying and perhaps gritting her teeth and cursing those magical and terrible knobs of rubber.

Throw in parenting an adoptive child, with so many unknown psychological issues, and it is sheer terror sometimes. Tali screams and cries whenever I put sneakers on her. In a bio kid, I would chalk it up to the fact that she likes her soft leather mary janes and shrug my shoulders. But that little doubt creeps in because I don't know her past - is there some sort of sneaker trauma? Was she made to sit by herself in a room for punishment, wearing only a pair of sneakers? I don't know. She screams and cries often for no apparent reason. All my other kids threw little fits at that age but we always knew why. They were denied a toy or juice or the ability to run footloose and fancy free into oncoming traffic.

Scenario:

Tali is eating in her high chair. All of a sudden, high pitched wailing.

"What is it? Did you bite your tongue? Food too hot? What happened?"

She suddenly stops and begins eating. Scream. Eat. Eat. Scream and turn her head. Eat. Drink her bottle. Scream.

Later that day, she is looking at a picture book when she suddenly flops over and begins rolling on the floor crying.

Most of the time I don't know what sets her off and even though I intellectually know that adoptive kids often come with a range of abandonment and institutionalized behaviors (even the really young ones), it's still hard. Still exhausting.

It's difficult not knowing how this whole parenting experiment will end and hoping that despite all my mistakes and failures as a parent, it will be ok.

Yes, there are moms who kept seemingly impossible standards on their house. They do yoga to relieve stress and praise their children often with meaningful words. They make wreaths and send handwritten letters. They know which foods are GMO and how to turn a cloth napkin into a work of art.

The real truth is that no one, not even the superparents, really and truly knows what they're doing. We read books and articles, seek advice from our friends and family but for the most part, we're winging it.

Sometimes you're not the most talented mom or the best-dressed or most patient.

Sometimes you're simply good enough.

And your good enough is often...good enough.

So to all the average parents out there, even mediocre some days, I raise my glass of ice cold hormones with a generous dollop of high fructose corn syrup chocolate sauce to you.

You're good enough, you're smart enough, and gosh darn it, our kids are going to be ok.

BinkyGate 2014

We're nearing the end of this process.

I think. I hope.

Wednesday was terrible. Noah screamed during naptime, waking Tali up as well. It was about two hours of this back and forth. I had planned on folding laundry during that time but instead I sat on the couch, sending curse-laden texts to Matt and Rosie and wishing for the sweet release of death to overtake me.

I barely managed to make dinner and when Matt casually asked if I happened to make cornbread to go along with the goulash, I about flipped.

Wednesday night was also pretty bad. Matt determined that Noah needs to just cry it out instead of us leaping out of bed all the time. So from 3 am to almost 5, he screamed. I did go in once or twice and I was torn between threatening him and cuddling him. I wanted to kiss his tear-streaked cheeks and tell him "If you love something, let it go. There's no use fighting anymore. Your binkies are dead to you."

Sometime around 3:30, I laid back down on top of the blankets. Matt asked why I wasn't covered up, as it was chilly.

"Whenever a child of mine is in distress, my heart beats faster and I get overheated. You, on the other hand, have a heart of stone and don't care."

"That's true." He said as he tucked the blankets around his neck.

Sleep deprivation does funny things to a person, as any parent knows.

I laid in bed, determined to use this time for good. Might as well put this amazing brain to work, solving the complex problems of our time.

Pretty soon though:

'I wish I was taller, I wish I was a baller, I wish I had a girl and if I did, I would call her...'

Eyes wide, with a sudden realization. Hey, I do wish I was taller. Not crazy high, but a couple more inches would be nice. Like 5'6 or 5'7. Enough that I don't step on my favorite pair of yoga pants when I'm barefoot and Matt can't look over my head and make snide comments on how he can't see me.

Also, I hope that baller actually does mean a basketball player and not some strange innuendo. I merrily sang "Little Red Corvette" for years until I heard it on the radio at 25 years old and realized that the song wasn't simply about a girl who likes to drive fast.

Noah alternated between calling out for Mommy and Daddy and once perhaps an impassioned "Curse you all and your circadian rhythms!" He eventually fell into an exhausted heap. When he woke up in the morning, he was happy. He always wakes up grumpy so that was a new development. Tali, however, took the opportunity to throw fits all morning. It's hard to throw a good tantrum being so tiny but she gives it her best. It's like they were just passing the baton of misery back and forth. If it's not one, it's the other.

