I am a music person. Heart and soul through and through I love music. Almost any instance of my life I can relate to a song lyric. I can pick up and memorize song lyrics like a fish takes to water. It's my special useless talent. Well, maybe it's not completely useless...it helps me sort through life from time to time.
I am no country music lover, but after many years with my husband I have grown to appreciate the genre. I even find myself adding some country songs to my iTunes catalogue. Recently a song that could be considered country but more mainstream these days has really made me think about my babies. It's a song about young love, but has touched my heart strings. The part that hits me every time says, "You are the best thing that's ever been mine." Every time I hear it I see their little angel faces and think that's exactly the way I feel. They are the best things that have ever been mine. I know the song is meant for a couple in love, but I think artistic license can be taken.
From the word go I have been in love with my children. I remember nervously taking my first pregnancy test. It was the Tuesday after Mother's Day 2008. On Mother's Day I woke up early. My husband and I started a tradition of having our families over our house so our moms didn't do any work. I wanted to do some set-up and plant a small hosta in the front yard before church. I felt dizzy as I went about my work. I even stopped to have the dry heaves like a college kid at after a frat party. I figured I was probably tired and didn't think it was possible that my husband and I succeed in our goal so quickly. We are both likable enough people, but really who in their right mind would let us have a kid to raise? My compulsions are enough to nominate me for the revival of the Monk character.
I spent the day consumed in Mothers and hosting guests while lost in the thought that next year I just might be one of them. In my mind I was like a fat kid waiting for the bakery to open. I salivated at the chance of having someone to love from the start. Someone who I would be there from the beginning with and for. Someone to watch grow and blossom. I never experienced that in my life. I am the youngest of a large family and was never close enough to anyone that had a child to share their experience from a front row seat.
As Mother's Day came to a close and my husband and I finished cleaning up I shared my suspicion with him. He suggested to me in a calm and playful tone that perhaps I should go "pee on a stick." Never one for flowering verbiage, his demeanor was one of well let's find out. I knew from my vast research on pregnancy and babies that pregnancy tests are meant to be done first thing in the am. This left out Monday since stores were already closed.
The next day I continued my wondering if I was right. I passed several drug stores thinking I should stop and buy a test so I would have it. I even ventured into Walgreen's to get one. The price almost knocked my on my rear...I'm so frugal that I figured it would be cheaper to just wait for my period. I promptly left the store indignant at the price of the confirmation of a new life. I wondered how much it cost in the old days to just kill the bunny?
My workday finished and the rain continued to fall. I tried to distract myself by watching my old pals The Golden Girls. But, eventually my curiosity got to me and I climbed into my beloved Jeep for the 2 mile drive to Wal-Mart. I figured Wal-Mart would have the cheapest prices...ever the penny pincher. I felt somewhat embarrassed to be purchasing a pregnancy test...the good Catholic girl in me was nervous people would know what I did...EEAKKK!! I clutched my watched and twisted my wedding rings while I nervously compared pregnancy tests. It was really a sight if you didn't know me. I looked like a high school student at a drug store on prom night. (Not that I know what that's like mind you...I just watch t.v.)
After the trauma of buying the telltale test I hurried home. Oh what little I knew of all the embarrassment waiting for me on the journey called gestation. Knowing now that purchasing the pregnancy test experience would pale in comparison of giving birth in the embarrassment arena, I probably would have announced my purchase with a megaphone.
Needless to say, I took the test the next morning. I rechecked the results several times before waking my husband to share the good news. We created life and the baby would be ours. Fewer experiences match up to learning that you will be meeting the person who you will help shape and mold. The person who will see you into old age. The person you will love unconditionally forever. This feeling was just as bold the second time I took a pregnancy test. I knew we created life again as well as a life long friend for our first child.
So, I guess it's easy to see why I shed a tear when I hear, "You are the best thing that's ever been mine." They really are. They bring me back to center when the world gets to me. I am not a perfect person, but I always want them to be proud of me and this drives me to strive for better. When I'm tired, this song reminds me to keep pushing, keep working, keep loving. They took me by surprise...I will never leave them alone. They made a mother out of a careful man's compulsive daughter.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Picture Frames
Each month since my eldest child was born, we take a picture of each of them on the calendar day they were born to put in a special frame. Every new parent gets one of these memory frames at a shower or from a friend. Basically this means they get saddled with the obligation of performing this task or face the consequences of staring at a half filled frame and feeling the twinges of guilt for the rest of their lives.
