Our Children Are Not Ours

It's the Christmas season: a time to bake cookies, watch crappy Hallmark, Lifetime, or ABC Family movies, and stress over Christmas lists, hoping upon hope that I haven't somehow forgotten someone or something. It's a season of joy, but a hectic, bustling season, a time when days fly by and to-do lists only get longer, students only get crazier, and pants only get tighter.

Since becoming a parent, Christmas has also been a time when I attempt to steer my family away from the inevitable commercialism and make the holiday about something other than Santa Claus and presents. We try to spend time together, to think carefully about what we can do for others, and to keep the focus on the birth of Christ.

During this season, my adult Sunday school class has been engaged in a study of what Christmas meant to Mary. A couple of weeks ago we spent some time discussing whether we thought Mary really thought of her newborn child as the Son of God, the savior of all mankind. We wondered if she understood what she was signing up for, that she would have to watch her child go through a living hell and eventually die in agony. When did she come to the realization that although she brought him into this world, she could not protect him or stop his suffering?

As the one former Catholic present, the group looked to me to answer their questions about the elevated role of Mary in the Catholic Church. I'm no scholar, so all I could think to say was, "Of all the humans in the Bible- other than Jesus, obviously- she was hand-picked for the most important job there was. She had to give birth to a child and raise him knowing that in the end he wasn't really hers." Or something like that- I'm probably improving my wording in hindsight.

As I said it, I realized how true this statement is for all parents. Our children are not ours. Unlike possessions, they cannot be stowed away for safe-keeping, though our greatest wish is to protect them from pain. The life of a mother is a life of fear completely unlike any fear experienced prior to becoming a parent. The fear of what others think of me, the fear of failure, the fear of all the possible things that might cause me physical harm- a vicious dog, a stranger on the street at night, a reckless driver- none of these compare to the fear that at some point my children may be the ones to experience pain or hurt at the hands of another.

From the moment my oldest daughter was born I sought to control her environment and make the best possible choices for her well-being. Breast-feeding as long as possible. Organic baby food. A consistent schedule. As she grew, I struggled (and still do) to enforce discipline so that she would learn healthy boundaries and have positive social interactions. I encourage creative play, limit screen time, moved her to a new pre-school that I thought would better suit her precocious nature. I'm attempting to follow suit with her sister, though let's be honest, the second one has it a little better than the first.

But when it comes down to it, as much as the thought terrifies me, there is only so much about my daughters' lives that I can control. Today happens to be the anniversary of the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. The mothers of those twenty little boys and girls probably had done everything in their power to bring their children up to be healthy, polite, smart. Perhaps, at this time of year two years ago, these parents were even struggling with some of the same holiday-related issues that I am having: Why does inundating my children with presents have to be what makes Christmas "magical"? How can I get them to think of others? How can I make it special for them without losing sight of what Christmas is actually celebrating?

We can agonize over every choice we make that deals with our children. We can, and should, take precautions to teach them how to keep themselves healthy and safe. But our children are not ours. In Sandy Hook, these parents' beloved babies were senselessly ripped from them in an event that none of them could have foreseen or stopped.  Even if we get to keep our children and watch them grow into adults, we are going to see them hurt. Despite our fear and watchfulness they will fall down stairs, burn their fingers on the stove, have choking scares with food that we could have sworn we cut into pieces small enough to swallow. Other kids will be mean to them. At some point they will feel that they aren't pretty enough, or smart enough, or athletic enough. They will get their hearts broken. They will move away from home and call us when their car breaks down or their purse gets stolen or they didn't get the job they really really wanted.

The lesson I need to learn from all of this is that while I make dozens of parenting decisions each day, the most important questions are these: Was I present for my children today?  When I go to bed tonight, can I at least say "I did my best"? If an unthinkable tragedy were to befall our family tomorrow, could I find peace in the thought that my children knew I loved them, not from the foods I put in their lunch or what time I put them to bed, but from my words and actions?

Christmas is no doubt a time of miracles, when angels speak to the lowliest among us and the world's greatest king comes in the form of a baby boy. But for me there is also the miracle of time spent with my children, my greatest gifts, and that is a miracle that I will try to treasure fully, without letting fear or worry get in the way.

Photo Credit: http://www.newsweek.com/dont-forget-children-massacred-sandy-hook-290250

A Thank You Letter to My Children

To My Daughters:

In a few days it will be Thanksgiving. In school, daycare, and church you have been reading stories about turkeys, crafting cornucopias, and making lists of all the things you are grateful for. On the wall in one of your classrooms is a brainstorm chart that reads: my bed, my room, the food I eat, my mommy, my daddy, my teachers. You are told to think of all the people you love and things you are lucky to have. I'm doing the same thing.

What am I thankful for? Obviously I'm thankful for both of you, and the brother or sister that you'll get to meet in the spring. But it's not enough to stop there, because being your mom has made me more grateful than any other experience possibly could. It has amplified my appreciation of everything. Let me try to explain what I mean:

I was thankful the minute I knew about you. It was so hard to believe that I could have been granted such a gift that I often found myself anxious without knowing why, counting the days until the next doctor's appointment just to prove that you were still there. When I heard your little heartbeats I could breathe easier for a while. Sometimes when the worry set in I would prop my feet up and eat gummy worms, just to wake you up and feel you kicking.

I was thankful when you were born and you were just fine, much better than fine, the images of perfection. I was thankful to bundle you into your carseat for the very first time and introduce you ceremoniously into our home and family, making you officially ours.

I have been so thankful to watch you grow and learn, from first smiles and laughs to first steps, first words, even first tantrums. Every day, in some way, you bring joy into my life. You make me laugh, sometimes intentionally, other times without knowing what you said that was so funny. You are amazing. You are awesome in the old-fashioned sense of the word. I am awed by your beauty and brilliance. I have been since day one, and I don't think I'll ever stop.

I am thankful for you because I get to watch my husband be your dad. I watch him pick you up and make you squeal. I listen to him read to you, sing to you, and try to coax you into your pajamas. I hear your delighted cries of "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" and I couldn't be more thankful that you get to grow up with a dad as proud and loving as he is.

I am thankful that you have each other. Nothing makes me happier than seeing the two of you playing together. I love to sneak up and spy on you as you hide behind the crib and "read" each other books, or chase the dog, or try to do somersaults.
I am so grateful that you will always have one another.

I am thankful for every single person involved in raising you, every person who loves you or has helped me when I needed help taking care of you. The list is long. I am thankful because I want to be with you all the time and when I can't be, I know that you are in good hands, and my mind is at ease.

I am thankful for all that you have taught me. As your mom, I have learned how to be patient, creative, efficient with my time. You have taught me that splashing in puddles during a rainstorm really is more fun than sitting inside by the TV. I have had to sort through and reexamine my beliefs and priorities as I've realized that everything I say or do, every decision I make, may impact who you both become. Consequently, I know more about myself now than I did before I was your mom.

