We are pregnant

I’ve always been a little snobby about the statement “We are pregnant.”  Yes, it takes two to bring life into the world, and a mother and father both waiting to welcome a child with outstretched arms is a beautiful thing.  “We are expecting…We are having a baby…We are due in 6 months…” – these are all perfectly acceptable to me.  The prep work and anticipation can be shared equally, as can the parenting duties once the child arrives.  But let’s be honest, when it gets down to it, only one of us is pregnant.  Only one of us is physically growing a baby and enjoying all the changes that go along with it.

Pregnancy is just plain hard work, and we as women know that men can never truly understand this.  So we try to make them appreciate it by subtly hinting at what ails us.  “I went downstairs and laid in the recliner last night for 3 hours, did I wake you up?...I just need to sit down - I’ve been in the kitchen all afternoon and my back is screaming at me…I just need to walk – my hips are sore…I don’t have hips anymore, so I don’t know how I’m supposed to cart around this laundry basket...I wish I knew what my bra size was this week!!...No, seriously, do you know what it’s like to feel like someone is clawing into your hip?...Well, I’m standing, so I guess that means I have to pee…Do you know where your sciatic nerve is?  I DO!”  Again, subtle hints.

 

To the general public and anyone who asks, I am an energetic pregnant lady, loving every minute of this ride (which overwhelmingly is true, honest, I really can’t complain).  But the annoyances have to come out somewhere, so we reserve the best for those we are closest to – enter my sweet hubby.  It’s true he will never himself feel what it’s like to be pregnant, but as I think about his behavior over the last few months it makes me second guess my soapbox.  When I interject one of my not-so-casual complaints, he always responds with genuine support and sympathy.  “Go sit down, I’ll do the dishes…Go walk on the treadmill for a while – I’ll handle bedtime tonight…Let me carry that…I’m sorry you’re not sleeping well, should I go to the guest room?...Is there anything I can do?”  And when I wake up in the middle of the night and sit up to stretch, he often silently rubs my back or whispers his thanks for carrying his child.

It occurs to me that perhaps the concept of being “pregnant” can be expanded beyond the literal, physical sense.  If pregnant means your life is completely altered for 9 months in anticipation of a child and you take on some burdens you otherwise wouldn’t, then yes, I would absolutely say we are pregnant.  As my gentleman of a husband quickly bends over to grab our son’s shoes before I have to and looks for every opportunity to make my life easier, I know that his life is different, too.  I know that when he offers compliments and reflexively responds to my complaints with affirmation, he is holding up his end of the deal.  It’s reasonable to think that living with a hormonal, self conscious partner is probably no picnic either, so I’m willing to expand my definition of pregnant to acknowledge that.

This realization hit me like a bolt of lightning when we took a mini family vacation this weekend to an indoor waterpark.  As we were packing up to return home, I watched my husband balance my body pillow on his shoulders, stuff my other pillow under his arm, and fill his hands with luggage as he prepared for the long, cold walk to the parking lot at the other end of the resort.  For some reason that sight grabbed me by the shoulders (oh, my poor, tense shoulders) and shook me a little bit.  I suddenly felt incredibly touched by his willingness to cart around my prego paraphernalia, no questions asked, and his determination to have his wife and son walk no further than 20 feet in the cold.  I was immediately filled with appreciation for all the moments of support – big and small – he has shown over the last few months that I often take for granted.  As I started to catalogue them in my mind, I realized what a change this is in his life as well.  And it occurred to me in that moment: this guy might be a little bit pregnant.

Let them be toddlers

I recently took my son to the library, which he loves because of the children’s room full of legos, trains, and firefighter hats.  Incidentally, this visit went much more smoothly than the last because I am now fully informed of the library’s hours.  Never again will I enter the doors right before the 10 minute warning is sounded over the loudspeaker, only to endure the wrath of a two-year-old who wasn’t allowed time to build the tower of his dreams (seriously, the library closes at 5 o’clock on a Friday?!). 

But anyway, that’s not my point.  The real purpose of this post is to lament about the conversations I overheard from other parents of toddlers.  As my son was occupying himself at the train table, I was distracted in overhearing a woman say, “Did your son just say ‘existentialism’?”  It was a mother of another boy whose age I would estimate at 18 months.  Her question was directed at a father who was hovering over his three-year-old.  “Oh yes,” he replied, “but he doesn’t quite know how to use it correctly yet.  His stronger talent is in music right now.  He loves Mozart, and he has always had an impeccable sense of rhythm.”

Huh?  Did he just say that?  His child is three!  Okay, so all of us think our children are geniuses, but who says something like that out loud, let alone to a stranger?  At least I had a kindred spirit in the unsuspecting mother as she replied only with polite and encouraging words.  She offered such phrases as “Oh, you must be so proud…That’s really impressive…” and multiple variations of this as the father made a spectacle of explaining to his son the proper architectural form to be used in building a structurally sound lego tower.  I did describe him as “hovering” over his child, correct?  That was intentional.

I shook that off as a fluke as I re-focused my attention on my son, who was explaining to me how the choo-choo goes over the bridge.  Yes, this is how a toddler should be.  As I was digging through the parts bin for extra sections of train track, I picked up on another conversation over by the dress-up clothes.  This one was about selecting a preschool.  Two mothers were talking, rather loudly, about the merits of homeschooling vs. Montessori schools vs. a private and very selective daycare.  One planned to homeschool as long as possible, while the other was weighing her options and in the process of conducting interviews.  “I just feel the personal attention and loving environment they receive at home from me is the best option, and then I control the curriculum,” said the first.  “We’re just looking for the best possible environment to help prepare them to be responsible adults and contributors to society,” said the other, explaining why she was also looking at options outside of the home.

Seriously, where was I?  Have I simply been sheltered from these conversations to this point because my son is just now nearing preschool age?  Are the friendly hellos I share with parents of children in my son’s daycare room masking some sort of crazy competitive urges that are just waiting to burst from all of us?  It made me sick.  Not only what I overheard and the thought of what may lie ahead, but also the voice in the back of my mind that started to wander…Should I expose my child to more classical music?  He definitely likes music, but would I say he has an impeccable sense of rhythm?  Should he?  Is his vocabulary large enough?