Last night I gave the littles a bath and was getting Tali in her pajamas. Noah was running around naked (I always have to choose who to diaper first) and he climbed on top of the air purifier near her crib (which we use as white noise to drown the sounds of Noah's soul being ripped apart by the absence of binkies). He then proceeded to pee into her crib.

I just don't have any more to say about that.

Last night was better, he woke up one time, at midnight. I tiredly asked him to please stop crying and go to sleep. He said "Ok" and went to sleep.

We've gone through the stages together: anger, grief, peeing on things, tantrums, xanax, bargaining, chocolate and acceptance.

As we seem to near the end of this horrific ordeal, I would like to give the good Lord thanks for my mother-in-law. We've always gotten along well and I'm so happy they are living near us once more. She's always helpful, always supportive. She'll often come over and take Noah for the morning or one of the older kids for a trip to the library. Or she'll come and read books and help clean. All this without being asked. Never more has she been appreciated than this week. She took Noah for the morning Wednesday and yesterday came over and washed dishes, swept the floor, watched the kids so I could go to the college bookstore and get my books for this semester. She never judges the often atrocious nature of my house and will tell me stories of how she thought she was going to lose her mind as well in the day to day dealings with small children.

It helps to know that people have survived this time in their lives and have gone on to do amazing things, like read a book in a morning or take a shower without interruption.

There's always hope.

The End of an Era

Whenever Noah loses his binky at night, he wakes up crying and we have to run in there to find it and pop it back in before he wakes up Tali.

I've not made it a big deal because he's still just 2 and he's had a lot of changes in his little life with a brand new toddler on board and I figure he can use whatever comforts he has.

In addition to his binky love affair, he always takes a very nonchalant stance on potty training. My bestie Rosie's son, who is the same age as Noah, has begun potty training. I speak of Andrew's underwear-toting in glowing terms in hopes of persuading Noah to take the plunge (well, in a figurative sense in this case for obvious reasons). But Noah just shrugs and goes back to his trucks, completely unfazed that his friend is basically becoming a man.

"Wow, Andrew is peeing in the potty! Don't you want to wear underwear and go in the potty?"

"Nope."

"Really? You like your wet, stinky diapers?"

"Yup."

And that's the end of it. I am getting tired of leaping out of bed to feel around under his bed for a binky several times a night. So I gave him an ultimatum. You give up your diapers or your binkies.

He chose the binkies. I told him we could give them to Rosie's baby Henry, who needs them. Two days ago, we gathered them up in a plastic bag and Matt drove him over to Rosie's house, where she accepted them on behalf of Henry with great ceremony.

One of his last days of happiness

The first night was...hmm, how should I phrase this without using swear words? Terrible just doesn't seem strong enough. Up every couple hours, crying with wordless sorrow. By 3 am, I ended up sleeping with him in his little twin bottom bunk, on sheets that smelled faintly of pee. I had to sleep on my side, instead of on my stomach in the shape of a swastika and when I awoke, my left hand was painfully asleep. I thought 'Well, at least something slept.'

That morning, yesterday, we were both exhausted. Matt graciously let me sleep in as long as I wanted before trotting off to work. The whole day was awful. Noah was cranky from lack of sleep and the general unfairness of life. He was sweeping books off the coffee table with his arms, crying, yelling.  It was like he was in withdrawals. 

The face of recovery.
(Note: this is not an actual picture of this process. He will not allow himself to be photographed in his current state. It brings up too many emotions. Probably of happier times being photographed with the binky.)

I imagine a group of toddlers at a rehab center:

"Hello, my name is Noah and I'm addicted to bink-binks."

"Hello, Noah."

"Hello, my name is Isabelle and I've been off the bottle for three days."

"Hello, Isabelle."

Last night at dinner I swore we would not have a night like that again. I was twitching just thinking about it. 

You may have seen me yesterday evening at the store, bottles of moscato and melatonin in hand. 

Last night? Not too bad.

One step at a time.

Halloween and Freedom

The afternoon of Halloween, we had to run to a couple stores. The kids wanted to wear their costumes. I had a purple and black witch hat and the kids asked if I could wear it to the store.

Why not? It's probably how they see me anyway. They're looking around "But Mom, where's your costume?"

Everyone was all smiles as we paraded through the stores. The kids were darn cute indeed. Especially Noah, in his soft racecar costume, weaving through the aisles. Lots of people grinned at me, wonderful parent I am - showing up in a witch's hat and making my children's holiday that much more special. 

