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It Sneaks Up On You....

Just how quickly they grow...

My baby is five months old and doesn't fit in the bassinet anymore.

I knew how hard it was going going to be for my youngest to get older.  Well, I thought I did.  I was expecting the firsts to be hard -- a little bitter sweet.  First smile.  First time sitting up.  First time rolling over.  First tooth. 

It was the firsts that I wasn't expecting that knocked me to my knees -- first time in a crib.  First time in 3-6 month clothing.  First time going to sleep by herself.  First time in the play center.  First time in the jumper.

And the packing up of the newborn stage.... Getting rid of the swing, the bassinet, the vibrating chair.  Passing the 0-3 month clothes on to friends.

Where did the last five months go?!?

To the Man in Seat 17C...

Dear Gentleman in Seat 17C,

Thank you.  You are awesome. 

This past Thursday, I had to fly home to bury my uncle.  I was bringing my two month old along, and I was terrified because she's colic-y.  I couldn't drive because I have 3 other kids at home and a husband who could take only 1 day off. 

So I gritted my teeth and boarded the plane, my daughter shrieking in my ear.  I sat by the window for the extra two inches of space, and over a wing, hoping that the extra noise would calm/muffle my baby. 

You sat down in the aisle and smiled at me.  A geniune smile, not an oh-crap-a-baby-on-the-plane smile.  "How old?" you politely inquired.

"Two and a half months," I replied, flustered by the baby shrieking.

Your smiled broadened.  "Don't worry," you said.  "Babies cry.  She isn't going to bother me.  You are doing great."

I proceeded to rock back and forth like a maniac, since that was the only thing that would keep my daughter calm.  When a woman took the seat between us, you smiled at her as well -- the same geniune smile you had given me.

For the next hour, I rocked and hummed, fed and burped, soothed and patted.  My daughter still fussed.  You ignored us, content to go about your business.  The lady in 17B kept glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, sighing in a passive aggressive way that only served to elevate my stress level. 

"I'm sorry," I said, after the twentieth sigh, as I was near tears myself. "I'm doing everything I can." 

"Babies just shouldn't fly," 17B sniffed. 

Tears filled my eyes as a dozen retorts danced on my tongue.  Before I could say anything, you, Gentleman in 17C, spoke up.

"Can I buy you a drink?" you asked 17B.  "Because you really need to loosen up." 

I gave a tear filled laugh.  My baby quieted.  17B started at you, mouth agape.  You went back to your newspaper. 

The plane landed and you smiled at me again.  "You did fabulous," you told me.  "And so did your little one."  17B didn't say a word. 

So thank you, Gentleman in 17C.  You are a hero.  A Knight in Shining Armor.  A Prince Among Men.  You made me feel like an excellent mother, simply by offering to buy a stranger a drink. 

I wish good things for you.  And I hope to repay the favor to another parent some day.

Warmly,

Shannon

And Now You Are Five

My Darling Girlie,

How did you get to be FIVE?!  Where have the last five years gone?!?

I was thinking of this tonight, when you climbed into bed with me, snuggled up against me, and then stole my phone to play solitaire.  And you won!  How did you learn to play solitaire?  How did you learn to win?

Why are you growing up so fast?!

It breaks my heart that I can only vaguely remember the sweet little baby you were.  One of my most cherished memories is of wrapping you up against me in the MOBY wrap and then lying on the couch and reading a book.  You were two months old and you fell asleep, your milk-sweetened breath puffing gently on my neck.

I think of that now, as you are sleeping at my side, with your bubble gum toothpaste scented breath puffing in my face.

And I can only think -- you look like a person.  I see in you the child you are, the teenager you will become, the woman you will one day be.  And I can only barely see the baby you were.  And I weep.

You are a person.  For so long, I thought of you as a baby, my baby, an extension of me.  You are my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night.  And now I realize that you will always be my baby, but you are becoming so much more.

I realize I am quick to complain that you climb into my bed and kick me all night long.  But when I think about it, how many more sleepless, kicked fill nights are you going to give me? 

How many more days am I going to get of snuggling with you on the couch, watching a show?

How many more colored pages are are you going to create for me?

How many more school pick ups where you coming running up to me, shouting "Mommy!" and give me a big hug?