STOP.  That familiar, second guessing, mommy-guilt voice shut up quickly when my son put his arms around my waist and said, “This is fun, Mommy!  I love you!”  We happily selected some books to take home and went on our way.  As I reflect back on this experience, I learned several things:

1)      I am not ready for my son to grow up.  I’m not ready for parent committees and competitive sports leagues and grade point averages and blah blah blah.  He is perfectly unique the way he is, and I don’t want anyone comparing him to anyone else, and I definitely don’t want him comparing himself to others.

2)      I am in no hurry for my toddler to act like an adult.  Sure, we’ll continue to work on letters and numbers and make sure he has a supportive (yet fun) environment in which to learn at home.  We’ll teach proper manners and respect and make sure he’s helpful and polite.  However, we will also play in the rain, make messes, and laugh at silly things.  Because, he is a freaking toddler.  He has his whole life to be responsible.

3)      I will try my best not to hover.  He will be who he wants to be, and he will be interested in what he likes.  My job is to expose him to opportunities to find what makes him tick, regardless of what that ends up being.

4)      The most important thing to me is the type of person my child becomes.  Not his profession or his IQ or his favorite classical composer.  I’m concerned with how he treats people and that he remains humble and kind.  If he never engages in a conversation like the ones I overheard at the library, I’ll be happy.

5)      We’re in for it.  Based on what I learn from friends and coworkers with older children, it gets competitive fast.  It’s going to be hard – for my husband and I, yes, but more importantly for our child.  As we prepare to send him into the world this was a rude awakening to how huge that responsibility really is.  There’s a lot outside of the walls of our home, and he won’t be two forever. 

This parenting gig is pretty permanent, and I’m realizing the most important work is yet to come.  I won’t be perfect, I will falter many times, and I will no doubt go against the learnings I rattled off here.  I am grateful, however, for previews like this that make me stop and think.  When I get impatient with my son for not sitting still through church or neglecting to use his fork, the library parents come into my brain.  And suddenly, I am fine with his fidgeting and let the table manners go for a second, if for no other reason than spite – spite for those who would force our children to grow up faster than they need to.  It goes by quickly enough.

Ahhhh, memories

I recently had a conversation with a co-worker whose daughter is having a hard time transitioning from the bottle to the sippy cup.  She paused her story to ask, “Did you have any of these issues with your son at that age?”  I opened my mouth to answer and then caught myself instead saying, “Ummm…well, let me think…”  As I searched my brain to confirm how the de-bottling phase had gone I realized I didn’t remember exactly when we first started to introduce a cup.  It was around six months, right?  Or maybe eight?  Did we put water in it or breast milk?  When was the first time he had water?  We started with one of those soft-top cups, right?  For how long?  Surely this is written down somewhere…  What I do remember is that we thankfully had very few problems, so I answered something vague to this general effect. 

The discussion, however, stayed on my mind for a good portion of the day.  How could I not remember the details surrounding something that seemed so significant at the time?  Such a milestone.  I know there are other details that are getting fuzzy until I see a picture from that particular stage to jog my memory or watch an old baby video.  Sure, I do in fact have a lot of these things written in my son’s baby book (read: a well-intentioned spiral notebook full of hand-scrawled notes and stuffed with random pictures and scrapbook paper…for when I have free time).  But there is only so much that we can convey with words.  I found myself panicking that I would lose the experiences – what it really felt like when my son was a baby. 

How is it possible that the last two years have flashed by like lightning, and yet I can’t remember the details of something that feels like yesterday?  How can something at once seem so recent and so far in the past?  If I’m losing details now, what will it be like when my children are teenagers?  Will I remember what it was like to have a baby at all?  I’m not entirely sure why, but this thought scared me.  A lot.  It’s probably due in large part to the fact that the baby stage represents a time when we are everything to our children.  They rarely leave our arms, let alone our sight.  And while that can be exhausting, there is also something gratifying about being needed in that way, in giving yourself completely to the needs of another human being whom you love more than your own life.  It’s powerful stuff.

The older my son gets the more independence he gains.  And as I celebrate his accomplishments and enjoy the lightening of my load, I also mourn the end of his babyhood.  Although I can never hope to remember every single detail of every day of that period, I’m trying to convince myself that’s okay.  First, it’s simply not reasonable or possible to catalog every moment of my life in that way.  As I often need to, I keep reminding myself I’m human.  But more importantly, as I think back to the things I do remember, I’m convinced I’m holding on to the right memories – the ones that will truly help me recall an experience rather than the mechanics of growing up.

I remember exactly how my son looked when they first placed him on my chest, and that the first thing I said after he was born was a tearful, “He’s so perfect.”  And he really, really was.  I remember looking into my husband’s eyes and feeling like my entire world was in that room.  Those first moments are etched in my brain, and I am beyond thankful for that memory. 

I remember the warmth of that tiny little heater’s body on mine as he slept away my maternity leave.  I remember nuzzling close to his face so I could take in the sweet scent of baby breath (before they have teeth and start eating food, they smell SO good!  All. The. Time.).  I remember the peaceful silence of our house at 3 am as I nursed my son and quietly rocked him back to sleep. 

I remember the sound of his little voice when he first discovered he could jabber.  I remember the night we cheered him on as he first started to crawl, and the look of triumph on his face the day he took his first steps.

So while I may not be able to recall exactly how long we spent on mashed avocado before adding pea puree (which I assure you is written down), I have the good stuff on lock.  Sounds, smells, and emotions paint the best picture of that first year.  And they do a better job than any baby book could – whether it is the most beautiful scrapbook or a dog-eared notebook with an ultrasound photo spilling out the side.

Drama

Before my husband and I became parents I never would have imagined the types of things that can cause drama in the household of a toddler.  I would have scoffed at a list like the one I’ve put together, rolling my eyes and thinking, “Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.” 