It wasn't until I was loading Tali in her carseat after both errands had been run that I noticed the top 2 or 3 buttons on my blouse had come undone. 

I wasn't a witch - I was a slutty witch. I, who hate the degradation of women's costumes, had become one of them. 

Later that evening, we had soup and bread and went out trick-or-treating. 

Tali didn't really go trick-or-treating. I think it's such an obvious ploy for parents to get candy if their child is too young to understand what's happening. It's much better to have a child like Noah, who can walk up and ask for candy but is young enough that I can reach into his pumpkin and steal his candy without him caring.

After awhile, his carsuit got all smushed from getting in and out of the back of the van so much. He ended up looking like an advertisement for a lawyer referral service. "Did you recently have a car accident? You might have whiplash and need to sue somebody..."

The glare on the glasses makes it more comical than creepy...

The next day my best friend and I had our weekly playdate. Between us, we have 8 children. 8,7,6,5,2,2,almost 2, and newborn. Needless to say, we are both looking pretty scruffy. I had cleaned out the fridge earlier that afternoon and a nastier job is still to be found. My hair had not been washed in a couple days and I just shoved the mess back into a ponytail. She has recently given birth and was wearing a shirt with what I can only assume is spit-up on the shoulders. She had braided her hair at some point, maybe a week ago by the looks of it.

Neither of us have worn make-up or shoes with heels in who knows how long. Our time together consists of screaming and tantrums. Sometimes the kids act up too. We were talking about how much we'd love to be able to just shoot off to the store by ourselves. 

After I got home, I was telling Matt that I'd like to go to a nearby shopping center with my mom. I was asking him his plans for the next day (Saturday) and whether I could leave a couple kids with him. He said "Tonight would be better. You could even go by yourself if you want to."

You can bet your sweet bippy that I was on the phone to my mom before he could realize the full implications of what he was saying. 

Kate overheard me on the phone and when she realized she wasn't going, followed me around the house crying. 

Earrings in, shirt changed to something almost nice, small purse with no diapers or pacifiers taken...

Crying, screaming, gnashing of teeth. Oh the humanity. 

As I kissed Matt goodbye (and hugged him fiercely - oh, I was happy!), he held out a fretful Tali. "Are you sure you don't want to take her with you?"

"Can't hear you, I'm practically in the car already!"

I kid you not, as I was backing the van out of the garage, I cackled with delight. Cackled like a, well, you know. When you stay at home with young children, it's amazing how exhilarating a trip to Target by yourself can be. It's like winning the lottery or being elected President of the country. I don't think I'm exaggerating. 

One of the local stations was playing pop music from the 90's so I sang Beyonce and TLC at the top of my lungs. I made that minivan look good.

I walked into Kohl's like this:

Giddy. There is no other word for it. My arms felt weird too. Like they should have been holding someone or carrying a diaper bag or pulling a toddler away from the lingerie section before he yells "Mama's boobs?" too loudly.

My mom and I tried on shoes (I got short boots so my huge calves wouldn't take away my joy of the evening) and went out for dinner. While waiting for our check, my mom signaled to what she thought was our waitress.

"Mom, that's not our waitress."
"It's not? What does she look like?"
"This one is blonde with hair around her shoulders. Ours has brown hair pulled into a bun."
"Oh."

Not 2 minutes later, she's trying to get the same woman's attention.

"Mom! She doesn't have our check. It's not our waitress."

Then one last time, trying to flag down the blonde not-our-waitress.

We were laughing so hard that people around us were becoming concerned.

I went shopping with my mom, had some good food and girly drinks and not one time did I ever say anything remotely close to "Don't put your hand in your diaper! It's poopy!"

Now that's a good time.

Adoption Update...a few more sleeps til China

After so many months, a year and a half really, of planning and praying...it's almost here. I will be holding her next week. The suitcases are somewhat packed and it makes me smile to see a pile of clothes for Tali along with baby puffs and bibs. We're almost there, sweetness. Almost there.

We leave Friday morning. Early, early. Like 0345. I told Matt that I was going to be too excited to sleep and would have to take a sleeping pill at like 8 pm. Jack chimed in that he was going to be too excited to sleep as well. I said "Well, maybe I can give you a little Benadryl and see if that helps you sleep."

So then today he told my friend that I was going to give him a sleeping pill. Which makes me sound like I'm just randomly threatening him with sleeping pills. Not to say that I haven't been tempted at times...