Each time these things happen, it's a gift that should be cherished as you move further away from me and more into the world.  

My time as your favorite person is limited.  And it's going too fast.

When you are a parent, your days are long.  Interminably long.  But the years... they speed by in a blink of an eye.

I want those five years back.

When I think about how impatient I was for you to roll over,sit up, crawl, walk, run, talk, go to preschool, join a sports team, I could cry.

I wish I had a time machine to go back to that new mother I was and tell her to stop.

To spend more time on the couch with a baby in her arms. 

To Slow down.

To Enjoy. 

Because one day her child will be five, and she will have no idea how it happened.  

I love you so much,

Mommy

Well, you sure have your hands full!

I get a lot of comments and strange looks when I go out with my four kids.

It ranges from disbelief, "Are all of these yours?" (no, I stole a couple), to stupidity, "Two sets of twins?"  (really?!  A newborn and a 1 year old?!?), to judgmental, "Well, now 4 children is just irresponsible!"  (Wow.  You're a b#$%@).

But I can handle it.  I mean, I get it.  My parents had 4 and I grew up listening to them fend off the comments.

The one comment that is guaranteed to make me nuts though?

"You sure have your hands full!"

DUH.

And by the way, you are not original.  Nor are you funny.  I hear that comment at least twice when I go out with my kids.  My left eye starts to twitch when I hear it.  My smile has moved from forced to mildly feral when I hear it.  I hallucinate about punching people when I hear it.

And I can (usually) predict exactly who is going to say it.

However, I was wrong last week.  All four kids and I were Christmas shopping and were waiting in a long line.  The shopping trip had stretched into naptime and I was running out of tricks in my "Mom bag" to keep my kids quiet, well behaved, and entertained.

Just then, an elderly lady walked past us.  I watched her pause as her eyes widened.  She turned back and I could see her counting how many kids I had.  I gritted my teeth and prepared myself for the standard, "I sure do," response that has to follow "You sure have your hands full!"

But she through me for a loop.  She looked at me and grinned and said, "You really need one more."

I was speechless for all of 15 seconds.  And then I burst out laughing. 

30 Day Mom Challenge (or, Why Pintrest Irritates Me)

 

I found this on pinterest and decided I could never be a good mom until I did everything on this list.  

Day 1: I asked my daughter, what is one thing we can do together this month?  

She said color.  

I said, "Don't you want to do something more exciting?"  

She said "No, color."

I decided not to over think it or put ideas into her head.  Maybe this experiment is doomed to failure.

Day 2: I made it 20 minutes before I started yelling not to take juice onto the carpet.  Chalked that one up as a failure and decided to hug my kids 3 times today instead.  Hugged them each at least 10 times.  Wore a jelly hand print around on my back as a reward ... my husband told me about it at dinner.  

Day 5: I always kiss my children when they are sleeping.  And I made it an hour before I started yelling.  I don't think I am understanding the point of this experiement.

Day 7: Told myself, "He's only 3 years old.  He's still just a child." when my son decided to hit the baby with his Brave sword (really, thanks sooooooooooooooo much for that Auntie Erin.)  I decided to treat him like a three year old and made him take a nap.  He screamed for an hour.  My neighbor came over to ask me to close my windows.  I don't like her.  

Day 9: We made chocolate chip cookies - Boyo's favorite food.  Girlie threw a temper tantrum that we didn't make snickerdoodles.  I ate about a dozen cookies. 

Day 11: Today's focus is joy.  I am joyful that my husband took the older two to the pool while the baby slept.  Truly, this experiment doesn't seem to be working.  I prayed for wisdom mothering my children the other day and I'm pretty sure I heard God laughing.  

Day 13: 884 more weekends until the baby goes to college.  That seems like a lot.

Day 15: I wrote a note for them and put it into their lunchboxes before I sent them to VBS.  When I picked her up, Girlie reminded me that she can't read.  I don't think she gets the point of this experiment either. 

Day 17: I told Boyo and Girlie that I was so thankful that God gave them to me.  Girlie said, "I know," and Boyo pretended to shoot me with some Legos.  I am pretty sure I need a nap.

Day 19: "Imagine what it felt like when you were their age."  I remember being with my grandmother a lot -- I should drop the kids off at my mom's. 