But now I am a mom, which means I live in fear of making a two-year-old angry.  I walk on eggshells lest a tantrum become imminent.  My husband and I mumble subtle warnings across the dinner table if things heat up: “Don’t make it angry…”  We pretend to be in charge and practice all of the appropriate parenting techniques and disciplinary actions, but at the end of the day I know who rules the roost.

Read on for a few of the top sources of drama in our house.  Disclaimer: this list is not all-inclusive and is subject to revisions and/or massive expansion at any time.  Massive.

·       Bodily functions - The number one source of angst always seems to be, well, “number two.”  Now that I think about it, this fact hasn’t really changed since the day he was born.  He can’t go, he can’t stop going, he refuses to go, it’s a weird color, he gets his foot/hand/clothing/stuffed animal in it, he needs to go just as we’re leaving the house.  If you were to check my internet history, I would bet this topic dominates my Google traffic.  Poo drama.

·       The wrong “Elmo bread” - Several months ago we purchased, on a whim, an Elmo-shaped sandwich cutter and I used it to make my son some toast.  He coined the phrase “Elmo bread,” and from that point on various types of bread, toasted or not, in the shape of Elmo or not, may at times be referred to as “Elmo bread.”  Whenever he requests “Elmo bread” my stomach drops because I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HE MEANS and I fear the confrontation that may ensue if I get it wrong.  Is it cinnamon toast?  Toast with jelly?  Waffles?  A piece of sandwich bread?  The zucchini/banana/pumpkin bread that may be in the bread box?  Carb drama.

·       Dirty laundry – Some mornings we can get dressed without incident, shoving a shirt over our son’s head before he has time to even realize what color it is.  We high five and let out a sigh of relief as we happily head downstairs.  But some mornings he takes great interest in his wardrobe, scanning his closet slowly and meaningfully in order to inevitably request something that is in the laundry basket.  Most likely because he wore it yesterday and it has green paint on it.  Is it too much to expect a two-year-old to process the logic that dirty clothes need to be laundered, and this isn’t exactly something I jump at the chance to do every single day?  Wardrobe drama.

·       Helping out – Bless his heart, my son loves to help…err, feel like he’s helping.  The problem surfaces when the thing that he really wants to do has already been done.  Last week he started to throw a fit because he wanted to get the toaster out of the pantry (probably for Elmo bread) and it was already on the counter.  It had literally been sitting there for over 24 hours.  In situations like these I often start to explain to him that I can’t undo what has been done, but then I typically give up, put the toaster in the pantry, and help him awkwardly carry it across the kitchen.  As I stumble to crouch down and support the weight of the toaster while lifting up the cord so he doesn’t trip, he struts across the kitchen with a huge smile on his face.  Re-do drama.

·       Cups – Now that our son is using “big boy cups” at the table, it has opened a world of possibilities.  Green, blue, tall, short, Buzz Lifeyear or plain, and some nights he still requests a sippy cup.  But on those occasions, of course, he needs to help pour the milk and put the lid on himself.  His preference for lid fastening seems to be of the “semi-tight” variety, so this often leads to spills.  Can we sit down and eat yet?  Beverage drama.

We do our best to be on the alert for hot-button issues and diffuse the situation quickly.  But the #1 lesson I have learned in parenting so far is this: Just when you figure it out, whatever it is, it will change.  Like, tomorrow.  Flexibility is key.  That along with patience, lots of deep breaths, and plenty of snuggles and giggles that remind us it’s so worth it.  Drama and all.

The Kids' Menu

We just returned from a week-long family vacation – my husband, my two-year-old son, and me.  Traveling with a toddler no doubt brings to light many needed lessons regarding the virtues of patience and flexibility.  One thing, however, that became painfully clear to me on our trip is this: Kids’ menus are awful.  Just awful.

After my son turned one, I was able to remain blissfully unaware of the kids’ menu for several more months.  He wasn’t consuming a large quantity of food, and we weren’t doing any lengthy traveling.  I could fairly easily pack his dinner with us if we went out, or at least bring fruits and veggies and feel confident he could scrounge off our plates to round out his meal.  But now he’s almost two and a half, and the child eats.  Add to that the fact that we’ve become more adventurous with him in the last year and taken longer vacations; there’s only so much I can stock in a tiny hotel refrigerator.  So naturally, my eyes are drawn to the kids’ menu, as our options are to buy him a full price entrée that may go untouched, or choose the economical route with a portion sized just for him.

Returning to my initial point: kids’ menus are awful.  Awful food, awful selection, zero health benefits, and most of the time my son won’t even eat it!  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to an occasional “treat”, and yes, he had his fair share of french fries while we were away.  I can get on board with vacation being partially about indulging – enjoying activities and foods you may not normally partake in at home.  It’s not like I had a salad at every meal.  And I also understand that dining out isn’t meant to be a daily occurrence, so ideally these things are being balanced with normal eating at home.  However, being faced repeatedly this week with an endless parade of processed meats and fried foods as the featured options for a child started to make me think...

Why are these the foods that are generally understood as being especially for our kids?  When we think about typical kid foods, why are the first things that come to mind chicken nuggets and hot dogs?  I refuse to believe children eat these things because they demand them.  Our son didn't know what a french fry was until we introduced it.  These “kid” foods are marketed to them, and we are buying it.  They’re convenience foods – quick, easy, and fun to eat.  When we process chicken (bones included, and bleach it, etc….) we can make it into any shape we want.  What child wouldn’t want their dinner shaped like a dinosaur?  Blech.

About a year ago I read a book called, “Salt, Sugar, Fat: How the Food Giants Hooked Us.”  Based on detailed research, it describes how the processed food industry has literally calculated how much salt, sugar, and fat they need to pump into their products to make them as addictive as possible.  And much of this effort, sadly, is aimed at children.  Sugary cereals, juice drinks, lunchables…they prey on our natural desire for convenient and portable ways to feed our family.  And the more we keep buying it, the more it supports their bottom line and encourages them to keep doing it. (I'm going to stop myself here and just offer this small aside: I highly recommend this book!)