I thank you for giving me the experience of motherhood, for helping me join a community of wise, brave, exhausted women with whom I can connect and empathize. Because admit it, darlings, you can be rough on your mama, and sometimes I just need someone to tell me that they get it and you will inevitably grow out of whatever stage is driving me bananas.

Honestly, I am an ooey-gooey, rain-boot-worthy puddle of gratitude. You made me that way, and even though a couple of hours ago you were both screaming your heads off for a reason that only you know (or perhaps you don't), I wouldn't want to be any other way.

Me Day: Is Just Being a Mom Enough?

This past Friday was declared the 2nd Annual You Day at the school where I work. On this day, students and faculty are asked to bring in props and dress in clothing that represents who they are, then have their picture taken for the yearbook. Last year, for the inaugural You Day, I was totally game. I strapped on a Baby Bjorn, stuck a baby doll in the front, and with a shrug showcased a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee in one hand and a copy of A Tale of Two Cities in the other. There I was: a disheveled but happy mom making things work with the consumption of caffeine and even making time to cultivate my love of literature.

This year, the task of choosing how to stage my picture was much more difficult. I haven't changed in any major way since this time last year, and as a chronic over-thinker I couldn't bring myself to just replicate what I did the first time around. I racked my brain: What are my hobbies and interests? What do I do for fun? To relax?

Here's what I came up with: Well, I used to write. I blog maybe once every few months. Does that still count? But do I want to have to explain to students what type of writing I do? What if they Google me? Ok, so, other hobbies… I used to be pretty into yoga. I haven't been to a class in over four months, but once in a while I set my alarm fifteen minutes early and sit on my mat to stretch. Sometimes, when both of my kids are screaming, I take deep cleansing breaths to keep myself from joining in. Yoga is totally one of my hobbies. What else? I really love wine, but as a pregnant lady that might send the wrong message. Oh, and obviously they're not going to publish a picture of me pretend-guzzling a bottle of Old Vine Zin next to pictures of twelve and thirteen-year-olds brandishing Minecraft swords and inexplicably wearing cat ears. Seriously though, what do I do for fun? Can I bring in a couch and get my picture taken sprawled on it with my eyes half open as I try to stay awake long enough to find out who the Bachelorette is going to eliminate next? 

In the end I opted for a Syracuse basketball Final Four shirt, a travel guide to Europe, and my passport, despite the fact that I only watch basketball during March Madness and the last time I was in Europe was ten years ago. So in a way, a day that was supposed to be about celebrating all the various talents and interests that make me who I am became something else entirely. It made me even more aware of how I should have posed for my picture: wearing a sweater streaked with toddler snot, toting a giant bag full of work to grade, and clutching my iPhone, my outlet to stay in touch with other people who have some sense of where I'm coming from when I need to vent about this wonderful, stressful, joyful, maddening life of mine.

I love my family and I love my job, but can they and will they define me entirely? Is a hobby even a possibility that will fit onto the already loaded plate I am carrying? I know parents who do manage to maintain serious extra-curriculars, but there must be some give somewhere. Maybe they can't always sit down for dinner with their families. Maybe they're content with getting only six hours or less of sleep every night. Maybe they don't collapse onto the couch as soon as the kids are asleep. Or maybe they just have jobs that don't require hours and hours of work outside of the "office".

There are things I really want to do: learn more about photography, try out rock-climbing, take some kick-ass vacations, with and without the kids. But if I beat myself up about not having enough time or energy or willpower to pursue these interests, that'll be just one more thing I'm beating myself up about, and what mom needs that? Maybe in ten or twenty years I'll have some really cool past-time to show and tell, but I think next year, instead of stressing, I'll just hold up a sign that says, "I have 123 kids: 3 at home, 120 at school. I love them all. I do my best. What more can I do?"  

One Thing at a Time

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Miraculously, both of my children are taking naps. I have a good 9-inch stack of papers to grade in my school bag, lessons to plan, household tasks that keep inching their way down to the bottom of my to-do list. At twelve weeks pregnant, I could really use a nap myself. But I've made the decision, six-weeks-plus after my last post, to sit down and focus on this one thing among many that I've been meaning to do. 

I have found, since having children, that my attention to tasks has become extremely limited. Tell me if this scenario sounds familiar: I wake up to my alarm, come downstairs, and take a mug out of the cupboard to pour my coffee. I then notice that the drying rack in the sink is full, so I put away a few dishes. Oh, I think to myself, I might as well sip some coffee while I tidy up. I open the refrigerator door to get out the creamer, and start studying the contents of the fridge. What am I packing in the kids' lunches today? I start opening tupperwares to see if there are any leftovers I can send with them, and pull out some fruit to wash while I'm at it. I still haven't poured myself a cup of coffee, but I'm starting to feel nauseous (morning sickness has kicked my butt this third time around), so I grab a bowl of cereal. I sit down at the kitchen table to eat it, but looking back over at the mess I've created on the counter, I end up eating a few bites in between finishing all of the other tasks that I began. Then I check Facebook and realize that five precious minutes have passed while I scrolled through the news feed. 

This happens literally every morning. I've had to start becoming my own mental coach. As soon as I get the urge to stop doing one thing in order to pick up another, I try to resist. One thing at a time, I repeat to myself. One thing at a time. My new mantra has become incredibly helpful in some ways, and somewhat of a hindrance in others. For one thing, it makes planning almost impossible. My life has become confined to the hours stretching between the current moment and that blessed time when I can crawl into bed and set my responsibilities aside until the alarm rings once more. I've taken an "I'll worry about it when it gets here" approach to most future events, which drives my poor husband crazy most of the time. "I'm sorry honey, I'm just not there" has become my response when he wants to discuss his favorite band's tour next summer or what we're going to serve at Christmas dinner. It's not that I don't want to think about these details- it's just that my desire to think about them is outweighed by my desire to keep my brain from exploding. 

How can I be thinking of the next thing
when these faces are looking back at me?

In just over six months, God-willing, another person will join our family, and obviously "I'll worry about it when it gets here" won't quite cut it in this case. Logistics need to be addressed: finding a car that will fit three carseats, figuring out sleeping arrangements, reworking daily routines. But to be honest, I'm just not there yet. For now I have two little girls that need me, a husband who would like me to be mentally present more often than I currently am, and about 120 students who want a teacher who cares about them, not one who teaches each class like it's one more thing to check off her list. 

The due date will inevitably approach, and at some point before then I will figure out what I need to figure out, as I always somehow do. And after that? When we bring home number three and our lives are once more tumbled into a heap of unknowns? Well, I guess we'll just worry about that when it gets here. Until then all I can do is try my best to appreciate each fleeting "now"without worrying about what comes next. Particularly when it comes to finishing a bowl of cereal in one sitting. 

