Ice cream fix

True confession time: I was into the chocolate ice cream before 11:30 today. Yes, 11:30 am. Why would an otherwise healthy person eat chocolate ice cream before lunch? Because we have no vodka in the house. 

It's that sort of morning.

We just returned from our walk around the neighborhood so that Gwennan could deliver her "I'm sorry" card to the babysitter. Brother is bemoaning the time change, by far the most traumatic thing in his life since circumcision. His whole life's schedule has been a wreck since 2 o'clock Sunday morning. When I declined to fix lunch at 10:30, Afton threw a fit involving peeing on our carpeted stairs and using the basil we potted together as a hammer throw.

I earned that ice cream.

The last spoonful hadn't dissolved on my tongue when I glanced out the window to check on my entirely too happy children only to find the little exhibitionists completely naked on top of the fort, well above the privacy fence, playing "go to the beach," the nudist beach apparently. {Anybody else notice that my sentences tend to run on when I'm frustrated? Tim has, I assure you.}

Why even bring this up? Everyone has these days, these "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" days. Gwennan, Carrick and Afton would probably tell you that they too deserve ice cream for putting up with their grumpy mother on a 5 day headache streak who insists that the babysitter was right, that daylight savings time is over, and that lunch must wait until closer to noon. Oh, and that you must pretend going to the beach with your clothes on, clearly an impossibility.

I write out this ridiculous day so that on another bad day, yours or mine, we can say, ah yes, we will get through this ludicrous day, might even laugh at it later.

I write it out so that when all you see are cute pictures of my girls playing or catch a gummy smile from my prince charming son or hear me talk about practicing yoga and baking stuff you barely have time to buy, you'll know that this momma is losing her mind plenty.

My momma promises this too shall pass. And I believe her. I even believe the people who tell me I'll miss it. I also think that maybe when my kids are teenagers and still driving me crazy that I might find some courage reading their preschool antics, even the not so cute ones.

Hiding my face {or admitting my shame}

On my better days, I remind myself that I don't need to be embarrassed by my children. Not because they're so well behaved or because everyone else has miniature tyrants too.

Because they make their own decisions. The fits and selective hearing and disobedience... all on them. I don't have to take credit.

I remind myself that I only need be embarrassed by my reaction. When I hiss through my teeth or turn a deaf ear or roll my eyes that I have to tell them "one more time not to touch that."

So why did I feel humiliated this weekend as my children ran wild?

I tried to tell myself I was only being humbled, put in my right place. But that's not how I felt. I felt humiliated. Hang your head in shame before the gawking stranger as you waddle after your wayward 3 year old trying to keep the screech out of your voice. Humiliated.

I'm humbled when I have to ask for help so that I can stay on the couch.

I'm humbled when I see the dog hair forming a protective second layer of carpet on the stairs.

I'm humbled when I'm gently reminded of my weakness. My Christian-trained mind values humbleness, even if I bawk at first.

But this weekend was no gentle reminder. And I found myself asking The Lord, why aren't we out of this awful phase yet? Why are they still fighting after all the talks and time outs and spankings and appeals and rewards? Haven't I done enough to bounce us out of this funk?

And why do I feel brought low, humiliated? I thought you were the gentle humbler? I don't feel like a bruised reed unbroken. I feel like a child whose been jerked up short. Do you do that? Do you catch me by my wayward ponytail and snatch my attention?

Humiliate 

verb (used with object) hu·mil·i·at·ed,hu·mil·i·at·ing.

1. to cause (a person) a painful loss of pride, self-respect, or dignity; mortify.
   I might have reminded myself not to be embarrassed of their poor choices, but had I repeated that mantra on the good days too?
   No. Absolutely not.
   I wanted full credit for those days, the children who walk calmly by my side, listening for my voice. Those were brought about by my wise counsel, my diligent discipline.
   Pride.
   And there is no room for pride in a heart full of Christ.
   Or rather, there is no room for Christ in a heart full of pride.
   And a gracious father gives what we need. Himself. For I have no good apart from him.
   This mortifying, this humiliating work is painful and public. It has to be. If no one sees, I keep telling myself the lie that I have achieved parental success.
   But what is parental success or failure? What do I give account for? 
   The girls behavior cannot be my witness and proof. That's pride or humiliation. 
   My success in parenting must rest where it lies for everything else... Jesus Christ and him crucified. What else do I have?
   This putting pride to death phase isn't over yet. I wish I could glimpse the lesson and experience the burden immediately lift.  So far, it has never worked that way. I see what I'm being taught, then have it hammered in a few more times. Repetition works for heart memory too.
   So we press on in a mortifying season trusting that his grace is sufficient, that his power is made perfect in weakness.
   Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly in my weaknesses, for when I am weak, then I am strong.
   