My point is, our food culture has just gotten to a bad place.  We regularly eat processed foods (and I say we because I’m not innocent, but I’m trying) and rarely read labels.  We believe health claims on the front of boxes.  We purchase kids’ meals at restaurants because we have kids and they need to eat.  And I'm not talking simply about a difference between healthy and unhealthy – this is a difference between real food and imitations.  The good news is we as the consumers hold all the power – we vote with our dollars.  We can choose to buy local produce and fresh foods.  We can limit our consumption of processed foods and demand better options.  I constantly remind myself I can just as easily steam broccoli as I can warm up a hot dog.  And it is just as fast (and SO much better) to grill our own hamburgers at home as it is to rely on that place with the golden arches which shall not be named here.  And more importantly, doing these small things teaches my family about the value of good food.

Likewise, we now plan to more often resist the kids’ menu.  Our most successful dinner outing with our son this week was when we opted to order him the shrimp cocktail appetizer and a side of rice.  Add to that the olives they brought to the table when we arrived and the tomatoes pilfered from our salads, and the child was on cloud nine.  Real food: everyone likes it.  We were so relieved we went back the next night and did the very same thing.  So eventually, perhaps the people selling us this stuff will catch on.  Restaurant owners will realize if they really want to do parents a favor, they can offer child-sized portions of actual entrees.  When planning the menu, maybe the chef won’t give up when they get to the kids’ menu.  After all, kids are real people, too, and in every other regard we give them our very best.  Why stop here?

Don’t misunderstand me – as soap-boxy as this may sound, I by no means pretend to have it all together.  My child doesn’t eat only 100% organic and natural food, and I sometimes rely on convenience.  Yes, I’m sure he will eat from a kids’ menu again at some point, and for goodness’ sake it’s summer so the child can (and does) have ice cream.  I’m just a disgusted consumer trying my best to stick it to the man.  I don’t want my child to grow up not knowing where potatoes come from, or unable to recognize the natural shape of chicken.  I want him to help me select ingredients for our dinner at the farmers’ market and then shuck corn and snap beans together on the deck at home.  I want him to appreciate and enjoy food the way it was meant to be experienced – fruits, vegetables, and treats included.  The kids’ menu is a symptom of a larger problem, but it is in our power to redefine it.

The person my two-year-old thinks I am

I’ve heard a saying to the effect of, “I strive to be the person my dog thinks I am.”  Having never owned a dog, and without any significant pet experience beyond a parade of caged critters, I’ve never been particularly able to relate to this.  It’s a nice sentiment, sure, and cute pictures of puppies can make me all sentimental as much as the next person.  However, it recently hit me that this statement can absolutely 100% without a doubt be applied to my two-year-old son.

I strive to be the person my two-year-old thinks I am.

I walk into my son’s room in the morning, eyes half open, sporting mismatched pajamas and hair washed two days ago.  When he sees me he immediately smiles and says, “Mommy!”  He climbs out of his bed and runs over to give me a hug.  I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, and I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.

After a full day at work I’m trying to get dinner on the table, second guessing my meal planning and wondering whether I’m offering the right ratio of fruits, vegetables, and grains.  On a whim, I pull out the jar of green olives to serve as an appetizer to lure my son to the table.  When I announce dinner is ready, he comes running excitedly.  His eyes light up when he sees the jar and he giggles, “Olives!”  I’m a gourmet chef, and all I did was open a jar.

As my son busies himself playing in the front yard, I absentmindedly pick up his discarded plastic bat and start tossing up whiffle balls and hitting them across the lawn.  When I realize he has become silent I look in his direction and see that he is staring at me in awe, mouth open.  “I wanna do that, Mommy!”  I’m a professional athlete with a neon orange bat.

My son is working on a particularly challenging Winnie the Pooh puzzle and struggling to get a few pieces in place.  He asks for my help and I explain to him that he needs to look for all the different Eeyore pieces and try to put them together.  We finish the puzzle together and he exclaims, “We did it!”  We have conquered art, logic, and reason in the form of a cardboard cartoon.

And sometimes I strive to be the person I hope my son thinks I am.

After a week of our son being a little under the weather, the whole household was exhausted.  Waking up several times during the night and needing comfort is not characteristic for him, and I admit at times I lost my patience.  I resented the fact that a two-year-old could be waking me up as much as a newborn.  When he protested endlessly at bedtime I started to wonder if he was just gaming us to stay up at night.

And then, as I was putting him to bed one night at the end of that long week, he crawled into bed without begging to stay up.  He snuggled onto his pillow, then turned his head and reached up to put his arms around my neck.  He gave me a hug and a kiss and said, “I love you.”  He waved at me as I left the room. 

I know it’s too much to think that he was acknowledging how rough the previous week was for everyone, but in a small way it made me feel like he understood.  He was grateful.  I immediately forgot the inconvenience and found myself hoping he would wake up at 2 am so we could cuddle.  And I vowed to myself, yet again, that I will never fault him for needing me.

He's watching every move and waiting for me to be a hero, but it usually takes a lot less than I think.  I strive to be the person my two-year-old thinks I am and to see myself every now and then through his eyes. 

Love affirmed

One of the best parenting moments for me thus far was the first time my son told me, completely unprompted, “I love you, Mommy!”  I still get a fuzzy feeling every time he surprises me with that affirmation, and I of course happily reply, “I love you, too, sweetheart. So much.”  But what I really want to say, and what’s in my heart is this:

 

"There are no words for how I feel about you.  You didn’t even exist in my life until two years ago, but somehow I don’t remember, can’t imagine, what that was like.  I’m convinced more and more each day this is why I’m here – to be your mommy.  The first 29 years of my life I was just preparing, waiting for you to come.  I was observing the example set by my parents so I could pass on those lessons to you.  I was trying new things, winning and losing, so I could relate to you when you have those experiences.  I was learning how to succeed on my own so I could instill in you the value of hard work.  I was falling in love with your daddy more each day and building a home with him so we could welcome you with open arms and give you everything you need.  I was maturing beyond a self-centered focus so I could be ready to truly put someone else’s needs ahead of my own.  I was praying and hoping that you would join our family, learning what it really means to be patient and have faith in a God who weaves things together that are beyond my control.  And now you’re here, and it all makes sense.  All this time I was growing and maturing, I was really just waiting for you."