 

This girl knows a thing or two about living in the moment.

The Politics of Parenthood

I hate politics. I teach Social Studies, and I really do want my students to have interesting discussions about relevant current topics, but when seventh graders start talking politics, I'm done. It's too depressing to hear twelve and thirteen-year-olds, who most likely lack the maturity to formulate their own political beliefs, make bold declarations, repeating with absolute conviction what they read on Facebook or heard at the dinner table. If you're going to argue about politics, I tell them, check your sources. Make sure you have credible information. Don't believe everything you hear.

I hate politics because it is a source of division and anger; I seek cohesion and avoid conflict. I hate politics because so many people are so fanatical about it, whereas my nature is to find the kernel of truth and reason on both sides of an issue rather than to claim categorically that my side is "right". Most of all, I hate it because it has turned me cynical. Who can feel good about showing up at the polls to vote for what they see as the lesser of two evils? There's something terribly wrong with the position in which the current political system has placed moderate voters like me.

But what does any of this have to do with parenting?

As a mother, I think frequently about the type of world I want my daughters to inhabit, the types of experiences I want them to have, the type of people I want them to be. Since becoming a parent, my politics have changed. What I want for my children doesn't fit onto one side of a political T-chart.

I hope they will be compassionate and without judgment toward others who need assistance with food, shelter, or employment.  I hope that they will tread softly on our earth and seek ways to protect it. As Christians, I hope that they will show kindness and acceptance to all people. I hope that they will spend their money responsibly, never taking on debt that they will have to struggle to repay. I pray that, whoever my precious girls become, their country will continue to protect their pursuit of happiness.

I am trying my hardest to teach my children to listen more than they talk and value compromise over being "right". I want them to know that changing their position on an issue is not a sign of weakness, provided that their change of heart is genuine and based on careful examination of different points of view. I want them to speak up in the face of injustice, even if it makes them unpopular. In short, I want them to be the kind of people who I could vote for with a little bit of idealism in my heart that maybe, just maybe, the future really is going to be brighter.

Where Have All the Supermoms Gone?

When it comes to being a mom, the loving and being there for my kids is definitely the easiest part of the deal. It's all the other stuff, the "extracurriculars", if you will, that make me feel like I suck.

I grew up in a generation when moms were superheroes. At least mine was. She sewed Halloween costumes and torn pants, made ridiculously good (but not at all good for you) meat loaf and apple pie. She volunteered to be class parent and leader of the Girl Scout troop. She would French braid my hair, even though I complained the entire time about how much it hurt. My mom made homemade play dough and served my friends and I Kool-Aid and popsicles as we lounged on the lawn next to our bicycles. In my house, the cookie jar was always full. Breakfast was almost always a sit-down meal, and cooked to order. She worked the evening shift at the hospital, but when my sisters and I got home after school there was almost always a note with some important detail she needed to impart to us, Love MOM.

Then there's my husband's mom, special ed teacher, gardener, expert quilter and scrapbooker, crafter extraordinaire, queen of the casserole, home decorator for all holidays. If I need a pair of pants hemmed I take them to her house. There is very little this woman cannot do.

And then there's me.

Sewing skills: Maybe a button. Maybe.

Cooking skills: I can follow the recipe on the side of the Barilla lasagna box. Baking generally leaves me disappointed and close to tears. I have recently decided that making my own whipped cream is about as fancy as I will ever get, and I think I only do it to give myself a confidence boost- at least something is homemade!

Volunteering: I'll leave that to the moms who don't work full-time, thank you very much.

Crafting: Rare.

Hair Braiding: Every time I try, Maggie rips it out screaming, "It's not good!" So that doesn't help my self-esteem.

Home Decorating: My home is "decorated" with random items strewn throughout the house. Currently my bedroom is "decorated" with singing animals, bath toys, a battery-operated guitar shaped like a dog, and a handful of cotton balls.

I want to be a multi-talented, old-timey mom - and I hope the two fantastic women I've mentioned don't take that term personally. It would be awesome if I could throw my daughter a birthday party that looked like it came straight out of Pinterest, or if I didn't have to troll the picked-over aisles of every store in town for an Elsa Halloween costume, or if I could have an edible dinner on the table each evening when my husband gets home from work. I'm sure, if I could do those things, I would feel very accomplished- and probably even more exhausted and overwhelmed than I already am.

Matt and I grew up with moms that made it look effortless, which gave moms of my generation the unrealistic impression that it should be. So you know what I have to say about your mouthwatering recipes, your sewing machines, and your cute holiday decor? You can keep them… for about fifteen or twenty years, until I have enough time to become a super-woman too. Then you can send them on along my way.

The Ones Who Kept Me Warm

I often wonder if everyone suffers from nostalgia to the same degree that I do.

I don't know what it is about me and the past. For some reason I have a difficult time letting go of people, places, periods of my life. I don't like to admit that certain friendships or experiences are over. "Over" just seems so final.

With every transition in my life - from my childhood in upstate New York to Trinity College in Connecticut to my post-graduate life in St. Louis, and finally to Anderson, South Carolina - I left behind people that I had at one point laughed with, confided in, leaned on. High school teammates. College roommates. Colleagues. It wasn't necessarily anyone's fault that we eventually lost touch, and let's face it, who really has room in their life for EVERY person they have ever cared about? It isn't realistic. In fact, it's kind of insane.

The thing is, my memories, though they may be slightly rose-colored by nostalgia, are attached to people, and I hate feeling as if they lose some of their joy because the co-stars of those memories are no longer in my life. Memorizing the security code to one of the fraternity houses so we could let ourselves into their kitchen after-hours. Workshopping poems while eating apples from our professor's orchard. Living in a communist-era dormitory in Prague and learning how to navigate the language, the city, the culture. Singing karaoke. A lot of karaoke. (Because Lord knows it's no fun to sing "I Would Do Anything for Love" alone.) Teaching on a team in which every other member was old enough to be my parent but none too old to be my friend.

Back in 2006 I was teaching part-time at John Burroughs, an independent school in St. Louis. One of the amazing things about this school was that it included a wilderness campus in the Ozarks, used for team-building as well as for science classes. As a first-year teacher I was sent away on the 7th-grade orientation trip and assigned a small group of 7th-graders to take out on "Solo".  Students were placed at intervals along a trail in the woods, and they would wait, by themselves (hence the name), for night to fall. After four hours or so in the freezing Ozark night a teacher would collect them and march them to the lodge to be rewarded for their bravery with hot chocolate and a fire. This was a rite of passage at Burroughs, an opportunity for the initiate class to face their fears and, hopefully, find some time to reflect and meditate.