In our family this is no mere picture - it's a ritual. All aspects of this picture are meticulously thought out and coordinated. I begin the Chinese water torture by inspecting the child's wardrobe to pick out the perfect outfit. Not only is level of sophistication painstakingly considered, but also the season and that month's holidays are taken into account. A February picture will almost certainly be a red outfit - October would be orange...you get the picture! The socks and shoes must not only match, but also enhance the outfit and of course the hair bow that is as big as their heads is the cherry on top of my psychotic sundae.
Once all the prep work is complete it is time to pose the lucky little girl. Rhu's pictures during her first year were always taken in the same spot in her crib. I felt this consistency would pay off in the end with uniform pictures in the frame - turns out it's just another symptom of my obsessive compulsive disorders. RaRa started out in her sister's crib for several months before graduating to her own crib for this regular torture. This switch midway will probably haunt me for the rest of my life. I already feel the twitches when I look at the frame with the different backgrounds.
After the child is dressed, the crib is prepped and the camera is on, the magic can finally begin. It's now a race against the clock to see if I can get the perfect picture before crying or crawling ensues. I have learned to take these pictures after a nap so we have a rested baby to work with. I start my chorus of the child's name in desperate hopes of getting them to look at me and smile. I use the singsong method of speaking PBS is constantly going on and on about to try to attract their attention. When that fails, I use props, mouth noises and even a grandparent to extract the perfect look and smile. Really I would stop at nothing to get a picture that looks like Annie Leibovitz snapped it.
Usually each session entails me snapping a few pics and running back to the crib to reposition the child. She usually crawls around again before I am able to take another picture so round and round we go with repositioning and crawling. It's an agonizing merry-go-round until one of us gives up. (Usually I win; after all I am the adult...right?)
When I am finally satisfied I got the picture or completely exhausted from the battle of wills, the exercise is over. I can finally undress the poor child who was forced to pose for a Top Model cover shoot like Tyra was breathing down her neck. I take off the outfit I assembled with such care and release her into her natural habitat like freeing Willy. The older they get, the faster they run away. I wonder why.
Tell me again, who invented these "memory" frames??
In our family this is no mere picture - it's a ritual. All aspects of this picture are meticulously thought out and coordinated. I begin the Chinese water torture by inspecting the child's wardrobe to pick out the perfect outfit. Not only is level of sophistication painstakingly considered, but also the season and that month's holidays are taken into account. A February picture will almost certainly be a red outfit - October would be orange...you get the picture! The socks and shoes must not only match, but also enhance the outfit and of course the hair bow that is as big as their heads is the cherry on top of my psychotic sundae.
Once all the prep work is complete it is time to pose the lucky little girl. Rhu's pictures during her first year were always taken in the same spot in her crib. I felt this consistency would pay off in the end with uniform pictures in the frame - turns out it's just another symptom of my obsessive compulsive disorders. RaRa started out in her sister's crib for several months before graduating to her own crib for this regular torture. This switch midway will probably haunt me for the rest of my life. I already feel the twitches when I look at the frame with the different backgrounds.
After the child is dressed, the crib is prepped and the camera is on, the magic can finally begin. It's now a race against the clock to see if I can get the perfect picture before crying or crawling ensues. I have learned to take these pictures after a nap so we have a rested baby to work with. I start my chorus of the child's name in desperate hopes of getting them to look at me and smile. I use the singsong method of speaking PBS is constantly going on and on about to try to attract their attention. When that fails, I use props, mouth noises and even a grandparent to extract the perfect look and smile. Really I would stop at nothing to get a picture that looks like Annie Leibovitz snapped it.
Usually each session entails me snapping a few pics and running back to the crib to reposition the child. She usually crawls around again before I am able to take another picture so round and round we go with repositioning and crawling. It's an agonizing merry-go-round until one of us gives up. (Usually I win; after all I am the adult...right?)
When I am finally satisfied I got the picture or completely exhausted from the battle of wills, the exercise is over. I can finally undress the poor child who was forced to pose for a Top Model cover shoot like Tyra was breathing down her neck. I take off the outfit I assembled with such care and release her into her natural habitat like freeing Willy. The older they get, the faster they run away. I wonder why.
Tell me again, who invented these "memory" frames??
Saturday, March 19, 2011
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Smunch Mommy
Smunch Mommy
Monday, March 14, 2011
Dog Chores
Like many American families we own a dog. She is a black lab who must have been the runt of her litter. We adopted her from a local shelter and never got her full story. She’s 50 pounds soaking wet with the biggest brown eyes God ever gave a dog and the floppiest ears that make me think she could be part rabbit. She’s a loving dog who made her way into our hearts the first time we saw her.
She has one fatal down fall-my bed!
What do a dog and a bed have to do with each other? It’s simple-they have a love affair all their own that stands between me and a good nights sleep.
