Marveling at Motherhood

My cousin posed a question on social media the other night, under a picture of her littlest one, wondering if she's the only parent who looks at her children in complete adoration, just thrilled by them, and amazed that she made them.

Her post made me smile so much, and my heart just swelled right up.  It feels as though we--society, parents--are often inundated by media displays portraying parenthood as some sort of burden to be carried.  Kids are a hassle, man.  I love seeing the good I-love-my-kids posts like hers that are genuine and meaningful.

Yes, parenthood is difficult.  Good grief, if I had a penny for every time I said that, I could probably put my boys through college debt-free!

But when I look at my kids, I look at them with complete adoration.  I am thrilled with them, and by them, even on the tough days.  And I am amazed that God, Shawn and I were able to make them.

When Shawn and I have to take shifts to sleep because one, or all of them, are sick, I'm amazed they are mine.  When we have to take turns eating at a restaurant, one of us standing to eat, or chasing the smallest one while the other one eats--I'm amazed I get to be their mom.  When one cries out, needing snuggles in bed, and another one wants rocking before bed, and my oldest clings to my shirt tail while stepping one foot out the door--I am so very incredibly grateful I get to be their mom.  When they just want to sit with me, when my youngest is singing his favorite words, when my kids are just happy and we're all laughing, and even through through the tough times, I'm thrilled.  I'm ecstatic.

This is what I wanted.

And I'm grateful.

A Word from Ezra

Wow, what a day!  I've been wreaking havoc all day, and just finally got Mommy down for her nap.  She really put up a fight today!

I've heard that Noah occasionally gets a guest turn here, so I decided to go ahead and take my turn while Mommy isn't looking.

I think it's pretty clear to everyone that I run this place.  I mean, sure, I let Mommy and Daddy think they do, but let's be honest--we all know I'm not just in charge of the show, I AM the show.  Sometimes they forget it around here, so it's up to me to set it all straight.  

Mommy takes really good care of us, and she does a lot for other people, too.  My biggest worry is that she's under too much stress and doesn't get enough exercise, so that's where I come in.  Not only do I want to make sure she gets the exercise, but I want to make it fun!

When Mommy sat down to drink her coffee, and sank her elbows into the milk-soaked tablecloth (the one she had just washed last night and put down clean this morning), I knew right away it was up to me to recover the day and help her out.

First, we had a good game of catch--I threw my sippee to (no, no, not at) her.  She missed, and really, I don't know how because I screamed at her first in warning.  From there, it was pretty much just a normal day for us.  We worked our way through chores: I emptied the washer and dryer while she tried to load them, I relocated important things so she could have a fun scavenger hunt, and ran up the stairs several times so she had to retrieve me, making sure she got her stair climbing in.  Oh, squats are an important part of daily exercise too, so at lunch time, I threw plenty of food on the floor for her to clean up.

I don't understand all the "Stop!" and "Don't do that!" and "Oh my gosh, Ezra, No!" and this redirection nonsense she tries (Really? Filling the tea pitcher with ice?  Yeah, it was fun for a bit, but then it was more fun just putting the ice on the floor.)  I like to come in during her shower and show her things I've gotten into, or get into things in her bathroom and run off so she has to get during her shower to chase me--I consider it a service, I mean, those showers are so hot, she needs some cool down time.  Okay, and if I hadn't grabbed the scissors and run while she was pulling the meatballs out of the oven, she wouldn't have had to think fast (using her brain) and run fast (physical therapy, Mommy, you're welcome!).  I've also been busy showing her all the faulty child-proofing in the house--the oven really needs a child lock on it, as do the freezer and the dishwasher, and the locks on the no-no cabinets only keep the four of them out.  Time to get out the instructions manuals for the washer and dryer and figure out how to use the child locks on those, because nothing is more fun that stopping them mid-cycle, so that Mommy doesn't find out until she thinks they're finished.  Oh, and can we please talk about the door to the garage, you know, the one I keep letting myself and Dashiell out through?  Daddy really needs to replace that handle with an actual doorknob!

Really, it's all in a day's work.  And they're just part of the services I offer as a toddler.  Yawn.  And now, it's my nap time!

An Ode to My Legs

I'll let you in on a little secret:  I've never liked my legs.  Nope, not even for 30 seconds in my 40 years.  I've always hated the way they look.  I remember as a child envying the legs of all the other little girls, their long, thin, perfectly tapered-from-knee-to-ankle, athletic looking legs.  I was jealous of their balance, their confidence, their coordination, the graceful way their legs carried them.  When I looked at my own legs, I saw awkwardness and short, stubby elephant trunks.