Day 20: "Picture what you want your child to be at 25 and mother that way, today."  I want her to be employed and living on her own.  Does that mean I should ignore her?  That seems counterproductive to the point of this exercise.

Day 21: Laugh with your child today.  Done -- we started laughing within the first 5 minutes of starting our day.  And I made it 2 hours before I started yelling.  Baby steps, people, baby steps.

Day 23: "Teach Your Child One Thing They Can Do By Themselves."  Does teaching them how to operate the DVD player, so they don't wake me up during my nap, count?

Day 25: "Teach your child a new word."  I taught Boyo s!%#.  It was an accident.  

Day 27: "Ask your child his/her opinion about something today."  Girlie wants to name the new baby Frogera Frogo Gerlach.  No.  Just No.

Day 28: "Turn off your computer, cell phone, and TV for just one day when your child is with you."  I made it four hours.  On the other hand, I only made it 20 minutes before I started yelling.  Does anyone else see a correlation?  

Day 30: "Do not interrupt your child when she is talking."  Girlie talked for 4 hours straight!  My head is pounding.  But I didn't interrupt.  And I made it all 4 hours without yelling. 

Mommy Guilt

I read an awesome article the other day about Mommy Wars.

And it really got me thinking about the debate that has raged on in this country -- stay at home mom versus working mom...and the forgotten few, like me, the work at home mom. And I think about how everybody gets so heated one way or another about it, and starts shouting and yelling over which choice is right and which choice is wrong and what is the best way to raise children and what is the right way to raise children and I just have to say....

Everybody needs to shut the hell up.

Because here's the thing -- The question: how to raise the world's children? It's not my decision to make. What is my decision to make is how to raise my children. And that goes for everyone else -- it's your decision how to raise your children and NO ONE ELSE'S BUSINESS.

Think about it -- how would you feel if people told you the right way to pay your bills, load the dishwasher, or mow your lawn? I bet you'd be a little peeved, right? So why do we (as a society) think that we can tell families how to raise their children and expect parents to fall over and be so thankful that we stuck our noses in their business?

And it makes my blood boil when I hear women ripping each other apart over motherhood -- women need to realize that we need to be united on parenting because, sweet Jesus, it's hard enough.

No one way to parent is right or wrong... it comes down to this:

If your child is clothed, fed, and housed, loved, nourished (body, mind, and soul), happy and cheerful (most of the time), and innocent, you are doing a bang up job.

Does it matter how you get your child to this state? Nope.

Regardless of my feelings on this, my Mommy guilt (which sounds a lot like Laura Schlessinger in my mind), still makes herself heard: Why did you get your MA to stay home? I bet other SAHM don't yell as much as you do. This place is a pigsty. Why is your son naked -- again? Did your daughter just drop the f-bomb? Well done, Mom of the Year. Get off your computer -- you can work at 2 in the morning when everyone else is asleep. What? You are going to bed at 11 pm instead of doing the dishes? Well, all right, if that is what you think is best...

I have a way to handle the Mommy Guilt voice when she rears her ugly head (at least twenty times a day)... I imagine myself picking up a mallet and smashing her to bits like in a Road Runner Wiley E Coyote cartoon. And then I feel better. But I don't know how to make her go away all together.

Here's the example that I want to set for my kids -- I want them to see that their mother is human. I want them to know that she loves them and would do anything for them. But that she sometimes loses her patience and her temper. That she is not afraid to apologize. That she gives the best hugs. That she can work and be there for them. That she knows when to say "That's it, I need a break!" That she struggles with the decisions that she makes but hopes that she is making the right ones for them. That they are some of the most important people in her life.

The problem is, Glennon Melton is right -- I'm not the only one setting the example. I'm a big part of it, sure, but my kiddos are smart -- they know (or will realize) that there are different ways to be a mom. And I hope to God that they don't think one way is better than another.

...don't forget to breathe...

Three Kids

Since I had the baby, I've gotten all sorts of looks from people. Looks that say, "Please don't let her get in line behind me," to "Well, that is a walking ad for birth control." Looks that are disgruntled, looks that are sympathetic, and looks that are comedic.


And, invariably, I get the question: "How do you do it?"