As a young parent I can attest to the fact sleep in a precious commodity. My days are filled with preparing food for the kids like the chef at a restaurant, being the chairman of the entertainment committee, the head maid, a personal shopper and fitting in a mere 8 hours of work. My nights are consumed with bathing anything that poops, wrestling children to bed, singing songs, saying prayers, and getting up in the middle of the night for whoever’s turn it is to keep mommy up… not to mention prepping the workload and household for the next day. When all of these chores are done for the day and it is finally time for me to get into bed, a whole new set of chores begins.
These are the dog chores. It begins with walking into my bedroom and being hit by the stench of several hours of dog fart bomb assaults that were launched from a strategic position. After I managed to stop the burning feeling from causing my eyes to water and turn on the fan to dissipate the smell, I am challenged with the task of moving the sound asleep dog off my Laura Ashley pillow shams. Our dog feels it is not only her right, but also her obligation to snuggle up on top of our pillows as if the bed alone wasn’t good enough.
The next step in this night ritual is a melody of claps and whistles designed to inspire the dog to move to the foot of the bed on her own. I gave up on trying to get her off the bed completely a few years ago. We are supposed to have an agreement that she sleeps at the foot of the bed…she breaks this agreement many times every night.
The singsong of “C’mon girl…c’mon…let’s go!!” quickly turns to a stern “Let’s go!” Followed by the use of her full name. Yes I said full name…if you have a dog you know they have a full name too. After several minutes of these attempts I finally give up and pick her up and drag her to the foot of the bed. With a huff she promptly stands up, walks in a circle and a half, then lies back down. Gee thanks dog! You couldn’t do that 10 minutes ago. By this time I am so exhausted I don’t even bother trying to remove all the dog hair that now clings to my pillows and blankets. Inhaling them as I sleep has become as normal as breathing.
After I finally get into bed, my husband always manages to walk in and ask, “You’re just going to bed now?” My response is always a feeble yes as if this battle has almost beaten me…maybe it’s knowing what I have laying ahead of me…a long night of clinging to the edge of my bed and trying to find space to put my legs that is not taken up by the dog.
Tell me again why we let the dog “sleep” with us?
She has one fatal down fall-my bed!
What do a dog and a bed have to do with each other? It’s simple-they have a love affair all their own that stands between me and a good nights sleep.
As a young parent I can attest to the fact sleep in a precious commodity. My days are filled with preparing food for the kids like the chef at a restaurant, being the chairman of the entertainment committee, the head maid, a personal shopper and fitting in a mere 8 hours of work. My nights are consumed with bathing anything that poops, wrestling children to bed, singing songs, saying prayers, and getting up in the middle of the night for whoever’s turn it is to keep mommy up… not to mention prepping the workload and household for the next day. When all of these chores are done for the day and it is finally time for me to get into bed, a whole new set of chores begins.
These are the dog chores. It begins with walking into my bedroom and being hit by the stench of several hours of dog fart bomb assaults that were launched from a strategic position. After I managed to stop the burning feeling from causing my eyes to water and turn on the fan to dissipate the smell, I am challenged with the task of moving the sound asleep dog off my Laura Ashley pillow shams. Our dog feels it is not only her right, but also her obligation to snuggle up on top of our pillows as if the bed alone wasn’t good enough.
The next step in this night ritual is a melody of claps and whistles designed to inspire the dog to move to the foot of the bed on her own. I gave up on trying to get her off the bed completely a few years ago. We are supposed to have an agreement that she sleeps at the foot of the bed…she breaks this agreement many times every night.
The singsong of “C’mon girl…c’mon…let’s go!!” quickly turns to a stern “Let’s go!” Followed by the use of her full name. Yes I said full name…if you have a dog you know they have a full name too. After several minutes of these attempts I finally give up and pick her up and drag her to the foot of the bed. With a huff she promptly stands up, walks in a circle and a half, then lies back down. Gee thanks dog! You couldn’t do that 10 minutes ago. By this time I am so exhausted I don’t even bother trying to remove all the dog hair that now clings to my pillows and blankets. Inhaling them as I sleep has become as normal as breathing.
After I finally get into bed, my husband always manages to walk in and ask, “You’re just going to bed now?” My response is always a feeble yes as if this battle has almost beaten me…maybe it’s knowing what I have laying ahead of me…a long night of clinging to the edge of my bed and trying to find space to put my legs that is not taken up by the dog.
Tell me again why we let the dog “sleep” with us?
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Sniffles
The kids have the sniffles ergo Mommy has the sniffles. Everyone knows children are famous for having runny noses...it's part of their design. But you never really understand this joy until you are the one their noses are running onto.