Unfortunately, I've carried this attitude towards my legs throughout my adult years. It takes me hours of personal pep talks to be able to wear leggings or yoga pants just around my house, and we won't even talk about going out in public in them, or shorts or a short skirt or dress.

Then I got sick, and my legs got worse.  They failed me even worse, to the point I needed a cane, then a walker.  I became so weak, there were some days I could not walk to the end of our driveway.  My legs not only failed me, they failed Noah, and they failed Shawn.  Because of my legs, I failed them.

My legs work a lot better now, thanks to God and medical intervention.  I take medicine everyday, and I take better care of my legs and my body.  There are concessions I make so I have the energy and ability to play and run with my kids and chase my kids (have you seen a toddler run when he has something he isn't supposed to have????).  I run and jump and skip.  I dance break (not break dance, mind you) and am silly and goofy and I embarrass my kids. When challenged to flashlight nerfgun war by teenage boys, my 7 year old, my toddler and my husband, I can yell, "OH YEAH!  BRING IT ON" and charge into the backyard.  I get to participate fully in their lives.  So I don't fail them.

My legs and I have an understanding now.  They do what I need them to do.  They get me where I need to be, and they help me raise my kids.  I don't take them for granted anymore.  I know, because of the nature of my illness, there could be a day they may fail me again.  So, in the meantime, I will   enjoy the use of them.  I'm grateful for my ugly legs.  Because they don't fail me.

Diagnosis: God is in Control

I hate these forms.  These are the "tell us what's wrong with your child" forms. While I've come to be grateful for them, because in the long run, they give us answers that will help my children, and while I've come to be grateful for these forms because they give us hope--I hate them. While I've come to accept that we need them, I still don't like them.

Over the last ten years, these forms have caused arguments, and even knock down, drag out fights between myself and my husband.  At times, one of us hasn't wanted to deal, while the other has wanted to deal too much.

These forms have given me the names Advocate and Mother Warrior.  Because of these forms, I've learned to fight for what's best for my children, and to do so articulately.  These forms have given me the ability the encourage other moms in similar positions.

I've learned there are times I'm wrong, and may not always know what's best, because of these forms.

One other thing these forms have reminded me, and taught me, the biggest lesson of all:  God is always in control. I cannot do this on my own.  I've learned that I have to lean into my faith, and onto my Father.  I must trust God, and keep my eyes on Him, no matter how big the storm feels.  My children were God's children long before they were mine.  He loves them more than I can possibly fathom.  God has already written their story, and He knows the plans He has for them.  So, this time, rather than the "here we go again" feeling, I have a sense of peace. We are in the middle of the storm right now, but it's going to be okay.

No matter the next diagnosis, God is in control.

Hold Tight, Mamas

Ezra let me rock him to sleep tonight.  We haven't done that in months.  I really do miss it.  He was exhausted from not napping, and I have to take advantage when I can.  Listening to his sweet little snores as his head rested against my chest--ahhhh, crazy, sweet, amazing mommy bliss.  Yesssss, indeed.

Mamas, don't wish it away.  I know there are tough days.  I know there are long nights.  I know there are days you want to run to away, but you can only find one Dansko, so you're stomping around the house in one shoe, grumbling about running away and accusing your husband of hiding your other shoe, while everyone, including you, tries not to laugh (wait, that might've been me....).  There might be days you beg your husband to bring home wine, and he's smart enough to bring flowers, too.  It's okay, we won't talk about the evenings you meet him the driveway when he gets home from work, barely saying goodbye as he says hello.

But please, mamas, don't wish it away.  Take it from a mama of a 16 year old, 7 year old and an almost 2 year old: You're going to miss this.  You will. I already do.  There are days I'm not ready to let go of the one who thinks he has one foot out the door, even as he still clings tight to me.

So, let me help you pick your Cheerio-encrusted self up off the floor and give you a hug.  I'll even pick the Cheerios out of your hair, and sweep the rest of them up while I hold your baby.  It's not the end of the world, just a bad day.  Curl into those snuggles, laugh at the silly sound of new runners as they pitter patter across the floor.   Laugh with the outrageous immaturity of the older ones, and smile when they get the maturity 'right.'

It's all gone too soon, mamas.  Hold tight.