Just to be a smart ass, I always reply with a smile, "Do what?"


"Have three kids!"


The way people ask makes it sound like I'm an endangered species. Or an alien. Or an endangered alien species.


Here's the thing - and it's not a secret, so feel free to share.


I just do.


Every day, I just do. I get up before they do. I shower, check my work emails, get breakfast ready, and get them up. I get them to school if it's a school day or a fun activity if it's not. I get them home and settled with a movie for quiet time. I get them back out to play in the afternoon. I cook dinner, do the dishes, work, and sometimes clean my house.


I dress them, feed them, love them, cuddle them, and yes, sometimes I yell at them. I kiss "blood owies," referee fights, read stories, and spin around the living room with them. I tickle and tease, brush Barbie's hair, fight light saber battles, and clap Baby Girl's hands.


I do let some things go - some things that I know moms with one or two kids wouldn't. Things that I can't always do since I divide my time among three. And it's taken me a while, but I'm working on being okay with that. Am I tired? Of course. But I'm no more tired with three than I was with one or two.


However, I'm also more careful with my three than I was when I had just Girlie or just Girlie and Boyo. Each child gets me and Daddy all to themselves at least twice a month - date nights with each child go on the calendar and are written in stone - they can't be broken. They get naptime snuggles with Mom, and bedtime snuggles with Daddy. They get siblings to play with during the day. Taking turns has been drilled into their head - so has the idea that Mommy and Daddy will make things as fair as possible.


I don't know how it all works out - it just does. I don't think about how because I don't have time.

Mothering My Boy

~

Mothering my boy means that I will always have a "PLEASE be careful," on my lips.

Mothering my boy means that I will rarely say it, reminding myself instead, "I don't want to teach him to be afraid of everything."

Mothering my boy means that I have a semi-permanent wince on my face as I watch him play, certain that he is about to maim himself in someway.

Mothering my boy means learning to trust him so that he can do some of the things that he thinks he can do.

Mothering my boy means that I spend all of my time on high alert, never to sit down and catch my breath, the way I could with his sister.

Mothering my boy means looking at everything critically, wondering how a windowsill, couch, table, stairs, pillow, dog, cup, book, house, anything, can hurt him, since he has no fear.

Mothering my boy means getting used to dirt, bugs, snot, or whatever disgusting substance he seems to find and either smear all over himself or bring to me as a gift.

Mothering my boy means that I now have a higher tolerance for tantrums, as his temper has a tendency to roll through the room in a split second, in a way that I never experienced with his sister.

Mothering my boy means ceasing to be surprised at how much he can eat when he feels like it.

Mothering my boy means stretching my imagination to new lengths as I try to come up with new activities and games to play since he's never happy with one for long.

Mothering my boy means feeling a mother's love for her son, which is very different than a mother's love for her daughter, but is just as awesome.

Perfection is Boring

~

Some people are born to be mothers. You know the person I am talking about -- always with a smile on her face, with infinite patience, ready to whip up a healthy snack with what she has in her pantry or make a fun costume for her kids with the contents of her purse. She doesn't have a problem spending day in and day out at the park/pool/Mommy and Me class, and, most importantly, she never, ever loses her temper with her child/husband/self.

I'm not that person.

What is funny is that I always thought I would be. I could have sworn when I was twenty that I would be a cross between June Cleaver and Carol Brady, with a little Jackie O thrown in.

Thirty year old Shannon knows better.

I have found that not a week goes by where I am not losing my temper at my child/husband/self.

I hate going to the park/pool/Mommy and Me classes because I'm bored within 5 minutes. But my children love these activities and they have the added benefit of making my children tired, so I go, telling myself that I am taking time off my purgatory sentence.

As for being able to whip up a costume with the contents of my purse, nope. However, I could probably serve a bowl of Cheerios; does that count for something?

And a healthy snack? Ha. I do my best, but some days, the only fruit my kids get is fruit snacks. As for veggies, my THREE YEAR OLD daughter still gets her veggies from pureed baby food because she refuses to touch a green bean and thinks the pureed stuff is a "shake."

And for those moms out there with infinite patience? I'm trying really hard not to hate you. I am only able to not hate you only when I imagine you sneaking your kids candy or letting them watch two hours of TV while you relax with a glass of wine.