   
   
   
   
   

What to expect

Today has been a psycho pregnant day. I ran around the house, giddily experimenting with Bar Keeper's Friend - ooh, what else can I clean? The girls gave each other the look that say momma's gone crazy, and we should roll with it. Pregnancy absolutely makes you nuts, at least temporarily {I hope}.

A few of the ways that otherwise normal women become pregnant lunatics {that What to Expect conveniently leaves out}:

Your pants do not fit for 9 months. It doesn't matter what waist band you buy. Even yoga pants ride high one minute then slide off the next. Such is the nature of trying to cover a balloon in elastic. Prepare yourself for constant hiking, pulling, and squirming. It takes it's toll on your sanity.

Food stains appear on every shirt you own, even ones you don't remember wearing. Because you are now the clumsiest person alive, so much so that you don't even notice spills. You can try blaming your toddler, but no one is fooled.

Lots of belly staring from smiling strangers, but no comments. People can't help but notice your baby bump. But somehow we've been trained not to ask when you're due, or if you know the gender, or even congratulate you. People who value their privacy will enjoy this. Personally, I miss celebrating with complete strangers, hearing about their families, even if I do field the occasional rude, you must be crazy.

Every OB's scale adds three pounds. It's incredibly discouraging to think you gained weight driving to your appointment. After three different OB offices, I'm convinced it's a sadistic joke by the college of obstetrics.

Half of the women standing around the playground or eating at Sweet Frog share your condition. Before you jump on me for stereotyping, I'm also standing there, hiking up my elastic waist pants, waddling after my children. I don't know what non-pregnant mothers do to occupy their children, but pregnant ones go to the playground, then recover with frozen yogurt.

Your grocery bill skyrockets. Through the power of suggestion and sympathy cravings. The girls can talk me into anything - out of season fruit from Argentina, extra cheese, treats for Daddy, treats for super dog. Indulging other people's cravings becomes your new vice.

Nesting is more manic than cute. Like labor, there are lots of false alarms with nesting - it's not prepping the nursery or an unusually productive day or growing irritated enough with the long-ignored mess that you throw yourself into organizing it. It's wild, out of control, no real plan cleaning. And not the kind that wows your hubby when he comes home. He's more likely to walk in and cautiously ask, What happened today, while you snore on the couch and your kids run around in their underwear. You can eat off the kitchen floor which is great because you never noticed the day's dirty dishes. Manic, hormone-storm cleaning. Roll with it, and take some Tylenol. Your back is going to punish you when the hormonal numbness wears off.

Pregnancy is a crazy, beautiful blessing. If you love being pregnant, wonderful. If you're hung up on the puberty crazy of it all, I get you. I can only call it beautiful on my third time around. Before this, it was migraines and awkwardness. I felt so guilty around the happy pregnant women who loved their baby bump bodies.

Then the girls arrived, and I realized that how much you love, or don't love pregnancy is no indication of your love for your baby or your ability as a momma. And the craziness of pregnancy is a blip in your history. Easily forgotten, quickly recovered from.

No one stays pregnant forever. And the hormones that made you crazy also make you forget the crazy. Especially when you first hold baby.

Living before a mirror

With enough kids, two usually does it, every parent has a mirror. The child that acts just like us, reflects our childish faults that we hide behind social filters.

Big one is mine.

I sit in the playroom watching her interact with her friends. She doesn't know which way to turn in her frustration. Three two-year-olds, none of them are playing correctly with her toys. Don't they know that you can't pour tea into the baby doll cups?! And boys aren't supposed to cook! Even her sister, who has been carefully trained for years, isn't following procedure.