Speaking of mediocre parenting, a couple days ago Jack was misbehaving at the store. I launched into the typical middle-class well-read parenting speech about bad decisions and self-control and being responsible and blah, blah, blah. Near the end of my speech, a mother and her kids walked by us with their cart. The boy, about Jack's age, was jumping around and the mom calmly stated "If you don't stop, I'm going to beat your ass."

And I thought "Perhaps I'm going about this all wrong."

Back to the adoption front, it's all sorts of chaos over here. I'm trying to finish my homework for this week and pack and clean and get our adoption paperwork together and all sorts of other things. I keep telling myself "Make a list, keep organized." But I either forget to make a list and try to keep it in my head (a dubious prospect) or I make it on a scrap piece of paper that has stickers and goldfish crumbs on it and then I lose it.

I'm not a stressful person and don't worry about things too much. But I'm having a hard time balancing things right now. Homework, homeschooling, housework, childcare. The adoption is in full speed right now (or fifth gear - what's that saying) and I feel like I'm stretched thin. We've had such an outpouring of love the last few months and weeks. Friends and family have supported our adoption and watched the kids and sent me notes of encouragement. It's keeping me from falling completely apart. Even so, I've had several ugly crying sessions. Most recently yesterday at dinner, when I was blubbering to Matt about trying to wire money to China and other stressful events of my day. My kind and sweet in-laws happened to stop by at that time and there is just no saving dignity at that point. It was an ugly, ugly cry. They were dropping off a quilt a dear friend made for Talitha. So that was a wonderfully happy brightspot. Then later I found two zits on my face and it was just misery again.

I got the paperwork together yesterday that we have to take to China; thankfully there was already a checklist from the agency to use so I didn't have to not make one. One of the items was a couple extra passport pictures for me and Matt. I have had extra pictures in a Kodak envelope for over a year. They've been in my adoption folder (which sounds nice and little but it's one of those big accordion things that I have mentally burned a million times because I'm so sick of it). They've just been in my way and I kept moving them around in the pockets. Of course, now that I'm a couple days from travel, they are no where to be found. Thankfully, I had scanned them into the computer months ago (because I had to email them, not because I thought ahead) so I ordered them to be picked up at Walmart.

I've been home for 20 minutes and just realized that I left the pictures in the cart. Somewhere in our little town tonight, an envelope with our heads is resting. Waiting. For some lucky person to pick it up.

While I'm sad that I have to order them again tonight and pick them up tomorrow, it brings me a small measure of happiness imagining the perplexed facial expression that would accompany opening up an envelope with pictures of heads in it.

It's the small things, really, that get us through the day sometimes.

Toddler's Log

Toddler's Log: Monday morning

0900   Spot a container of hummus. Decide to slather it on my hair. No reason - it just feels right.

0903   Mom says "Why did you do that? I shrug. Sometimes a man just has to do what he feels is best.

0905   Bath

1000   Venture into the parent's bathroom. Curling iron...floor. Trash can...emptied. Dad's shoes...ooh, these feel nice. Mom's lip gloss from the counter...all over my body. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, huge sandals on my feet, saggy diaper, pink gloss in artistic streaks on my arms and legs and stomach.
     
 I look fabulous.

1005  Mom says "Why did you do that?'  I shrug.

1006   Bath

1015   We go swimming. I laugh, I squeal with glee, I am sweetness and light and everything that is good in this world.

1100   Mom takes off my swim diaper and then gets distracted talking to my siblings. I poop on my legs. Just to make sure that it is in fact poop, I reach behind me and then look at my hand. Yup, poop. I show Mom.

1101   Mom shrieks

1102   Bath

1200   Put my Crocs on and stomp in the dog's water dish. Put all my little cars in the water dish. Eat some dog food. Scoop up some water from the water dish and swirl it around in my hair. No reason - it just feels right.
       
1203   Mom shrieks "Why did you do that?"  I shrug. I'm just a laissez-faire type of a guy. I fly by the seat of my Huggies; I go where the wind goes; I answer to no one.

1205   Bath

1230   Mom puts me down for a nap. I rest my head on her shoulder and pat her with my chubby little hand. I lay down and close my eyes. My lips are pursed and kissable, my cheeks look like those of a cherub. I drift off to sleep dreaming of an absolutely diabolical afternoon.

 No reason, it just feels right.