This morning Rhu was sitting with me while we screened the baby show. Then I realized I felt something warm and wet on my arm...a mere three inches from her nose. I looked down and saw that my forearm had been the latest victim of the nasal assault the kids had been staging all week. Just a few short years ago this would have caused me to run to the nearest sink and scrub my arm as if I had just been a casualty of biological warfare. Now, i use the same snotty tissue I just wiped the kids' noses with to mop up the mucus and move on. That's really all you can do in that situation.
Parenting is a lot of wipe it up and move on. Things that would cause my single friends to stop dead in their tracks hardly phases a weary sleep deprived parent. They are the things that cement your place in the world of Parenthood. I've heard of woman who say they instinctively put their hands out to catch a child's vomit. This always seemed a bit much to me, but I can tell you now I understand it. My hands often serve as the receptacle for expelled bodily fluids and slobbered toys the kids are no longer gnawing to death.
I mention all this because it reminds me of a time when I was a new mom and I not only endured but excelled in a situation filled with more baby projectiles than I had ever thought possible.
Not long after my eldest child was born, my husband's family commemorated his grandfather's passing with a ceremony and luncheon. Being proud and responsible parents we dressed our child in an adorable outfit, packed up the car and set out on the journey. The ceremony at a military graveyard went off without so much as a peep from the little one. I even managed to enjoy lunch between trips to the car to nurse the hungriest baby in the world.
As the luncheon came to a close and we prepared to make the trip back home which included a stop at our accountant, I changed the baby's diaper only to find an exceptional present. A feeling of pride swelled inside as I managed to side step that landmine and get the diaper changed without making a mess.
After the family good byes I noticed the baby was cranky and the trip was hardly underway. It was about five minutes into the trip she vomited the exceptional amount of milk she had been consuming all day. Wanting to be perfect safety conscious parents, we immediately pulled over to change the baby out of her clothes into the fresh outfit every new mother puts in her diaper bag.
It seemed like the disaster was over and we were free to continue our journey home. Oh how little we knew of how bad it would get. Before we made it to the accountant's home, the baby managed to vomit everything she ever ate in her life, cover me and my new outfit in my own half digested breast milk and cry the most heart wrenching tears a baby could make.
By the time we made it to the accountant, the baby and I were in the back seat clinging to each other like Haitian refugees on a boat in the Atlantic as my husband went to collect our taxes and perhaps his sanity. Forget new outfits and handy wipes, we were in full out fluid onslaught. I didn't think a person that size could produce so much projectiles, but I swear to everything I hold holy it is possible. The back seat of our SUV looked like a war zone.
After what seemed like an eternity, we somehow managed to make it home that night. As we pulled into our driveway, I looked at our angel who managed to pass out and I knew I made it. I was a part of the club of mothers. Not the cheesy one every thinks of, but the club of mothers who can and will do anything for their kids without thought or complaint. The ones who will endure long stretches of sleepless nights and a closet full of stained shirts. It may not always be pretty, but it is always worth it.
So I guess in thinking about it, what's a little mucus between mother and daughter?
This morning Rhu was sitting with me while we screened the baby show. Then I realized I felt something warm and wet on my arm...a mere three inches from her nose. I looked down and saw that my forearm had been the latest victim of the nasal assault the kids had been staging all week. Just a few short years ago this would have caused me to run to the nearest sink and scrub my arm as if I had just been a casualty of biological warfare. Now, i use the same snotty tissue I just wiped the kids' noses with to mop up the mucus and move on. That's really all you can do in that situation.
Parenting is a lot of wipe it up and move on. Things that would cause my single friends to stop dead in their tracks hardly phases a weary sleep deprived parent. They are the things that cement your place in the world of Parenthood. I've heard of woman who say they instinctively put their hands out to catch a child's vomit. This always seemed a bit much to me, but I can tell you now I understand it. My hands often serve as the receptacle for expelled bodily fluids and slobbered toys the kids are no longer gnawing to death.
I mention all this because it reminds me of a time when I was a new mom and I not only endured but excelled in a situation filled with more baby projectiles than I had ever thought possible.
Not long after my eldest child was born, my husband's family commemorated his grandfather's passing with a ceremony and luncheon. Being proud and responsible parents we dressed our child in an adorable outfit, packed up the car and set out on the journey. The ceremony at a military graveyard went off without so much as a peep from the little one. I even managed to enjoy lunch between trips to the car to nurse the hungriest baby in the world.
As the luncheon came to a close and we prepared to make the trip back home which included a stop at our accountant, I changed the baby's diaper only to find an exceptional present. A feeling of pride swelled inside as I managed to side step that landmine and get the diaper changed without making a mess.