I see that day in college when I realized how other people saw me. An ice breaker that I'd played before, so I took charge of the 20 man group and told them exactly how to beat the game. Everyone blew me off, and I didn't understand why. Days later, I introduced myself to a new employee who responded, "Yeah, I heard about you... You're the one who told everybody how to play the game."

I was devastated - I was bossy. I was cold and controlling. I wouldn't let other people use their skill and imagination to solve a problem. My way was the only right. I wouldn't be friends with me.

I'd like to say I've outgrown that side, but DH can quickly refute it. Even if I don't say anything, my face contorts every time I hear a word mispronounced. I might go along with his plan, but my attitude lets him know my plan was better.

Parenting is the same devastating encounter. The heartache my kids approach weighs heavy on my momma heart. The mirror child reminds me of the sins I managed for years without repentance. Of the heart change that still has to occur in both of us.

Big one and I snuggle at nap time. I brush her hair with my fingers and pray. Lord thank you for the way she... how she... Everything that comes to mind brings frustration. Frustration because I know how much sin and hurt those same characteristics have wielded in me.

God, is there nothing in her that doesn't have to be redeemed first?!

Softly I hear my answer, Of course not. I must make all things new. Her entire personality must be made over. Every part of her can glorify me or idolize herself.

The same is true of me, of small one, of all of us. Nothing is born perfect, until it is reborn.

My heart calms. He planned every part of her, every part of me. And when he makes new, he can use every part of her, of me.

Love in hard phases

I'm adding chicken to the soup pot when big one waltzes into the kitchen. What are you making?

Good dinner. I heard years ago never to tell your menu to a toddler so they couldn't decide beforehand that they didn't like it. My trick failed.

I hate it. I'm not eating it.

That's where we're at right now. A very difficult three year old stage. She hates mac n' cheese; she hates the Veggie Tale movie Sister picked out. She is so hungry, but she can't eat that. She wants to play, but there's nothing to play with in the brand new play room.

I think this stage is usually called adolescence. But I'm learning that adolescence starts as soon as baby can exert his/her will. It just climaxes in the teenage years {we can only hope}.

The family sits at the dinner table. PoppaDaddy and Momma stirring cheese and spinach into chicken chili. Small one eating like a recently rescued refugee. Big one staring at her bowl in disgust, whining that she is hungry.

She calls my bluff and loses. At 6:30 she is in bed for the night with no book, an empty stomach, and the promise of chili for breakfast tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, small one is chatty and cuddly. In the midst of the best phase of two - past the tantrums when the world is opening up. She and I have the evening all to ourselves, just mommy and baby girl. We giggle and snuggle and sing together and read all her favorite books. And I enjoy her crooked smile and her growing heart.

Some days, I don't know how to balance my favor. How to enjoy the child in the difficult phase as much as the one in the sweet phase. I love them the same, but how do I like them the same? How do I show the obstinate child that I wish I were spending an evening singing and reading to her too?

Moments.

Bursts of my sweet little girl.

That's what I have with big one right now. A glimpse of sun behind clouds, and when the rays shine, I must run and celebrate them.

Watching for those sunbursts requires patience and diligence. And mostly presence. My hardest fought gift for my family. So busy caring and serving that I forget the people I serve. In trying phases, the  hard-liking phases, she needs my attention to her detail. She needs to hear, 'yes.'

Yes, Mommy can put off writing to cuddle you to sleep.

Yes, Mommy will hold you accountable to your poor choices.

Yes, Mommy can put off washing to read one more book.

Yes, Mommy is serious that we don't tear down those we love with hurtful speech.

Yes, Mommy can still see that you are my beautiful girl through all the ugly words you're throwing.

Yes, Mommy loves you and likes you just as much today as I did when you were 2 1/2 years old and discovering the world.

Yes, Mommy will love you and like you just as much tomorrow when your heart hasn't softened yet.

Yes, Mommy is praying for you, today and every day.

What goes around...

Your morning has taken an interesting turn when you hear yourself saying, "You'll have to wait - I'm washing Preparation H out of Sister's hair."