 

I’m not perfect and I never will be, but God has gifted me with the experiences and opportunities I needed to get ready to be a mother to my little boy.  Those four words – I love you, Mommy – uttered enthusiastically and innocently by a two-year-old represent the highest compliment anyone has ever paid me.  Ever.  He might as well be saying, “You made it, mommy, and it was all worth it.  I’m so glad you’re mine.”  I think as moms we thrive on affirmation - from other moms, our child's teachers, or our family and friends.  We just want to know we’re doing something right.  And what higher form can that praise take than coming right from the mouth of your own child?  Of course he can’t verbalize to me whether he approves of how I’m handling this whole parenting gig, nor do I expect him to be able to formulate that perspective for about 30 years (based on personal experience).  However, from where he stands (about mid-thigh) he knows that he loves me.  He knows that he feels safe and loved when he’s around me, and that I bring him comfort when he’s sick or hurt.  At the end of the day, that’s really all I’m trying to accomplish, so his proclamation is enough for me.

 

And of course each time I relish in that sweet voice and reflect like a sap on our emotional connection, I always have in the back of my mind that it may not always be this way.  He will eventually stop running to me to sit on my lap and will no longer take my face in both his hands to give me a big sloppy kiss.  He will grow up and likely go through a period of time when he believes his mother is not cool and shuts me out of parts of his life.  Hopefully this phase will be short-lived, and I will have the faith and patience to give him the freedom he needs to grow up, knowing he’ll be back.  As for right now, I am absolutely cherishing each sweet moment with him and storing them away in my memory.  So someday when he slams the door in my face and cranks up the tunes (oh my gosh, I’m already uncool), I’ll take a deep breath and remember the times that little boy told me he loved me.  And I will choose to live in that truth, waiting patiently in the knowledge that for every rough patch, there will be many more rewarding ones. 

 

I have the love of a two-year-old, and I feel like a queen.

Work it, mama

I love being a working mom.  I wasn’t always sure I would, and the first few weeks back after maternity leave were a challenge met with many tears and pangs of guilt.  However, at some point I started to hit my stride and I actually remember the exact moment when things really turned around.  I was leaving the office after a long day, and I opened my car door to hoist my laptop bag into the backseat.  It landed on top of a teething toy that squeaked loudly in protest.  I immediately and involuntarily smiled and was filled with a sense of purpose and determination.  “I’m doing this,” I thought.  This was my life, and I was going to embrace it in all its craziness.  Of course there is still guilt and second guessing that periodically creeps in, but I’m going to go ahead and assume that happens to every mom no matter what. 

Continuing to pursue my career is a personal decision and one that has just, well, worked for our family.  I love my job and my employer and find my work intellectually stimulating and rewarding in so many ways.  I love putting on heels in the morning and bustling into an office building with a hopeful and naive notion that I can change the world.  I love meetings and presentations, projects and challenges.  I love being hit with a surprise twist in a timeline and configuring a new strategy.  I love getting to know new people and collaborating to solve a problem and create incredible results. 

And of course I believe, first and foremost, that my decision provides value for my child, otherwise I wouldn’t do it no matter how much I loved it.  This can’t be said enough times so I’ll say it again: this is a personal decision, and I have all the respect in the world for moms who choose to stay home full time.  I couldn’t do what you do!  For our family, my husband and I believe our son benefits from the independence and social interaction a school setting can offer, as well as the community of wonderful caregivers he is exposed to.  I also believe as he gets older I can be proud of the example I’m setting for him of hard work and balance.

In the most lighthearted sense, the true upside of being a working mom comes in the sheer humor of it all.  On most days my life can be described as an ongoing hilarity of contrast.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve found myself hunched over the sink in the laundry room, scrubbing a bodily function out of crib sheets while wearing a skirt.  The irony is not lost on me, and in my hurry I often pause to chuckle to myself.  I, like so many others, have left work for holiday parties at school, conducted conference calls at home with a baby on my hip, and followed up children’s bedtime stories with a little light reading on the latest work emergency.

I recall one instance when my son was a year old, and I was preparing to facilitate a morning meeting with some executives who are far more important than I could ever hope to be.  I ducked into the restroom at work for a quick last minute check and discovered an undeniable dribble of dried up snot on the shoulder of my black jacket.  I frantically tried to remove it with paper towels, concentrating on perfecting the delicate water to towel ratio so as to effectively remove the stain without having paper particles disintegrate onto my clothes.  Another woman came into the restroom, took one look at me and smiled.  “We’ve all been there,” she said.  “Enjoy every minute of it.”

I think of that encounter often to remind myself to be grateful and reflective in moments like these rather than letting the stress and fear of embarrassment overcome me.  I can choose to be frustrated when I find streaks on my pants from some excited banana hands, or I can relish in the memory of my morning and look forward to the time I’ll spend with my son that afternoon.  These things are humanizing, and they are perfect representations of real life.  As my restroom comrade wisely put it, “We’ve all been there.”  They say if you’re intimidated by a group of people you should imagine them in their underwear.  I prefer to envision their home lives, punctuated with scenes of children throwing tantrums amid the chaos of getting dinner on the table.  Regardless of who we are or what we do for a living, these things are included in our common denominator, which is really a lot more common that we let ourselves think.

The things that keep us real keep us connected and relatable, and there is nothing more humbling for me than being a working mom.  When I see another woman heading into work in the morning with a laptop on one shoulder and a breast pump bag slung over the other shoulder I have to stop myself from offering an enthusiastic high five.  “You’re doing it!” I want to shout excitedly to her.  “WE are doing it!!  Isn’t it amazing?!  WE are amazing!”  But instead of playing the part of the crazy woman in the parking lot before the kind people of the world have been allowed their caffeine, I generally just smile to myself and collect this as another piece of encouragement for this incredible journey. 