As group leader I could choose whether I wanted to return to camp, checking on my students periodically, or conceal myself in the woods nearby, just in case anyone had a major panic attack. I chose the latter, partly because I wanted to see for myself what these kids were experiencing. I couldn't imagine being asked to do this at the age of twelve, but as an adult I could see the value in taking on such a challenge. I, too, would go solo.

The dark was bad. The cold was worse. Every so often I checked my watch, sure that it would be time to take the kids back to the lodge, but time didn't pass the same way in the woods as it did in civilization. So, to survive my own Solo, I made up a game. I would think about people I cared about, some of whom were currently in my life, some with whom I had already lost contact, and they would keep me warm. The friend I worked with at the pizzeria who cooked me his own creations during our shift because I needed "to put some meat on my bones." The guy in college who I thought might be a love interest but ended up just being really, really nice. I visited him in his hometown once and we ate chicken patties with his dad while watching Jeopardy, then I drove back home without him ever trying anything. I thought about friends who would talk me through my problems until the sun came up. I thought about my sisters, who both went to Boston College and made sure, when I visited, to tell every guy we encountered how old I was: "This is my sister. She's sixteen."

It sounds weird, I know- fuzzy memory bubbles radiating light and heat - but I swear to God it worked. I wasn't shivering anymore; my fingers and toes weren't going numb. These past friends and acquaintances, many of whom would probably have never guessed they made the list, kept the cold at bay.

I would name all of them if I wasn't a coward. It's just that I don't want to be that weird girl (strange that I still can't bring myself to write "woman") who somebody knew five, ten, fifteen years ago who randomly gets in touch and says, "You know what? You mattered to me, even if it was in some tiny, mundane way." I don't want to be someone who tries too hard to rekindle friendships that fizzled out long ago. I don't want to look desperate, overcome by nostalgia, caught up in a past that no longer exists.

I guess the next best thing is to start now, to let there be no question - in my work relationships, my friendships, my family, my marriage - when somebody is making a difference in my life, making it better. Maybe if I take care of that business in the present, I'll no longer need nostalgia.

So, on that note, if you are reading this, if you have supported this little passion of mine, thank you for being supportive. Thank you for helping me stay warm. You matter. Thank you.

A Distress Call from a Mommy Hostage

Is it just me, or is being a parent eerily similar to being stalked?

Seriously, think about it. The loss of privacy is staggering: in my own home, there is no guarantee that I will be able to use the bathroom, take a shower, get dressed, or sleep without some tiny person barging in and either a) interrogating me about what is taking place, b) attempting to join me, or c) inexplicably crying. There are people pulling my dirty laundry out of my hamper. Wearing my underwear around their necks. Going through my garbage. It's enough to make a person paranoid.

I'm reminded of a conversation I had with an old friend several years ago. We were catching up on each other's lives, and he had recently moved in with his girlfriend. "How's that going?" I asked. "It's okay," he replied. Then, after a pause, he continued. "It's just that… she's always there, you know?" Needless to say, the relationship did not last.

Obviously breaking up with my kids is not an option, nor is reporting their repeated violations of my privacy to the authorities, but I have to admit, nothing makes me grumpier than feeling like I'm being held hostage in my own home by two people whose greatest weapons are their lung capacity and their superhuman ability to resist my will.  Most days I feel like I work my butt off trying to create a scenario in which I will have two minutes to myself. (Oh, and remember how I used to want to stay at home? That notion is more hilarious to me with every passing summer day.)

Here's the other thing about having no privacy: My children are watching and learning during every second that we spend together. My three-and-a-half-year-old retains EVERYTHING. Anything I do or say may be repeated to friends, teachers, or other acquaintances, and most likely taken completely out of context. No moment of the day is off the table, from putting on my makeup in the morning ("What's this?" "Mascara." "Why you wear it?" "To make my eyelashes darker." "Why?" "Because I just like them that way!") to every ounce of food or drink I choose to ingest. I find myself sneaking candy to hide it from her rather than deal with explaining why mommy can have half a bag of gummy bears when I wouldn't think of letting her do the same thing. And if she walks in on me during my attempt, I invariably end up giving her a couple because I look and feel so guilty.

I try to put a positive spin on it by telling myself that my kids' omnipresence makes me more accountable as a person and a parent. I think, a day will come when they will be independent and won't want to follow their mom around like ravenous puppy dogs, and when that day comes I'll miss that feeling of being constantly needed, of having children hanging from my clothes and threatening to pants me every time I'm wearing a garment without a button or drawstring. Or I simply cheer myself up with the notion of waiting ten years and getting revenge, because after a decade of learning how to sneak away from them, I am going to be a boss at sneaking up and embarrassing the crap out of them.

Who Will You Be? (A Parent's Guessing Game)

When my daughter Maggie was only three or four months old, my husband and I decided that "sassy" was an apt adjective to describe her personality. She didn't smile easily, viewing all grown-ups other than her parents with unconcealed suspicion. And I know it sounds strange, but even as a baby she seemed to have a sense of humor, carefully watching those around her, picking up on what we thought was funny and then performing with an almost deadpan expression to see what our reactions would be. She wasn't sweet or cuddly; she didn't like bows and dresses. She wanted to sit on the couch with a pile of books and take in every page, or spend an hour working on a puzzle that children two or three years older would have found difficult. She was (and is) our smart, sassy little girl.

Within weeks of Cecilia's birth we could already distinguish differences in temperament. When Ceci woke at night she didn't cry, but would lay cooing in her crib until I went in to feed her. "She's such an easy baby," I marveled. Where Maggie had glowered at or quietly observed well-meaning strangers, Ceci grinned at them. She was such an agreeable child that we soon realized we could use her mood as a tool for diagnosing illness. If Ceci wasn't happy, off to the doctor we went to get treated for an ear infection or some other ailment. It seemed like sickness was the only thing that could wipe the angelic smile from her face, and often she smiled right through it.

These comparisons between my daughters went on for some time: one smart and sassy, one sweet and easy. I had summed up my children in just a couple of words each - how efficient!

On the eve of her first birthday, though, Ceci is refusing to stay true to the image I have created for her. There is more fussing, more complaining, more throwing of food and drink as she decides that she has preferences and a will of her own. Maggie, meanwhile, has become an open and friendly little girl. She makes friends on the playground and shows her "cowgirl boots" to everyone we pass in the grocery store. These developments remind me that as hard as I try, my children will not allow me to define them.

Let me, however, make something very clear. I do not wish to dictate who my children will one day become. There are parents out there who decide when their child is very small, "She will be a doctor," or "He will be a football player," but I assure you, that isn't me. They could be rodeo clowns or spokesmodels or professional hula hoopers as long as they are happy (and making a living). No, the reason why I constantly attempt to encapsulate who they are and what they're about is because I'm dying to know more about these incredible little humans who have been gifted to my care.