Generation after Generation

My father-in-law has been a pastor for 36 years and preached his last sermon this past Sunday. Despite being 6,000 miles away (or so, I don't remember exactly), we were able to listen to his sermon over the internet. My in-laws are moving from Alaska to our town in Florida. They'll be here in about three weeks. Even though I know that, I was still missing them listening to the sermon. I could picture my father-in-law taking off his blazer and rolling up his sleeves before preaching. The pauses in the sentences, the familiar cadence to his sermons. My mother-in-law in the front right row, daintily writing down notes in a journal. And I think about them and my parents and Matt and I being parents ourselves (and here 'The Circle of Life' begins to play in my mind). Matt's parents and my parents are leaving a legacy to us and the generations after. A legacy of faithfulness, a legacy of prayer, a legacy of constant quiet being that does not shake in the rough winds of life.

And I wonder what legacy we will leave. It's hard to picture in the everyday grime of raising small children. Our couch has Vaseline stains on it, I have raised my voice a shameful amount already in the short hours of today, my older son has repeatedly referenced slavery while completing his chores.

Just last night I was pondering this while cutting Noah's hair in the bathroom. And right in the middle of my musings on parenting, I noticed that Noah had grabbed the big kid toothpaste out of the cup and was sucking on it. It's chock-full of flouride. I sighed and put it back. Good parenting at its finest. Some may have been worried and had poison control on the phone but my motto, which has been sharpened as an ER nurse, is "You're fine." Perhaps that will be my legacy - living a life on the edge. And I really do. I often stand in front of the microwave while it's on. I've been known to cut the tags right off a mattress. I may only wait 20 seconds for my hair straightener to heat up instead of the full 30. And I almost always take the usb photo thing out of my computer before it tells me it's safe to take it out. Mainly because I don't want to be bossed around by a machine. I'll decide when things are safe around here. So yeah, I'm pretty bold.

Despite all these little frustrations in life, a legacy is being formed. And whether I raise my children with intention or not, something will be left. I think about our parents and how who we are affects those that come after us. Generation after generation cascading like rapids.

I hope my kids will say we also left a legacy of faithfulness. Parents who were steadfast in seeking after things they could not hold or see but trusted nonetheless.

They will hopefully not mind too much that their clothes were mostly handed down or bought at yard sales. It may come as a shock someday to realize that most kids they knew did not have to share rooms and even had their own televisions most of the time. But perhaps they will not mind that too much. They may not care that we didn't go out to eat much or go on nice vacations. My hope is that they will realize that we tried really hard to spend our time and money on things that mattered, on things that would last. Even though we failed a lot and made poor decisions, we kept going back to God's will for our lives.

And when they are spinning their wheels in the everyday grime of raising their children, I hope they will think about these things and choose the best over the simply good enough and leave their own legacy of grace.

Mother's Day

(A couple weeks ago our pastor asked me to say a few words about our adoption, in case there were people in the church that didn't know yet. Being the type of person I am, I took the liberty of rambling on for quite awhile because it was Mother's Day. This was what I read in church Sunday. I cut out the first paragraph because it was introducing Talitha and the adoption and you people already know that. Here's the rest):

When I was 6 years old, I ran away from home. After about 10 minutes, I got tired of walking and came back home. My mom was waiting for me with hot chocolate already made.

My mom wrote notes of encouragement in my lunch box. One she had a card delivered to my eighth grade math class before a big test. I bombed the test anyway but still, it was a nice thought.

My mom sang lullabies as she wiped my feverish brow with a cool cloth in the middle of the night.

My mom cried tears of joy when she held my first born for the first time.

She often tells me what an amazing mother I am, even though I often don’t believe her. She tells me even though I’ve heard a shrill “Mama!” for the 20^th time in 5 minutes and I can’t find the aspirin and Noah shrieking sounds like a pterodactyl being boiled in oil. Even when the bikes have been left in the yard again and I lose my patience. Even when I get asked questions like “Will the sun become a black hole and suck us all in and we’d all die?” and I reassure my son with an answer like “Oh honey, we’d all freeze to death long before that.” Even when someone (me) has left the peanut butter jar out again and Noah has not only eaten it in huge handfuls but has smeared it all over himself and I think “Forget the Klondike Bar, what would I do for a margarita right now?” Even at those times, she still tells me often what a good mother she thinks I am.

I hope to become like her a little bit more every day.