We're rocking it

“How do you do it?”  The question came from across the table during a lunch break at work.  I paused from blowing the steam off my leftovers to address my friend intelligently:  “Huh?”  “How do you have time to cook dinner every night?” she went on.  “I mean, along with everything else?”  I looked down at the forkful of last night’s meal suspended in my hand.  “This?” I replied.  “This is just…life.”    I didn’t know how else to answer.  If there was one person who, in my mind, was juggling an impossibly full plate, it was the woman sitting across from me.  How in the world could she ask me that question?  Didn’t she realize how amazing she was?

I started thinking through the achievements of some of my friends.  The questions came rapidly and with the same consistent theme.  How does she…?

…work full time and take care of 2 (3, 4…) babies?

…stay at home with her kids and find all those fun family activities to keep them busy?

…work multiple jobs?

…take care of her kids herself?

…find time to train for a marathon?

…manage completing her master’s degree while working?

…look so fresh and energetic every day when I know she has a newborn at home?

…always seem to be working on another professional designation?

…get all those books read?

…start her own business?

I drew two conclusions from this.  1) I know some downright talented and brilliant women, and that is an honor.  2) It’s time we start giving ourselves some credit.  Chances are someone else is impressed with your life.  To someone else you look like you have it all together.  As you go through the motions of your day, distracted by the thought of the unfolded laundry at home, someone else is admiring your ability to get things done.  When you’re struggling to remember what you needed to add to the grocery list, someone is in awe of your organizational skills.  And despite the turmoil you felt just trying to get out of the door this morning, someone really liked the outfit you chose.

How could these perceptions be so different?  How is it that when I don’t feel like I’m doing enough, a friend can catch me completely off-guard by saying with simple conviction, “You do so much.”   Is it possible that the version of ourselves we present to the world is so different from the harsh reality of our true broken lives?  I don’t think so.  Instead, it’s just that we cut others so much more slack than we give ourselves.  We set our own bar so high and assume everyone around us is jumping over it, when in reality they’re just trying to survive, too.  People who spend a lot of time with us – family and close friends – really do know us, so we should trust them when they say we’re knocking it out of the park.

It’s time I pause and give myself the occasional pat on the back for the things I do well.  I choose to spend my time doing things that I value for myself and my family.  The choices we all make in that same effort are unique, which gives us a great opportunity to be proud of one another.  And at the same time, I need to give myself grace for those other things that can creep in and make me feel like I’m failing.  So I don’t get down on my hands and knees and scrub my kitchen floor every week like my grandma always did.  My windows have fingerprints on them, and my closet needs to be organized.  So what?  I can admire my neighbor’s shiny windows, and she can compliment my flower pots (if spring ever arrives!).   

No matter who you are, you’re doing something that someone else respects and admires.  There is someone looking at your life and saying, “How do they…?”  So keep doing it.  We all need to be encouraged by the successes of one another, and in some cases it may give us the confidence to try something new ourselves.

And equally as important as rocking what you do well, tell someone else when they’re rocking it, too.  We all need to hear it.  I was having an incredibly blah day when my dear friend’s amazement at my ability to steam broccoli turned it around.  So go ahead, tell that co-worker or friend that she’s doing a great job at life, that her children are well behaved, or just that you love her sweater or she got her eyeliner on straight.  We need each other to help point out the small victories worth celebrating.  I made dinner last night, and I’m eating it again for lunch today.  And I’m proud of that.

Stay here

“Mommy, stay here.”  These words rise sweetly and tentatively from a tiny voice as I prepare to depart his room after the bedtime routine has concluded.  We’ve already read “one more story” and sung “one more song,” and it really is time for him to go to sleep.  Not to mention that I inevitably need to clean up the kitchen, fold the laundry, or get my laptop back out to finish up some work.  However, there is something undeniably appealing about being needed, and there is nothing that can compare to the simple and pure way a child needs his mommy.  Either that or I’m a total softie, because he gets me every time.

I just need you to stay here.  I am instantly taken back to my early childhood when I often made the same request of my mother.  I would wake up in the night after a bad dream or during a thunderstorm and rouse that poor woman from her well-earned rest.  I wanted to go back to my bed where it was comfortable and warm, but I needed her to be there, too.  Somehow her very presence brought me such comfort that it could overcome my fears and allow me to drift back to sleep.  The monsters seemed less real, the thunder more distant, as long as she was sitting next to my bed.  My memories of these instances are somewhat hazy at this point, but I do remember one thing very clearly – the way my mother acted.  She never lost patience with me.  She never questioned my fear or made me feel silly for being afraid.  She never complained about being tired or needing sleep.  She sat with me in the dark, talking if I wanted to talk, or completing an investigation of the first floor if I requested to know for sure that no one had broken in.  She was affirming and comforting, and most importantly she was there.

Now that I am a mother myself, one thing has become abundantly clear to me: my mother is a saint.  I learn more and more each day through experiences I have with my son what she really did for me, and I am absolutely floored.  It first hit me during the early weeks when I was up every two hours for feedings and feeling a sense of helplessness that went way beyond sleep deprivation.  I assumed I must be doing something wrong – there was simply no way it was this hard.  Countless women before me couldn’t have done this and survived.  When my mom came to visit for a few days just after my son was born, I remember looking to her pleadingly with tears in my eyes.  She simply smiled knowingly and reassured me, “It gets better.” 

And so she was right.  It continues to get better, and so much harder too.  I know I’m just in the beginning stages, and I will have many more sleepless nights ahead of me.  But I now understand why my mother never reprimanded me for being needy or focused on her own needs.  It didn’t occur to her.  She was my mom, and it was her job to comfort me like no one else could.  There is joy and affirmation in that responsibility, and I love it.  I cannot begin to repay my mom for the ways she cared for me as a child.  Instead, I will live my appreciation by following the example she set with my own family.  I pledge to always be there when my son needs me. To scare away nightmares and cuddle during a storm.  To stock up on nightlights and stuffed animals.  To provide comfort when he’s sick.  To pack lunches and volunteer for room parties.  To help with homework and cheer him on at the game.  And when he requests it, I will happily lie next to him until he falls asleep.  It’s a small price to pay to be someone’s hero.