That's it - I'm curious. I can't wait to see if Maggie's love of music will bring her into theater. It isn't a stretch to imagine her singing and dancing her heart out in front of a large audience. Will her love of books lead to academic excellence, or will she be one of those readers whose head is in the clouds all day long? Will she be an athlete? A dancer? A martial artist? And at what point do I have to step in and take a role in steering her toward some of these possibilities?

(Clearly all of these questions apply for Cecilia as well, but since her interests at this point are confined to playing with Tupperware, tipping over her dog's water bowl, and repeatedly putting on necklaces and taking them off, I don't have as much to go on.)

Each time I learned I was pregnant, my husband and I decided not to find out the gender of the baby. "There are so few surprises in life," was the line we used to explain our reasoning. To be honest, those two moments when the doctor announced, "It's a girl!" are probably going to be the least surprising moments of our daughters lives. Every day I get to know them better, but I will never know everything there is to know about them. Some surprises will be welcome, others, I'm sure, less so. But as eager as I am to see what the future holds for my children, I wouldn't get into a time machine for a glimpse of what's to come. Not for a million dollars, though I'd be tempted. Because it's the process that's important, and I want to be there when it all unfolds. A lifetime of revelation- what's not to love about that?

My girls, my mysteries. Who will these kiddos be?

A Day Without Water

Last night a pipe at the local water system plant burst, causing our household and much of Anderson to be without water for about fourteen hours.

Luckily we had plenty of bottled water and a couple of gallons of distilled water on hand, so I wasn't terribly worried about it. The powers that be would eventually get the water running and life would return to normal. The water shortage really only affected us from the time I woke up around 7:30 until noon, when our taps finally began to work again. We remain under a boil water advisory, but that isn't nearly as alarming as not being able to flush the toilet. However, during the course of the morning I thought multiple times about the implications of this incident.

Mainly I realized how bitchy a lot of my posts would sound to someone outside of America. I'm complaining about how my daughter only wants to wear two of the twenty-five dresses in her closet, and how I'm just not as "fun" as I used to be, and how my house is too messy. Really? When there are moms and dads out there trying to parent without running water? And probably without disposable diapers? If my children didn't have this basic necessity my life would be a million times more inconvenient than I think it is now, and I wouldn't mind a bit; who worries about inconvenience when they are focused on keeping their family alive?

How much I take for granted. After less than five hours of catching myself in the process of trying to wash a dish or rinse off my toothbrush (and spending a portion of those hours swimming in my full pool), I am shamed and humbled. Being a mom is hard no matter what culture you're in, but we live in a country where, for the majority of people, the most important element of life on earth flows freely at the twist of a faucet. At least we've got that much covered- everything else is just details.

The Stupidest Struggle Ever: How I Stooped to My Child's Level

Today I spanked my child for the first time.

Now, I know that there are two distinct camps when it comes to spanking, and there's not a whole lot of middle ground. There are those who believe that spanking teaches children a definitive lesson about their behavior - don't do it again or here's what will happen - and there are those who see spanking as hypocritical and confusing, particularly when using it to reinforce a point about children exhibiting aggressive behavior toward others. While I have always belonged to the second group, my three-year-old has brought me to the verge of spanking more than once.

Those who are merely acquainted with Maggie in social settings express doubt when I tell them what a you-know-what she can be. In public she is generally a darling, acting shy at first but eventually dazzling onlookers with her adorable giggle and unusual perceptiveness. But in our home, especially when we are out of our typical school year routine, she is an expert button-pusher. (Quick aside: Not that I'm big into astrology, but October 7th, her birthday, is listed in this birthday book I have as the Day of Defiance. It's proven accurate even from the time she was about eighteen months old, when she was told that if she put her feet on the dinner table she would be removed and the meal would be over. She quickly figured out what to do when she didn't feel like sitting at the table anymore…)

Anyway, I thought our day was starting out pretty well. The kids slept in until 7:30. I managed to feed them breakfast quickly enough to usher everybody into the car and head to the gym so I could enjoy a yoga class. We came home and they played outside while I weeded the mulch beds. So far, so good. I had planned to take them to meet up with some friends at the small water park at the Y after nap time, but lo and behold, neither child was really in the mood for a nap. Despite my better judgment, I forged ahead. Quoting my neighbor, who had suggested going to Waterworks, "The thought of them hanging inside the rest of the day was giving me hives." I packed everything we would need, got the baby in her swimsuit, and focused on getting Maggie ready to go. If only it were that easy.

The struggle began over something completely idiotic. For about the past year, getting Maggie dressed has been the least favorite part of my day. The child has literally 25 dresses hanging in her closet, and while she has probably worn each of them at least once, it chafes me that she wants to wear the same stupid two every single day. It doesn't matter if someone she loves bought her an outfit or sewed it for her themselves, she cannot be convinced to wear something that she doesn't want to wear. As I have stated before, I am a woman of principle. I do not believe in wastefulness, and I have a problem with the fact that time and money have been spent on giving her things that she refuses to use. As a result, every day I attempt to steer her away from those same two dresses and try to get her to wear something she doesn't usually wear. This is the way it normally ends: she may agree to try something on, but after about five seconds she starts clawing at it, claiming that some very specific thing is wrong with it: it's too tight, too big, not long enough, she doesn't like the buttons or the way it feels. Then she goes completely boneless and basically can't function like a human being again until I remove the offending garment.

I understand that my ideals about clothing use are far beyond the ability of a three-year-old to grasp, yet I can't stop trying. So, today, in the midst of getting her changed into her bathing suit to go to the Y, I grabbed a tank top and skirt from her drawers and stared to toss them into the bag so she would have something dry to wear when she was done swimming. My precious child snatched them from my hand and threw them across the room, screaming, "No! Not those ones! I'm going to choose them!"

An hour later she was eating cookies
and kissing on her sister. Jekyll and Hyde much?

This was one of those pivotal moments when I could have changed course and avoided a fiasco, but no, I had to stand on principle. "Maggie," I said, "You may NOT grab things out of my hand. I am going to put these back in the bag, and if you take them out again, we will not go to the water park." You can guess what happened next. Out came the skirt and shirt, and I, the reasonable adult, responded. "Okay then. We're not going." I had to do it. I had made the threat, and there was no backpedaling. Either I was a woman of my word or I wasn't.

I knew it wasn't going to go over well, but I couldn't have predicted that my naked banshee of a daughter would pick up her (rather heavy) piggy bank and throw it at me, narrowly missing her baby sister's head. I mean, that kid put some muscle behind it. And with her naked bottom right there, I couldn't help myself. If anything warranted a spanking, this was it. One quick pop and down to time-out she went.