A mother’s love is no ordinary thing. When I held Jack as an infant, I felt that wave of love wash over me and I realized with astonishment that this must be how my parents love me and I finally understood it. A mother’s love is strong. It is fierce and determined. It cheers for every homerun and holds us up through the deep valleys of disappointment. A mother’s love goes before the throne of grace for us. A mother’s love is steadfast in the face of failure. It never gives up the good fight. A mother’s love is nothing if not exceedingly hopeful.

I have never met my youngest daughter. And yet I love her with a mother’s love. This day will be even sweeter for me next year. An orphan once left alone will be a beloved daughter, held up by the strength of her mother’s love. Despair will have given way to hope. And I will teach her of the God who has kept her safe in the cleft of the rock and has loved her all this time with an everlasting kindness.

Please pray for her and our family as we travel the long road of adoption. Hug your children today and thank God for the women in our lives who live out his love so well. Happy Mother’s Day.

Morning Conversation with Jack

This morning I was idly scrolling through the news stories on MSN and contemplating the deep things in life. It's rainy and chilly here. Rained all day yesterday and today and probably tomorrow. I like rainy days here like I liked sunny days in Kodiak, AK. Something different. It's exciting. Rainy days here are a welcome break from the sun and I'm looking forward to sitting in the screened in porch today, reading books and watching the rain while the kids color.

Last night we had a friend over for dinner and he brought ice cream and toppings for dessert (Hi Ginny!). He brought a bottle of Magic Shell. Neither Matt nor I had ever tried it so it was quite a delicious experience. You pour it over ice cream and it hardens like those dipped cones. While I was wondering what component in the sauce makes it harden like that, Jack walks into the homeschool room.

Jack: "Do I look like an adult?"

He's wearing jeans, sneakers and a hooded jacket. None of his clothes ever contain cartoon characters or Pokemon or anything like that so sure, his clothes could pass for a teen or young adult.

Me: "I suppose so. Why, do you want to look like an adult?"

Jack: "Yes, and I won't be a teenager for 6 more years. It's so long!"

Me: "It will be here soon. Why do you want to be a teenager so much?"

Jack: "Hopefully by the time I'm a teenager I'll already be in college. I'd like to start when I'm 12. Then I'll have my Bachelor's at 16 and if I get good grades I can get into medical school at 18. I'll be a doctor when I'm 22 and a surgeon at 28. Then I'll be Chief of Surgery at 40. I don't want to be too old when I become Chief you know. When I'm 70 I'll probably retire and do an easier job. Like driving trains."

Nothing makes you feel like a slug more than pondering ice cream while still in your pajamas as your 7 year old maps out his life plan.

Sheesh.

He had to run and get his heart model for the picture. 

Ode to a Toddler

Our 18 month old is sweet and cuddly and adorable...and basically terrorizes the house and those who inhabit it.

A couple days ago I had a cold. An average, everyday cold - sneezing, coughing, sore throat, chills. The kind of cold that sends people to the EMERGENCY room in droves for unnecessary antibiotics.

Ahem.

Anyway, there I was, all achy and drippy and awful. Noah was at the peak of health and energy on this particular day. He had found a bag of potato chips and spilled them all over the kitchen floor. Then he put on one of Katie's shoes (just one!) and proceeded to dance all over them.

Noah's dance is quite unique. He dances in a circle and claps. It's really more of a gallop, like a pony that is missing a leg but still insists on trotting about.

He also had a soggy green tea bag clutched in his little hand. His sharp little eagle eyes spotted a string hanging out of my steaming mug of tea on the counter. The only logical thing to do in that situation is to incorporate it into one's dance.

There he was, laughing and dancing his lopsided pony dance on a huge pile of chips. He was clapping enthusiastically - soggy tea bag being flung all over. Oh, and wearing one big sparkly clog.

At the noise I trudged into the kitchen. Hair unwashed and probably heinous looking, body hurts, pj pants shuffling in on slippers. I looked up and "What the...? I don't even...why....?"

Obviously I didn't get a video then, as that wasn't even a thought in my stuffy little head. But we did get a video of it later, just because it's so darn cute and we want to remember this, in case Noah ever puts that little gimpy pony out of his misery. Without further ado, here is a video of Noah dancing:

It goes without saying that Toby Mac is playing in our home. Also disregard my weird squeaky voice. It sounds the same on videos, answering machines, cell phone messages. I'm beginning to think that's how my voice actually sounds.

Now imagine the dance on a pile of chips with a soggy tea bag in one hand. And no music. And one big blue sparkly clog.