No more sick days

I had a stomach bug last week that hit me hard, but thankfully, the immediate impact seemed to be fairly short-lived.  I was quickly on to a couple days of crackers and toast until I could get my head around the idea of eating an actual meal. As I was propped up in bed in a semi-conscious state praying for relief I discovered that request was intermingled with an even more fervent one: “Please don’t let my husband or son get this.”  It’s then that it occurred to me: I will never have another sick day again. 

 

Sure, I stayed home from work the next day to rest, recover, and hopefully get something in my system.  But say the words “sick day,” and my mind conjures images from my childhood of laying on the couch all day watching re-runs of Saved by the Bell while my loving mother tried to keep me hydrated.  But that’s not my reality anymore.  A sacrifice of being in a committed relationship and/or being a parent is that you are never the first person in your mind.  (And if you are, you’re probably doing it wrong.)  I didn’t make some valiant and selfless decision that I would behave this way and thereby earn  human of the year recognition, it just happens naturally when you love someone.  There are people in all our lives we would take a bullet for, or a stomach bug, and consider it a privilege.

 

So inevitably, I found myself mentally cataloguing all the items I had come into contact with in the last 24 hours – clothing, surfaces, sheets, blankets.  Before I knew it, my head was lifted from the couch and I was doing internet  searches to the tune of “how to prevent spreading the stomach bug,” and “how to kill norovirus.”  Even stronger than my disdain for being sick myself was the dreadful thought of a) cleaning up after and comforting a 2-year-old who wouldn’t know what hit him, or b) losing my partner in crime to the same bout of illness that had rendered me useless to him the night before.  I actually find the image humorous – me, laying on the couch in a mismatched collection of pajama pieces, sweatshirts, and blankets, diligently researching and devising a plan to conquer this bug on behalf of the men of my household.  Clearly, a woman with a greasy ponytail donning a delightful mix of fleece and flannel must be taken seriously.

 

First on my list: wash all sheets, blankets, and clothing in the sanitary cycle on the washer and the hottest dryer setting they can stand.  Mind you, these are by far the longest cycles our beloved washer/dryer duo has to offer, so I had plenty of time to calculate my next move.  But I couldn’t do anything else before washing my hands.  And singing the alphabet while I was doing it, because that’s how long the website said it would take to kill the germs.  Oh, and as I’m walking through the kitchen to finally pour my pitiful self some ginger ale, I notice the dishwasher needs to be emptied.  If I wash my hands for long enough I’m sure it’s okay for me to get that minor chore out of the way as well.  Scrub, scrub, “A, B, C, D….”

 

It’s now time for me to rest from this exertion and try a few saltines.  But of course I can’t just sit there – there has to be something else I could be getting done.  Enter laptop.  One and a half hours later I’m caught up on email and put out a few minor work fires (smolders, really).  I then remember I have an insurance designation exam coming up in a couple weeks, so it’s probably time to crack that book.  What better time to do it than when I’m destitute in my living room with nothing else to do but wash my hands all day.  After some quality time reading up on defined benefit pension plans, the laundry needs my attention again so I’m up and about, starting another load (did I use both the living room throws last night, or just one?  Better safe than sorry…). 

 

While I’m up, I might as well get to work on the rest of the cleaning plan I had devised in my early morning strategy session.  Surely the time I spent working and studying was sufficient rest for a body running on zero fuel and a minor intake of clear liquids.  At some point I have a hazy notion that I should perhaps be napping, but it’s quickly dismissed when I remind myself all the sheets and blankets will be tied up in the wash/rinse/steam/dry cycles for the next three hours.  So I tackle the bathrooms – sinks, toilets, floors, rugs.  I empty the garbage and wipe down every surface I can think of.  Should I eat some toast or something?  Nah, maybe after I steam mop the floors.  Oh, and what’s for dinner?  I have no appetite, but the guys will want to eat.  I have some chicken in the fridge I can pre-cook so we can turn it into something later on.  I put away my mop and head to the sink to sing the alphabet before I think about touching anyone else’s food.

 

So at the end of the day when the men of my household return, I have done my best to create a germ-free sanctuary.  Will they get sick?  Probably (sigh).  I sincerely hope not, but I’m realistic about our chances.  I have done everything I can to protect them, which is really what we all do for those we love each and every day.  I am a wife.  I am a mother.  I don’t take sick days.  And man I need some hand lotion.

Spiritual Peeling

My son loves peeling oranges.  What I really mean by that is the mere sight of a box of clementines in the pantry gives him the giggles.  Giggles that lead to an excited mix of jumping and dancing along with a joyful plea, “Oranges, please!  I peel it!”  He has always loved oranges, but now that he can take on a reasonable portion of the peeling himself, it’s a whole new world. 

I started to wonder what exactly makes peeling an orange so exciting.  And it’s not just peeling oranges.  Putting his milk back in the refrigerator, helping to stir dinner on the stove, putting his socks on – all of these things give him a jolt of pleasure that’s written all over his face.  These are relatively simple tasks we take for granted (until a 2-year-old demands to help, thereby making the chore take three times as long), so on the surface I couldn’t see the joy in them at all. 

On the other hand, if it was all brand new to me I might have a different perspective.  If I had to sit by and watch someone else peel my oranges for a countless string of days, I would probably feel downright giddy about doing it myself.  My son is so eager to learn, and he relishes in his ever-growing independence.  So if I stop and think about it, it really makes perfect sense – if I could learn to do ten new things every day and begin to master them, that would be exciting!  (Oh if only that period of rapid brain development repeated itself later in life...)