You know, I wish there were a moral to this story. Did the spanking make me feel better? Not really. Am I going to do it again? I don't plan on it.  If there is anything to be gleaned from this experience, it's that arguing with a three-year-old is pretty much the most unreasonable thing an adult can do. (But of course, I'm going to do it again - you know, being a woman of principle and everything.)

The Transformation of Loss

Two nights ago I went to see the movie The Fault in Our Stars. For those of you unfamiliar with the film or the book by John Green that it is based on, it is the love story of teens Augustus and Hazel, one recently cleared of cancer and one undergoing experimental treatment that has kept her alive years longer than anyone had thought possible. It is a beautifully written, sometimes funny, heartrending story, but it was especially poignant on this particular evening.

Ten years ago on this day, my friend Sean turned twenty-two. Two days later, on June 10, 2004 he was killed in a car wreck on his way to the Bonnaroo music festival in Tennessee. It was the worst day of my life. I have largely avoided writing about it, partly because I don't quite trust my memory to get the details just right, and partly because of the pain I knew it would cause myself and all of the people that loved Sean. You see, I was there that day. I just happened to be in the right car, the one that wasn't clipped by a tractor-trailer cab changing lanes at seventy miles per hour.

I have had ten years to mourn for my friend, the foul-mouthed musician with a heart of gold. He was my best friend's boyfriend, and as such he was a kind of brother figure- making fun of me for my crushes, handing out noogies, telling me that I needed to gain some weight, which I guess is why he forced about half of his breakfast on me when we stopped at a Hardees a few hours before he died.

Every time I see a dragonfly, I know that Sean is okay.
(That's a story for another day.)

For a long time, too, I mourned for myself. That day altered the course of my entire life. I was just a twenty-year-old girl on my way to a rock concert, wearing linen drawstring pants and a shirt that my mom sewed for me that tied in the back and told the world that I was young and carefree, bras be damned. Moments later I was standing stupidly in the hot, sharp grass by the side of the highway, trying to make sense of the scene that spread itself out before me. (I remember it, but I won't describe it. What would be the point of that?)

I do know that throughout the ordeal I repeatedly felt as if I were out of my own body, viewing the tragedy from afar, and the strangest thought kept entering my mind: Poor kids.  I stood apart from my traumatized self and watched as two young women, one of them me, embraced in the midst of burnt rubber and broken CDs and waited for a ride to the hospital. The helicopter carrying Sean had already taken off. The EMTs had stopped CPR. We were pretty sure we knew what we would hear upon arrival, but "dead" still felt impossible to process. And the whole time, that thought: Poor kids. We were nearly a thousand miles from home, about seventy miles from our destination. So close. And now we needed to function, to speak to doctors, find a hotel, get on a plane and face the rest of our lives. It wouldn't be easy. For the next year or so I would experience vivid flashbacks. I would break down at the slightest reference to anything remotely connected to Sean's death. I would return to college for my senior year and blame everyone in my path for not understanding, but how could they possibly? Slowly, and with the help of individuals that I truly believe God put in my path for just this purpose, I began to piece myself back together.

Grief and trauma lessen, but they don't go away. I felt it on Sunday night, ten years after the fact, watching this film about two teens who were, for reasons unknown, just dealt a bad hand. But I realized, as I crumpled up yet another tissue, that these tears were coming from a different place. I wasn't thinking about the loss of my friend, I was trying not to imagine the agony of losing one of my own children. 


At one point in The Fault in Our Stars the narrator writes, “There is only one thing in this world shittier than biting it from cancer when you're sixteen, and that's having a kid who bites it from cancer.” Since becoming a mother, ten-year-old memories have taken on a new pain. My grief will become fear if I let it. I could walk around, constantly afraid that one day I will be the one receiving the most terrible phone call imaginable. I could think, every time I look at my children, "This could be our last day together," which I guess would help me appreciate the little moments, but in all honesty, I don't want to have that in my head every day; it's too terrifying to even entertain. Terrible, tragic, unjust things happen all the time, but if I allow myself to think that they might happen to my child, I will be paralyzed by even the thought of that loss.

My heart has always been with Sean's mother. Now, as a mother's heart, it grieves with her even more. I hope it gives her even the smallest amount of solace to know that after ten years he is still remembered, he is missed, he is loved.

Just Say No

I fell in love with my husband for a host of reasons: his thoughtfulness, sense of humor, boyish good looks, spontaneity, ability to pair a button-down dress shirt with a tie-dye t-shirt. It was pretty clear from early on that we were compatible. However, I have found since having children that even if we shared every interest in the world, the most crucial measure of compatibility - and the one that will make or break a marriage - is our parenting philosophy. 

Thankfully (miraculously, even), Matt and I have very similar morals and values, and this has made our journey into parenthood a little less rocky. When my older child is working her hardest to push my buttons, he backs me up. (And just an FYI for the men out there, giving your wife a breather and taking over during a tantrum is worth SO much more than any romantic gesture.) If I had to give it a name, I would say our philosophy, when it comes to our kids, is "Just Say No." 

Children are going to want certain things. In the past couple of days I've heard, "Mommy, can I watch a show? Can I play on your phone? Can I have some candy? Can we stop at Dunkin' Donuts? Can I jump in Ceci's crib? Can I bring (insert random toy or object) to school? Can you buy me a princess doll? Mommy, why can't I watch a show? Can I not have a bath? Can we not wash hair? Can I have books in bed? Can you sing me another song? Can you read me another story?" And this is just one child talking. 

When Maggie was littler than she is now, my family thought that we were a little too strict with her. We used the southern reprimand "No ma'am!" whenever she did something naughty, which they thought was crazy- who calls a two-year-old "ma'am"? We offered her foods that were healthy and unseasoned while limiting those that were sweetened and processed. TV was a treat: one show a day. For Christmas and birthdays, we asked grandparents to give her ONE gift, not ten- and boy, do they still try to get out of that one!

To some, our parenting style became a running joke. One of my elderly relatives told my mom, "I'm going to say a prayer that Jenny lets Maggie eat a French fry." When we stated in our adult Sunday School class that we'd like to remain a one TV family, we were met with outright laughter. To me, though, it's really not funny. At some point, our society decided that childhood should be a time of gratification - what could be more endearing than the smile of a child who just drank his first Coke or opened his first iPad? 

Every time my child asks me a "Can I?" question, there are two possible answers. "Yes" is nice, and "yes" has its place, but will it make her happy? Healthy? Will it improve my relationship with her? Will it teach her to handle boredom and disappointment? Will it help her to be independent and think for herself?