Noah also has a very particular idiosyncrasy of rubbing anything remotely liquid in his hair. Every since he was an infant, he has signaled sleep by rubbing the top of his head and pulling gently on his hair. Nowadays he still does that but with the added bonus of actually putting things in his hand before he rubs his head. Every time we eat soup or spaghetti or yogurt it ends up artistically slopped through his hair.

Strawberry yogurt and kiwi seeds, anyone?

With that in mind, let me tell you about a recent incident.  Those of you who are friends of mine on a certain social site may recall Noah's haircut a few months ago. Necessary due to the fact that he had slathered almost a whole container of Vaseline on his head, his clothes and the couch. I fine-toothed combed his hair, added cornstarch and held him over the tub, rubbing clarifying shampoo into his long tresses. Ended up lopping off most of it because petroleum is tough stuff my friends.

A couple days ago he got a hold of it again - just a handful onto the top of his head. This time I just shrugged. It will come out eventually and in the meantime, his hair will look styled. Which can only be good for me. It shows I'm trendy and stuff.

You may be wondering why I still left the Vaseline on his changing table after the first incident.

As my husband's youth pastor Dean used to say "One more time for the slow learners."

Yup.

Adventures in Walmart 2

Another installation of the continuing drama that is Walmart.

This is the week between Christmas and New Years and my blog post should be one of joy and peace, hope and happiness. But that's not this post. That's not this post at all.

Now you might be wondering why I keep going back to this store. I know I should shop at Whole Foods and eschew gluten and buy things that have no carbon footprint and are lovingly handmade by responsible citizens. But I'm a simple person. Winn Dixie is simply more expensive and it's a bit of a drive to get to Publix. I'll have scruples later, when the kids are older.

Today we stopped in to the store to get a couple things. Just a quick little run-by. A jaunt, if you will. I had to get paint for a dresser we're redoing (boasting pictures to come if it turns out well: if not, forget you ever read that) and potatoes and beans for soup. That was all I had to get. So what if I had three kids with me? We're veterans at this whole shopping thing and they know how to behave in stores (insert maniacal laughter here).

We got the couple foodstuffs and headed to the paint section. The paint section at Walmart is like the Bermuda Triangle. It's full of mystery and people become misplaced. Maybe there will be someone working the counter but maybe there will be no employees within 45 miles of the counter. Hard to tell. As I'm pondering the differences in primer, the kids decide they need to touch absolutely everything they see - playing an intricate and abnormally loud game having something to do with the color of the paint can label. Sometimes it seems to me that every time we go to the store is the very first time. "What should we do? Should we run around crazy? Should we touch anything made of glass? Yes, lets!" It's like amnesia sets in as soon as their feet cross the threshold.

As I'm trying to corral my kids as quietly yet still as menacingly as I can, I spot another mom with kids. She's up at the counter, patiently waiting for an employee. She's so pleasant and patient, I shake my head in sympathy. Must be her first time at the Walmart paint counter.

She has two boys with her, approximately 8 and 5. Their cheeks are rosy, their eyes sparkle with life, they calmly stand next to their mom like a couple of angel statues. Meanwhile, my own children are ferociously debating whether or not a paint can swung at a metal pole would make a high or low noise.

They never discovered the answer, as they were melting under my very authoritative mom glare.

Noah decides he hates his pacifier with a passion so he throws it under an aisle of paint cans. Then he realizes that he loves it more than life itself and starts squealing like a baby pterodactyl being boiled in hot oil and then poked with sharp sporks. Or at least how I imagine that would sound.

He then starts grabbing for me and wailing (while Jack slides around on the floor, hunting for the pacifier). All the while the angel statues are patiently awaiting the phantom employees. I imagine behind their angelic blue eyes they are planning their next charity event.

At this point I flagged down an employee. He pages the paint people. 10 minutes crawl by. He pages them again. Finally, a somewhat disgruntled man ambles over from the hunting section. He begins to work on my request. One measly little quart of paint is all I need.

The pacifier is thrown repeatedly. The children are given a good talking-to. Noah starts to break down for no apparent reason.

I unbuckle Noah and hold him. A horrible sensation comes over me. The jacket of my arm is soaked where he's sitting and so is the front of my shirt, where his legs are wrapped around. Oh yes. It's not like he soaked his diaper with pee. It's...different.

What's the worst place for a baby to have diarrhea? In a megastore...in a person's arms.

Man at Paint Counter: "I can't mix this. It's too dark."

Me: "Excuse me?"