This is my reward for showering. I didn't hear the baby gate crash, so I didn't realize the girls had escaped. And the baby monitor added to the deception - I kept hearing them playing happily in their room. But it didn't tell me they were decorating the walls with conditioner, Preparation H, and bath crayons. I know. I should have invested in the video monitor.

Here I am, preparing for an awesome school day with fun craft to reinforce numbers and Jan Brett coloring pages, and I keep hearing, "chhhhh. chhhhhh. chhhhh." Hmm, that sounds like water running, but I haven't started laundry yet, right?

Following the noise, I find the girls standing together on the trash can, turning the faucet on and off into an overflowing sink, not unlike Mickey and the brooms. The vanity is empty, except for a few cups of water. Five pitiful half-open sponge animals uncurl on the puddled floor. Little Sis has a glob of greasy white cream in her hair. Both of them are naked and soaked. Sanitary pads and razors are strewn around their bedroom. Two rolls of toilet paper lay on the floor like streamers on a rainy New Years morning. Oh, and did I mention the wall art?

In case you're thinking, "this is the moment where Katie goes ape, and the neighbors call Child Protective Services," I actually didn't. No screaming or crying or pounding the walls or promising ridiculous punishments. Maybe the Spirit gifted me with supernatural self-control. But mostly I was thinking, "oh, this is how Daddy felt."

This is how my daddy felt when he finished mowing the lawn and poked his head in to check on the toddlers he left safely playing in their cribs. Only to find the walls and cribs and dresser and both toddlers painted with vaseline and desitin. Oh, and I gave my Little Sis a cocktail of her prescription ear drops, which led to an ugly stomach pumping incident. I know how he felt. The survey of the mess. The surprise when you find the hidden stash under a pile of bedding. Surreal.

So Mommy, if you ever thought to yourself, "that wouldn't have happened if I'd been home," oh yes, it jolly well might have.

My take away from the morning: showering is overrated.

No really, I did find out that a mixture of conditioner and Preparation H takes crayon right off the wall, no scrubbing necessary. However, removing the conditioner and Preparation H is extremely challenging {the wall still feels a little greasy}. Stick with a magic eraser for crayon wall art.

Hope my ridiculous day brightened yours!

A brief guide to surviving childhood, part 1

Something is in the water. All of my friends are pregnant {if you're a non-pregnant friend, you're still my friend, but the hyperbole doesn't work if I say 'about half'}.

As I watch them nest and prepare and count down, especially the first timers, I keep thinking of things that I wish had been included in prenatal classes. So I'm passing one along:

Make Poison Control a favorite contact.

I seem to call poison control as often as some of my family members {more often than some}. We should be on a first name basis. My children eat any and every thing that grows in the yard, which leads me to my second point:

Do not buy the adorable, printed on 100% post-consumer recycled cardboard gardening book that teaches colors and features the catch phrase: I pick it and eat it.

Thanks to this book, the girls pick and eat everything. They stripped our tomatoes, blueberries and strawberries this spring, all while the fruit was still green. They've collected buckets of berries from the monkey grass and buds from the crepe myrtle {both non-toxic, I checked, but I imagine that if they were yummy, grown ups would eat them too}. They've sampled random mushrooms out of the yard {somewhat toxic, I checked, but not the kill you kind}. The other day I looked out the kitchen window and saw small one gnawing on the end of an eggplant still attached to the vine. She picks it and eats it.

Before you reach for a paper bag, only once have I needed to take them to the hospital. Which brings me to my final point, a carryover from vet school:

The solution to pollution is dilution.

When your kid eats something mildly poisonous {real life example - Borax} or simply disgusting {real life example - poop}, give them water, lots and lots of water. Water solves almost every oops, shouldn't have eaten that moment.

Alright, I'm done scaring the soon-to-be moms. This will be fun. Promise.

                                                                                                                                                              

Curious babies put stuff in their mouths. They are blessed with good immune systems and gag reflexes and great ER's when the other two fail. I find the PC staff comforting and supportive - not once have they criticized me for not hovering over my children. A terrific resource.