My smile sometimes hides gritted teeth. I say "Do I have to count to 3?" more times a day than I care to admit. I cringe when I think about how much TV my kids watch.

And as for the Jackie O style that I thought I would have, don't make me laugh. I did shower today, which gives me Jackie points, but I am also wearing yoga pants and a tank top with applesauce smeared across my pants and something I don't want to identify on my shirt, which makes me lose Jackie points. So I'm calling it a draw.

I have come to the conclusion that June Cleaver was boring.

And Carol Brady had Alice to do the housework.

Why these reflections? Because I am leaving for a week tomorrow morning. I am so excited, I am practically giddy with it. A week - BY MYSELF - in our nation's capital, doing something that I love in a place that I adore. And it was all paid for by someone other than me.

Wouldn't the mom I thought I would be refuse to go? You know, the cross between Jackie O, Carol Brady, and June Cleaver? Wouldn't she be unable to leave her little ones?

So see... I'm not that "perfect" mother, because I'm counting down the hours until I get on that plane. Sure, I'm a bit worried about leaving my husband in charge for a week -- not because I don't trust him with the kids, but because the other night he gave our son a glass glass of milk with ice cubes when he cried for milk at 2:30 in the morning.

Yes, I am going to miss my little ones. I'll miss their smiling faces and hugs, their giggles and questions. No, I will not miss getting up at 3 in the morning to change a bed after an accident, the whining and screaming, or the applesauce smeared across my pants.

And I'm okay with not being that perfect mother because I'm a good mom, and I think that is better. Perfection is boring -- there is no room for growth. So, while I may be learning on the job, at least it is interesting. And my kids know I love them and they love me in return.

And I'll love them even more after a week in D.C.

Definition of Mom

~

I'm a mom.

This does not mean that I feed and bathe and clothe my children, although I do those things. This does not mean that I sit up with them when they are sick, or take them to the doctor, or teach them to mind their manners, although I do those things too. Anyone can do these and not be a "mom."

Being a mom means listening to the Pirates theme song 13 times in a row because it makes your daughter giggle and your son rock out in his carseat.

Being a mom means begging your child to go on the potty and then practically throwing a party when she does.

Being a mom also means going to Taco Tuesday with your mommy girlfriends and talking about potty training over $3 Coronas and $1 tacos.

Being a mom means reading the same stupid Elmo book over and over and over and over and over again because that is the only book your son will let you read to him.

Being a mom means knowing how to grocery shop while avoiding the cereal, cookie, and ice cream aisles.

Being a mom means playing princesses with your daughter while playing cars with your son -- at the same time.

Being a mom means agonizing over what would have been a simple decision in your "pre-mom" days -- perhaps about whether or not you really care that your child is watching her second movie of the day.

Being a mom means knowing how to hide veggies in oatmeal, peanut butter and jelly, and mac and cheese, since those are the only foods your daughter will eat.

Being a mom means saying "Wow! What a great drawing! Can you explain it to me?" instead of "What on earth is that?" so that you don't crush your young Picasso's feelings.

Being a mom means visiting the zoo once a week for a year so that your son can say hello to his "favorite" monkey (who you suspect died 6 months ago and the zoo got a replacement but didn't tell anyone).

Being a mom means being able to stumble into your son's room at 3:30 in the morning, change him, feed him, and tuck him back into bed without waking up yourself.

Being a mom means not blinking when your daughter comes out of her room dressed in a ballet tutu, rain boots, bathing suit, headband, and gloves.

Being a mom also means making your son change when he comes out of his room dressed in a diaper, flipflops, and a cape and proclaims that he is ready for school.

Being a mom means not shuddering at snot, vomit, poop, blood, or pee when it comes flying at you from your child, but gagging when you see another mom's child with the same gunk.

Being a mom means sometimes you will snap at your child "What do you want?!?!?" when they have been whining for 30 minutes straight (and if you haven't then you are either lying to yourself or haven't been a parent long enough).

Being a mom means being able to take one look at your child and say "Who hurt you?" when your child is not crying.

Being a mom also means that you use that "Who hurt you" moment to teach your child about forgiveness although all you want to do is to go wring the little bully's neck and smack his mother.

Being a mom means growing eyes in the back of your head, at least four extra arms, and two extra feet.