Man: "The computer says it will overflow."

Me: "How do people get that color then? I'm confused."

Man: "I don't work at this station. I don't really know. The people who work here are on lunch break."

Apparently there are multiple people who work at the paint counter but they all take lunch at the same time. 5:12 in the evening to be exact.

So I decided to just check out and get paint somewhere else. Surely, I can endure a few minutes to check out my four items. My jacket is ruined anyway, what's the point?

There are 20,000 people checking out. There are 3 lanes open.

We get in the express lane. The minutes tick by. When we finally get to the front, I realize with a sinking feeling that this particular cashier is agonizingly slow. Very, very pleasant but slow. You can become ensnared in a conversation about show tunes or knitting or paper bags. There I am, kids running wild, fussy baby in my arms, jacket arm soaked in horror. He slowly starts scanning the items, pauses and says dreamily "There are so many people here today. People rushing about. The thing is, people are just too impatient."

I nod in sympathy but I'm thinking "HURRY UP! COME ON!"

He says "Sometimes I wish I was retired. Then it wouldn't be so busy and rushed."

Me: "Yes, indeed."  SHUT YOUR TRAP! GOOD GRAVY!

We then rushed home, me hurrying the kids through the parking lot. I quickly stripped Noah and just washed him off under the tub faucet. After he was scrubbed and freshly pajama-ed, I ran a bath for myself.

What I really wanted was some chocolate but I decided that perhaps I should stop feeding my feelings. So instead I had sliced cucumbers. Cucumbers. For that decision, I should get a medal. Or at least a robust smattering of applause.

If I'm making resolutions, though, it should probably be not to overshare on the internet so much.

One year at a time.

The Pursuit of Happiness

         Imagining my kids as adults (which I do more and more as they get older) makes me think about my parenting. What's my goal? What am I doing today that pays into that goal? So, so many parents in my generation say the same thing "Whatever they do, I just want my kids to be happy." This strikes me as a kind, benevolent thought but incredibly shallow and unrealistic. There are a few things out there in this direction but at least Google has a ton of books and articles and forums all directed at raising happy kids. We want them to enjoy what they do all the time and to graduate from an Ivy League and not have to struggle for one minute of one day.  I don't know about you, but if I did what made me happy all the time, my life would be, well, crap.  I wouldn't have a marriage, at least not a good one. Having kids? Forget about it. My idea of a good time doesn't involve stretch marks and multiple babies blessed with the enormous Putney head.

          This won't shock my kids in the least, but I don't really want them to be happy. Happiness is fleeting, along with beauty and a bladder that stays clamped when you laugh. People do all kinds of selfish things in the name of happiness and they end up sad and bitter. 

           What do I want for my kids?

            For my little sprite of a daughter:

                   I wish you joy. I wish you contentment. In whatever life God leads you into. Whether you walk the runways of Paris or mop the bathrooms at Shell. If marriage is in your lineup, I wish you a strong one. One with laughter that makes you breathless and tears that make you closer to each other. One that is built on something more lasting than passion and lust. I wish you a husband who enjoys you and kisses you on the nose and cries with a deep, unspeakable joy when your children are born.  I wish you the patience to mop the same floor day after day (Fine! week after week) and to fold the same clothes. I wish I could take away all the insecurities about your body that will you one day face. But I can't. And maybe it's for the best anyway. You will realize it's the pursuit of God in you that makes you beautiful. And I hope you realize it before you chase down your youth in the form of overpriced jeans and collagen lip treatments. 

              For my sons, one quite serious about life and one who wakes up laughing:

                     I wish you joy. I wish you contentment. In whatever life God leads you into.  Jack, if you do become a cardiologist, I wish you steady hands and a healthy dose of humility. If life turns out differently, I wish you the foresight to change direction and listen to His voice, not your own. For you both, I wish you the maturity to be men when it's easier to stay boys. If you get married, I wish you kind wives. Wives that support you and find you adorable, even after 30 years of marriage. Wives that think their mother in law is the best person they've ever met. I wish you a servant heart, one that empties the trash without being asked and slows its steps to match a toddler's. I wish you integrity and courage, to pay your taxes and love your families, even if you're not happy with either.

              Happiness? Eh. That feeling scampers off after the last present is unwrapped or your favorite restaurant is closed unexpectedly. Doing the will of God? Ah, that's something completely different. And that feeling?  It puts its roots down deep, in a place where weather and parties and mirrors cannot reach.