So I stand my ground. I will continue to say no to my child. No, you cannot watch a show- go look at your books. No, you cannot play on my phone on the ride home from daycare - let's play "I Spy" instead. No, you cannot have some candy- eat a good dinner and we'll see. No, we cannot stop at Dunkin' Donuts- and I am trying desperately to break my own habit. No, no more songs or stories- it's time for bed, and don't you even think of getting out after that light goes out.

I'm human, and I have my moments of weakness, but when it comes down to it, I am a person of strong principles. I could spoil my children with junk food and gifts. I could teach them that they are the most important people in the entire world, and that they deserve everything in it. I could give them their way, give into their whims, let them get away with disrespect or disobedience. I choose not to do these things. I do not want my girls to take and take from the world, always expecting more, always expecting to feel good. I want them to expect less and be pleased with what they get, to live simply, to value relationships over material satisfaction. 

I know they're only little kids. I know I'm idealistic. But what can it hurt? Say no. Enjoy it, knowing that, in the long run, you are doing your child the best possible service. Then take a picture of your child crying about it, post it on Instagram, and have a good chuckle. Responsible parenting feels amazing, doesn't it?

First Steps

Maggie was using my phone to Face Time with a friend…
so I  borrowed my husband's phone to take a picture.

April 29, 2014 was an exciting day in the Pray household: Baby Cecilia, at a few days shy of ten months old, took her first steps. Luckily, but not surprisingly, my iPhone was within arm's reach, and I was able to capture the momentous event on video and post it immediately to Facebook. Within an hour, friends, relatives, and acquaintances all over the country had seen and "liked" my second daughter's big accomplishment.

This wasn't the first time that I had advertised one of my children's developmental milestones via social media. In fact, when I find myself getting behind in Maggie or Ceci's baby books, and I can't remember when they first smiled or said "mama" or spent the night at their grandparents' house, I go back to Facebook to find out. What can I say? My kids are super amazing and talented, and as a proud parent I want to share. Plus, Maggie and Ceci are involved in probably 93% of everything that happens in my life that anyone else would find remotely interesting. But here's the problem: I legitimately can't stop. It isn't just that I want to share. For reasons that I can only label as addiction, I'm compelled to share. And once I hit the "share" button, I'm compelled to keep my phone by me and check it every five minutes to see how my adorable photo or video or hilarious "kids say the darndest things" post is being received.

Clearly, I'm not the only one who is experiencing these struggles. All I need to do is look around me in any given setting to see the prevalence of technology in our lives. Human interaction is becoming a problem; patience, perhaps an even larger one. Like a controlled substance, the smart phone is our answer to boredom and loneliness. When I googled "smart phone addiction," plenty of the results related to parents like me who want to raise their children according to certain principles but can't seem to set the right example when it comes to technology.

Whenever I contemplate taking a step away from social media, I immediately dismiss the notion. Like anything that's bad for me, I do it because I like it. I think it is so awesome how motherhood and Facebook go hand in hand. As soon as I became a parent, I joined a club that includes people I was loosely acquainted with in high school, cousins I didn't actually know that well when I was growing up, and colleagues with whom I might not have that much else in common. These people get it. They understand why I can't help posting pictures of my daughter's naked butt. They are willing to respond to a question about car seat brands or baby constipation. They (I hope) don't judge me when I have to vent about how "bad" my kids can be and how much my life "sucks". Even better, the club isn't exclusive. When I had Maggie back in 2010, people I hadn't talked to in ages, who don't have children themselves, suddenly came out of the woodwork. It was weird, but wonderful, to see the reactions that other people had to my little girl.

As a result, I have reconnected with the most unlikely people. Although these may not be "real" friendships, they make me feel supported, and sometimes that's all I need. So I, in return, get to be a part of that support network for others, and cheer them on as they share their own milestones. I love watching families grow on Facebook, from the wedding to the first ultrasound picture to the soccer games and high school graduations.

So how do I find a healthy balance? How do I make sure that my daughters don't grow up believing that an iPhone is an absolute necessity, an essential extension of the body? How do I keep it from becoming a distraction that causes me to miss special moments rather than save them? How do I teach my children that the people in front of them will always be more important than any device?

I wish I had the answer. Try, I guess. Take some first steps - baby steps, most likely. Press "Post" and walk away until tomorrow, so that I can be present for the rest of today.

Losing It

Tonight, for no good reason, is one of those nights when I feel like I am on the verge of losing it. As is usual on these types of occasions, it wasn't one specific incident that tipped the scales, but a delicate concoction of increasingly annoying circumstances: At school today, an unproductive planning period that resulted in an even larger pile of papers cluttering my desk; a school bag stuffed with work that would follow me home; forty-five minutes of watching my eldest daughter be "that kid" at her swim lesson and running the risk of being labeled a helicopter parent if I intervened; the same child's declaration, "I don't like you and I don't love you" because I wouldn't allow her to play games on my phone as we drove home; a crappy salad for dinner because I was attempting to be healthy, but really wanted, like, a double bacon cheeseburger smothered in chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream; two crying children in the bath (one, because her sister was repeatedly kicking her, the other because she wanted her sister out of the bathtub); and then, on top of everything else, the ridiculous chore of picking up our house for the freaking cleaning lady.

I was completely aware, throughout the day, of my elevating stress level. I could feel my blood pressure rising, my ability to keep my cool steadily decreasing. I yelled at my nine-month old for sticking her hands in the toilet while we waited for the bath to fill. I snapped at my husband when he asked if I wanted him to work on cleaning or if he should try to rock the baby to sleep. I told myself, as calmly as possible, that nobody benefits from my bad mood. But, as many of you probably know, cold, hard reason isn't terribly effective when you're legitimately losing it.

"It": a tiny pronoun that encompasses so much. My mind, for one. My body. My ability to carry on a phone conversation that requires actual listening. A lot of my friendships, probably because I can no longer carry on a phone conversation that requires actual listening. Relaxing dinners out. Movies more  than ninety minutes long. Spontaneity. Uninterrupted quality time with my husband.

The list goes on. Forget about losing it. "It" is long gone.

When I was nineteen, I got my tonsils removed. Before the surgery, my mom and I sat down with my doctor and he read out a questionnaire that was meant to determine how I would deal with the stress of the procedure. I remember laughing as we described my most common response to stress. When I was in high school, my mom would frequently wake up to the smell of brownies or muffins and come downstairs to find out what was wrong. Apparently this was enough for the doctor to believe that I wouldn't lose it; with the help of baked goods, I could cope.

Eleven years later, I have other tools at my disposal. An episode of The Mindy Project. A glass of Pinot Noir. A Pandora station called "Indie Rock Dance Party". Supportive work friends. Yoga. A husband who really, really, wants to make my life easier.

I love my children with every tiny atom of my being. Their ridiculously cute faces grin at me from the desktop of my school computer. I constantly catch myself telling stories about them that no other human being could possibly care about. I know that some of this craziness and chaos will end when they grow up, but I don't want them to grow up.