Being a mom means being strong even when you are terrified, being faithful even when you doubt, and being happy even when you want to cry.

Being a mom means that you will be under-appreciated, overwhelmed, exhausted, and irritated --and sometimes all at the same time.

Being a mom also means that you will get to hear the most beautiful laughter, see the loveliest smiles, taste the stickiest kisses, smell the sweetest after-bath-time scent, and feel the best hugs every day from your children.

Being a mom means that you will enjoy every minute of motherhood (even the ones where all you want to do is cry).

SAHM, Part I

~
Once again, this is another post with me whining about whether or not I'm doing the right thing.
~
I love my children. Please, don't ever doubt that I love my children.

I'm going to be home with my kids next year. I'm thrilled about it. I'm so excited; I have a ton of fun things that I want to do with them, all sorts of plans to try out. (Unfortunately, most of these plans involve money, but that is a different topic.)

I'm also terrified. Now that it's "for real," as my students would say, I'm worried that I'm making a big mistake by not working. I know that these years with my kids will never come back. I want to be with them. I know that work will be there when I am ready to go back to teaching.

But...

...I actually had one of those rare and perfect days with my students. A day where I nailed it: my students were laughing, were engaged, were having fun, and --most importantly, were learning. The kind of day where I had a big, goofy smile on my face because I felt like the best teacher in the world. The kind of day where, cheesy as it sounds, I felt like I was making a difference in their lives. I felt fulfilled.

And I wanted to cry because I wouldn't have days like that next year. And I'm going to miss these days. Sure, I am sure that I will have different days, where I will make a difference in my children's lives, where they will be laughing and having fun and engaged and learning. But the thought crossed my mind:

What if motherhood isn't enough?

Does that make me a horrible mother?

Motherhood

~
Someone told me once that motherhood is a force of nature.

I didn't know how forceful I could be until I had my kids.

I like being a force of nature.

Oh, now I'm mad...

The other day, as I was grading tests (aka, cruising the Internet), I stumbled upon this article about a study Kansas State University did on motherhood.

I nearly spit my coffee all over my computer monitor.

"Some findings:

• Moms employed full-time outside the home are devalued and their kids are seen as "troubled," experiencing bad parent/child relationships.

• Participants didn't view at-home moms much differently that those "middle moms" who find a work/home balance.

Jennifer Livengood, a K-State grad student in psychology says, "People like mothers who fulfill traditional stereotypes, like staying at home. That's just not a reality and not a preference for women as much as it used to be." "

Not a preference?!?!?! I want to be a SAHM. Actually, I want to be a "middle mom" where I can work at home. But I can't. It's not feasible for my husband and I right now - if I quit working without having another source of income lined up, we don't make our mortgage. So be careful, Kansas State University, with how you report your findings. That is the problem with studies - you chose the facts, and can skew them.

And to tell me that my kids will be perceived as "trouble makers" because I work? Yeah, you just p%&*ed me off. Maybe my anger is playing into your findings, but I don't care. No one calls my kids names. And don't tell me that we have a "troubled" relationship... it's about quality, not quantity. And the quality of my relationship with my kids is fine.

But it gets better. Who, you might be asking, did Kansas State chose to interview?

"Upon further inspection, I read that the participants in the study were unmarried undergrad students, 99 percent of whom have no kids."

Why would you conduct a study where the participants are unmarried undergrad students with no kids?

Okay, so the purpose of your study is to see what people think motherhood should be like, what the fantasy is. I get it. One small problem:

No offense to those of you out there who are undergrad students with no kids, but most of you don't know anything yet. Your biggest concern is probably the upcoming final and what beer to buy on Friday. And good for you. Enjoy that time of your life where you don't have to worry about things like paying a mortgage, whether or not your daughter's cough at 4 in the morning means you are going to have to take a coveted sick day, or agonizing every night if the choices you made that day are the right choices for your children and your family. Sorry, undergrad student with no kids -- until you have kids, keep your mouth shut about what it takes to be a mother.

And that goes to everyone out there who doesn't have kids but thinks they can give me "advice" on how to raise my children - I have a pediatrician, a mother, and girlfriends on call. I prefer those with experience to help me out. Thanks so much though.