Pure and simple: he’s grateful that he has the ability to peel an orange.  Grateful and filled with such a sweet and innocent joy that it comes out of him in giggles and hops.  Wow.  I could take a cue from that.  Instead of thinking ahead to my first meeting on my way into work, I could occasionally just pause and be grateful for a job I love.  And in the midst of stressing over dinner plans and grocery lists, I can be extremely thankful that we have the ability to provide nutritious food for our family.  

I am at once humbled and struck by the irony that a little bundle of energy in the form of a child has continually reminded me to slow down.  When my son was just a few weeks old and nursing with his tiny hands folded on his chest, I imagined he was offering a silent prayer of thanksgiving.  And now, he’s outwardly expressing his gratitude through the joy he finds in peeling an orange. 

God, grant me the wisdom of a 2-year-old.

Resourcefulness

I ate a chicken breast with a spoon today.  Add that to the long list of times I’ve conquered yogurt with a fork, or attempted, with great concentration, to dissolve the honey in my tea using only the swirling motion of the tea bag.  I generally bring my lunch to work, and sometimes the morning rush or just a lack of foresight leave me unprepared.  You know how it is – you’re trying to throw a reasonably nutritious collection of food together while a small person is whining at your feet because he wasn’t allowed to hold the pickle jar before the refrigerator door closed.  No?  That’s just me?  Well, moving on…

 

Thankfully, the human brain is wired to problem solve.  Did I panic when I realized I didn’t have a fork and knife on hand today?  No, I was able to immediately identify a suitable alternative.  Resourcefulness.  A silly example, I know, but perhaps instances like these serve as warm-ups for the real thing.  Mini-workouts to keep us on our toes for when we’re forced to rise to a greater challenge.  It stands to reason, then, that those who most frequently take part in these types of exercises are the most “resourcefully fit,” displaying mind-boggling agility when caught in sticky situations.

 

I, for one, believe my experience so far as a parent has started to hone these skills.  No diaper changing station in the restaurant?  Set up shop in the open trunk of the car.  Spit-up all over the couch?  A handheld clothes steamer should do the trick.  Sure, the first few minor parenting trials like this rattled us for a moment until logical thinking could resume.  However, you learn to anticipate the worst and have solutions in place ahead of time.  Pro-active resourcefulness!   High five, brain!  For example:

 

• I don’t just plan dinner.  I consider how the entrée will be received by a toddler based on a precise analysis of components including appearance, texture, flavor, and familiarity.  Side dishes are methodically planned in accordance with my findings.  If I anticipate the main course being desirable, it could be an opportunity to sneak in a new vegetable.  If coaxing may be required, I litter the plate with favorites and break out the holy grail of toddler dinner appeal – dip!  (I am convinced my son would try shoe leather if he could relish in the glorious task of dipping it in barbeque sauce first…but, I digress.)

• I know if I walk into my son’s room in the morning while brushing my teeth I better have his toothbrush in hand.  He’s going to want to brush his teeth the minute he sees me doing it.  And by that I mean he will repeatedly ask for his toothbrush in a rapid succession of pleas, each one becoming more and more desperate until I find myself running back from the bathroom with an Elmo toothbrush and cursing the builders that would dare to position a bathroom a whole 5 feet from the bedroom door.  The nerve!

 

So I labor on with fellow planners and resourcefulness-ers, earning my super hero mommy cape one day at a time.  I can only hope all these tests provide some benefit in interactions with people over the age of 2 as well.  And I’m confident they will.  I continue to find that parenting provides a number of lessons that can apply in the workplace, further confirming my theory that my child will teach me much more than I could ever hope to impart to him. 

 

Our experiences as a parent can alter how we set expectations, how we react to others, and how we adapt to situations that don’t go as planned.  As I tackle projects at work on the fly or deal with unanticipated questions in a presentation, I can thank a collection of ill-timed poopy diapers for giving me the tools I need to respond effectively.  And I can peacefully enjoy a chicken breast in my office eaten with a spoon – noticing not the subpar utensil, but the rare calm that accompanies my meal.

Multitude of Mediocrity

I’ve considered starting a blog in the past, but I was unconvinced I had anything valuable to say.  However, as thoughts pop into my head I find it therapeutic to take the time to explore them.  Thoughts about parenting, working, relationships, observations from daily life, and how I can tie them together – with a healthy sense of humor.  So, you may argue I still don’t have anything valuable to say (and I may agree), but it’s valuable to me to write it. And to the extent anyone reads any of this and is able to relate to it, even in a small way, we can laugh together and take comfort in shared experiences.  In the meantime, my wonderfully patient husband may be relieved that some of this fodder moves from the dinner table to the open airspace of the interwebs.

 

I make no commitment to how often I will make posts or how good they will be.  I’ve been in my brain for a while now, so what I can tell you is to expect a wide variety of topics and random quirks explored here.  I love to write, but the thought of anyone reading anything I’ve written is completely foreign to me and incredibly scary, so I humbly thank you for even making it this far.

 

And a quick note on the name of the blog – Multitude of Mediocrity.  It’s a happy coincidence that the acronym is M.O.M, but I didn’t start there.  I’ve always felt like a bit of a “jack (or jill?) of all trades, master of none” (emphasis on the second part of that phrase…I am nothing if not self-deprecating!).  I can generally hold my own in intelligent conversation, I can carry a tune, and I’m reasonably athletic. However, I didn’t go to Harvard, I would not call myself a musician by any stretch, and I certainly didn’t receive an athletic scholarship (or even compete in high school sports for that matter).  I’ve never felt like the best at any one thing, and I really don’t know what my “thing” is.  Those who know me well know that I can get equally excited about gardening, Shark Week, financial analysis, or a good book.  And don’t get me wrong, I love the variety! 

 

This dynamic has been highlighted in my life as I juggle an increasing number of adult responsibilities – marriage, parenting, church activities, managing a household, and working full time.  For any of us with a lot on our plates, it’s easy to question whether we’re able to truly devote enough of ourselves to each of these tasks.  I use the term “multitude of mediocrity” partially in jest, of course, to recognize that we all feel this way at times but we’re just doing the best we can to keep it all together.  And counting each amazing blessing along the way.

 

Let's do this.