You all know where this is going. You know that regret isn't a part of my vocabulary. I've gained more than I've lost. My life is bigger, more fulfilling, better in a lot of ways, but it doesn't stop me from missing some of what I've lost.

As a writer I long for closure, a clean and clear-cut way to wrap up. Tonight, I think, it's not going to happen. Parenthood is what it is. It isn't clear and it sure as hell isn't clear-cut, and the majority of the time it makes me feel like a genuine psycho.

The end.

The Hard Way

I was going to title this post "Living With Discipline," but then I thought that might be misleading. When I think about that phrase, I think about somebody who gets up at 4:45 every morning to get a workout in before the kids wake up, someone who only allows themselves two alcoholic beverages and one dessert per week, someone who controls the number of minutes that they spend perusing Facebook and Instagram each day. That person, clearly, is not me.

No, what I mean is living with the butt-naked, possibly possessed, supposed-to-be-napping child who, until about 40 minutes ago was shrieking at me from the top of the stairs to read her a book. (Now she is peacefully sleeping on her bedroom floor…not that I have DARED to get close enough to confirm that.) That, my friends, is the kind of discipline I am referring to.

You think I'm leaving without this
princess chair? Try me.

Let me back up: Maggie, while at her sweetest is the most darling child ever on the face of the planet, at her worst honestly reminds me of the kid from The Exorcist. She has been this way from the very beginning- difficult to please, impossible to reason with, and as they say down here in the south, as hard-headed as they come. I truly believe that I have been dealt this lot in life because I was such a butt to my own mom when I was growing up, but that's a tale for another day. Of course, today when nap time rolled around my husband was out of the house (coincidence?), but the routine was the same as always. Pull-up on, read two books, sing two songs, music on. I set her "Owl", her alarm clock, for the time when she's allowed to wake up, and as long as she's quiet, we're good.

Unfortunately, our routine hit a snag when Maggie decided she wanted four books instead of two.

Me (Very calmly): We read two books. Which two do you want me to read?

Maggie: I don't like you.

Me (the human embodiment of a cucumber): That's fine. Now which two would you like me to read?

Maggie (Not at all calmly): NO! WE READ FOUR!

Me (Again, very reasonable): Maggie, if you scream at me again, I'm not reading you any books. Do you understand? You don't speak to your mommy that way.

Maggie: NO! I CAN YELL AT YOU!

So, just like Super Nanny taught me, I made good on my warning. No books. That part was easy. What wasn't easy was the crying, begging, ripping off clothes, and eventually taking away two of her favorite books that followed.

Discipline sucks. I wish I could be more eloquent about it, but seriously, it's the worst. This witch lady who takes children's books away from them and once barred my daughter from Sunday school because that was the one thing she was excited about- that isn't me. Never in a million years did I imagine me, as a parent, asking my child, "Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?" and then dumping cups of water over her head while she screams like I'm pulling off her toenails instead of rinsing the shampoo out of her hair.

When it comes to parenting, there is an easy way and a hard way, and choosing to discipline your child is by far the harder choice. It's necessary, I know, because I've taught kids who have seemingly never heard the word "No" in their lives, but (expletive of your choice) it's exhausting.  Discipline is beyond poop, beyond throw-up, beyond middle of the night feedings, beyond being forced to watch weird, borderline-creepy kids' shows, the least fun aspect of parenting. Because, as Maggie tells me, "You a bad guy, mommy."And who wants to hear their kid tell them that?

I pray about discipline. No kidding, I do. A lot. It takes a superhuman amount of strength to instill in your child positive habits and morals without wanting to pull a Homer Simpson on them. And I continue to do what all of us in this boat do, which is to take it one day at a time and fight each battle knowing that, at least for now, I'm bigger than she is. 

Messy and Blessed

Recently, my husband and I finally admitted that we can't do everything. (Shocking, I know.)
Completely overwhelmed by full-time jobs, two kids who deposit toys, shoes, and occasionally bodily fluids in every corner of our house, and the growing realization that as hard as we will it, the universe will never randomly supply us with more hours in a day, we hired a cleaning lady.

What? I like him, he licks me. No problem.

But that's not really what this post is about. As awesome as it is to walk into the house once every other week and breathe in the aroma of industrial strength cleaner - because yes, the first time she came to clean, she texted me to say that she wasn't satisfied with my tub and would need to bring something stronger next time - and feel like Ceci can roll around on the living room carpet without collecting a layer of dog hair, let's be honest: It takes about five minutes for the mess to resurface.

It's weird; I don't think I ever used to be anal, but at this point in my life, there's not a whole lot I can control. I spend my days with hormonal 7th graders and my time away from work with two of the most temperamental people I've ever encountered, plus a baby. (Did you catch that one? What a zinger. I got my husband good!) Consequently, I end up focusing a lot of my attention on the mess. Sometimes it feels like if I can put everything back in its proper place, I'll feel a little bit saner. God knows I don't feel sane when I walk into my home feeling like an alpaca carrying bags full of school work, lunches, gym clothes, and bottles that need to be washed, plus a baby carrier that weighs about 87 pounds, and I immediately have to get people fed and try to find a place for all of the crap that I just brought into my house.

But anyway. I have spent countless hours wandering around my house trying to clean up, getting distracted in each messy room that I enter, while Maggie tugs at my sleeve asking me to play with her and Ceci tries to eat some unidentifiable item she just found on the floor. And still, even when I know that my kids need me, it's hard to just let the mess go.

I'm aware enough to know what this whole issue is really about. I realize that my life will probably never be orderly again, if it ever was. I know that I am fighting a losing battle, yet the impulse to clean up never really leaves me. So what is there to do? Feel forever unsatisfied with my environment? Get the cleaning lady to come more often? Once a week? Every day? Would I feel saner then?

And this is why we don't use our tupperware for storing food.

Acceptance, I find, is a difficult step to take, especially when it comes to our own imperfections. I will never be able to do it all. I will always fall short in some respect. But even people in my situation, who often question their soundness of mind, (and I'm talking about parents, in case anyone didn't pick up on that), have enough sense to ask themselves, "What is going to define me? My failure to vacuum under the kitchen table after my child eats graham crackers, or the way my daughter uses her manners to ask for another bowl of cereal? My inability to keep track of dirty socks, or the fact that I've figured out how to get the baby to fall asleep without crying?"

The mess will always be there, but let's face it, parenthood is a messy business. So what if Ceci's butt always has a film of dirt on it, since she refuses to crawl and drags her bottom across the floor like a human Swiffer? That's what we have daily loads of laundry for. So what if there are Maggie-prints on every window in our home? At least she cares about the world outside.  It's sometimes hard to see the mess as a blessing, but when I think about who made it, well, what else would it be?