After the family good byes I noticed the baby was cranky and the trip was hardly underway. It was about five minutes into the trip she vomited the exceptional amount of milk she had been consuming all day. Wanting to be perfect safety conscious parents, we immediately pulled over to change the baby out of her clothes into the fresh outfit every new mother puts in her diaper bag.
It seemed like the disaster was over and we were free to continue our journey home. Oh how little we knew of how bad it would get. Before we made it to the accountant's home, the baby managed to vomit everything she ever ate in her life, cover me and my new outfit in my own half digested breast milk and cry the most heart wrenching tears a baby could make.
By the time we made it to the accountant, the baby and I were in the back seat clinging to each other like Haitian refugees on a boat in the Atlantic as my husband went to collect our taxes and perhaps his sanity. Forget new outfits and handy wipes, we were in full out fluid onslaught. I didn't think a person that size could produce so much projectiles, but I swear to everything I hold holy it is possible. The back seat of our SUV looked like a war zone.
After what seemed like an eternity, we somehow managed to make it home that night. As we pulled into our driveway, I looked at our angel who managed to pass out and I knew I made it. I was a part of the club of mothers. Not the cheesy one every thinks of, but the club of mothers who can and will do anything for their kids without thought or complaint. The ones who will endure long stretches of sleepless nights and a closet full of stained shirts. It may not always be pretty, but it is always worth it.
So I guess in thinking about it, what's a little mucus between mother and daughter?
Friday, March 4, 2011
Mommas got a new hobby
Recently I've discovered something about myself. I am boring. Don't get me wrong, I'm a fun girl with a very full life. I have a full time career, am married, raising two children, am very family involved, and have a long time love affair with chocolate. All of these things combined fill more than 24 hours each day, but none the less I am boring...or maybe I am bored.
I was sitting at lunch with a dear friend recently and came to the realization that I have allowed myself to fall into the mommy trap. My life revolves around the two most precious gifts God ever put on this earth. I rise and fall based on their whims as any mother would.
As our conversation turned to family, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My family members are doing more exciting things in life and are being paid to do them. One plays sports and teaches others to play them and gets paid. Another makes fun of life in front of an audience and pays the rent doing such. The last is a member of a dying breed of true warriors. I, on the other hand, spend my days talking about how exciting the potty will be to one princess and coaxing the other princess to just let go while screening the baby show.
So, as a great man once said...If you don't like your situation-Change it. (OK you got me...maybe a great man never said, but it fits, so let's go with it.)
In an attempt to do something for myself which will ultimately become a gift to my children
I've decided to start a blog. The direction is unclear at this moment. Of course it would be great to have my thoughts picked up by some national magazine for a regular column by "your average mom"...but as a great man that I actually know says a lot, "You got a better chance of sandpapering a tiger's ass." Right now I would like this to be an exercise in using my college degree to flex that 8 pound lump above my shoulders and perhaps journal my thoughts that someday my children will read and understand their mom.
I see a lot of things these days that I would love to express an opinion about. Facebook isn't always the place, but we'll see if this is. Follow me if you want to learn more about me. Don't follow me if you don't want. Either way, I'm having more fun now than I was 10 minutes ago.
Smunch Mommy
I was sitting at lunch with a dear friend recently and came to the realization that I have allowed myself to fall into the mommy trap. My life revolves around the two most precious gifts God ever put on this earth. I rise and fall based on their whims as any mother would.
As our conversation turned to family, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My family members are doing more exciting things in life and are being paid to do them. One plays sports and teaches others to play them and gets paid. Another makes fun of life in front of an audience and pays the rent doing such. The last is a member of a dying breed of true warriors. I, on the other hand, spend my days talking about how exciting the potty will be to one princess and coaxing the other princess to just let go while screening the baby show.
So, as a great man once said...If you don't like your situation-Change it. (OK you got me...maybe a great man never said, but it fits, so let's go with it.)
In an attempt to do something for myself which will ultimately become a gift to my children
I've decided to start a blog. The direction is unclear at this moment. Of course it would be great to have my thoughts picked up by some national magazine for a regular column by "your average mom"...but as a great man that I actually know says a lot, "You got a better chance of sandpapering a tiger's ass." Right now I would like this to be an exercise in using my college degree to flex that 8 pound lump above my shoulders and perhaps journal my thoughts that someday my children will read and understand their mom.
I see a lot of things these days that I would love to express an opinion about. Facebook isn't always the place, but we'll see if this is. Follow me if you want to learn more about me. Don't follow me if you don't want. Either way, I'm having more fun now than I was 10 minutes ago.
Smunch Mommy
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