Finite

It always gets away from me—my time as a mother, that is. Every morning I awake with the best intentions. Today I’ll get the laundry done, the practicing done, the cleaning, the cooking, the reading, the grocery shopping, the research for any number of needed items, the bills paid, the office and closets organized, the thank you notes written, I’ll try to actually say a meaningful prayer, and oh yeah, I’ll take care of the baby and manage to absorb and enjoy my kids. (Exhale here). . . If only, right?

Truth is, one of my most difficult struggles with mothering is the wide divide between my expectations of what I would be able to undertake as a mother versus the reality. Think about it. When parenting is at its theoretical stage, (i.e. before that first baby has landed in your home), one has any number of expectations of the experience. Mine included all sorts of glorious ideals: I was going to read classics with my children every day, include them regularly in service projects in order to foster empathy for others, give them access to lots of physical exercise or sports, have each one of them learn a musical instrument, make sure each of them was nurtured individually in their relationships with me on a daily basis, and help them foster a deep love of the gospel of Jesus Christ. And all this was supposedly going to take place in the midst of maintaining some sort of a meaningful career/outlet on the side, having a clean home, and getting enough sleep to look like I at least look my own age. . .

I suppose much of this anticipation evolved from the fact that I used to be capable of accomplishing a lot on my own as an individual. In my former life I used to be a serious musician, and later an attorney. On my own it seemed I could get anything done with just a little concentration and time management. I even used to have the arrogance to tacitly judge stay-at-home mothers of my acquaintance in wondering what it was they did all day.
Oh my, does karma have a way of biting you in the back side or what? Eventually, (and thankfully), I had my own turn with closely spaced little children, struggling health, and all of my previous expectations staring me back in the face . . . Judging me JUST AS I DESERVED.

There was simply no way to anticipate the realities of trying to get anything done when you’re trying to help other little hands and feet move at any “normal” pace, nor the time it takes to decently and consistently discipline/referee, to even get them dressed, to build in time or plans in order to avoid tantrums , to plan around very necessary naps, or what it feels like when the little folks constantly find ingenious ways to undo your work. (I always tell Pearly-Q it feels like someone keeps hitting the delete button around here). There’s certainly nothing that can prepare you for what it feels like when you have appropriately done all these things, are finally ready to walk out the door (hopefully with at least a little mascara on by this point), and then your baby has a complete diaper blow-out—usually part of it ending up on you. The whole world comes to a standstill, and you essentially start all over again. I mean, yesterday I finally took my first shower of the day at 5 p.m.

I suppose that much of this stems from the fact that we are, I believe, actually eternal beings, with spirits and desires that are greater than our current earthly capacity and are eager to progress as much as possible not only here, but also in the eternities beyond. Our intentions are bigger than we are, and we’re still trying to get our heads around how finite time is here. For as many times as it hits me over the head, it is still hard for me to believe that I really only have 24 hours in each day, and that somehow most of my heavenly intentions are left unrealized at the end of the day. I can’t stand it. Sometimes it makes me mad, (which makes absolutely no sense). Then again, it certainly gives me greater empathy for other mothers, and most especially for my own, which--in the end--makes a lot of sense.

Wonderbaby

Imagine a sister. A fantastic sister. Someone who you love and admire and appreciate for all that she does to hold the family together and nurture those around her. That's my sister R.J.

Now imagine that that same sister who has been married for the last several years to a wonderful man (Groove), and has been unable to have a child that whole time. It's been hard for me to watch, not because they've felt sorry for themselves, but because I have observed their remarkable talents as potential parents go unrealized thus far. As in most cases of infertility, it has just seemed inherently unfair.

Now envision a miracle--a miracle of grand proportions that enters into their lives. Her name is Wonderbaby.

Wonderbaby is from Western Samoa--where Groove is from. On an unexpected day in May, Groove and R.J. received a call from his parents there saying that they had a baby for them, and wanted to know what they would like to name her.

What the? . . . They had no idea what to think. But, as is often the case with God's hand in things, one thing led to another, and they were on the road to adopting Wonderbaby.

That road had its twists and turns--uncertainty, and a great deal of longing on the part of my sister to finally hold Wonderbaby in her arms. However, along the way, I have been astounded at the phenomenon that has taken place. It has rivaled Big-O's miraculous adoption in its magnitude, and I have often found myself thinking that it is the Lord's international equivalent.

Wonderbaby came home with her parents last night. Her deep chocolate eyes and supple brown skin were almost as irresistable as her huge grin. Wonderbaby's ability to stay contagiously happy in the face of hours of international travel tells you much about her temperament, and I think she's earned her nickname for many reasons. More than anything, my heart melted to see Wonderbaby's magical effect on her mommy and daddy:
It's amazing to consider the healing effect that a baby can have on those around her. In this case, Wonderbaby leaves individuals behind in Western Samoa that will have their souls etched by her magic forever. As a family, we honor these precious people, and thank them for the joy they have brought to another family that will forever be changed by their goodness, as well as by God's unmistakable hand.

Welcome, Wonderbaby, welcome! We couldn't be more excited to love you.

Whisper Sweet Nothings

If there's anything I adore about having a baby, it is the chance to experience each little nuance of development. With Coco turning 6 weeks old tomorrow, she's now trying to communicate with me. She coos and smiles and sighs--all in her own sweet way. I usually get to chat with her this way when I feed her, or just when we cuddle together.

Today when I was at a doctor's appointment, I was caught up in conversation with my CNM, and Coco tried to get my attention by looking right at me, smiling as bright as she could, and letting out long verbal sighs of delight. Now, there might have been a time in my mothering that I would have more or less ignored her communication, letting it wait until the conversation with my practitioner was over. Not this time. I now realize just how fleeting this stage is, and I immediately turned to smile back and recognize that her message came through loud and clear.

"I love you, too, honey." I responded.

Now for those of you who will be partying it up this New Year, enjoying all the many forms revelry that comes along with the holiday, have a great time and live it up. Enjoy the stage of life that you're in, because each one has its perks. As for me, I'll be savoring the one that I currently find myself in as I quietly coo in 2010 with Coco. I celebrate this new year with new life, and it doesn't get much better than that.

Tired

In line with the original purpose of documenting my life as a young mother, particularly life with a baby, I would be remiss if I did not include something about sleep deprivation.

There's just no getting around it. For as much as a mother is crazy about her little one, the lack of sleep that accompanies the joyous bundle is something fierce, especially if you have other young children who occassionally decide not to sleep either. Last night was an example of that. Here's the log. (Keep in mind this was all going in the midst of me fighting a new cold Sassy generously passed on):

• 10:00 p.m. -- Coco's final evening feeding. We're done about 45 minutes later, finally ready to sleep.
• 2:10 a.m. -- Coco wakes up for a feeding and change
• 3:00ish a.m. -- Sassy wakes up crying for "Mommy and Daddy." We still don't understand what she wanted.
• 3:30ish a.m. -- Sassy wakes up again crying for "Mommy and Daddy," and I lay on thick the need for her to really go back to sleep.
• 5:15 a.m. -- Coco wakes up hungry. I try and hold her off a bit so that we can feed her at her usual 6:30 a.m. feeding to try and get her on a consistent schedule. This ends up her being in bed next to me for a while, as I try to repeatedly replace her pacifier. No sleep here for me, really.
• 6:25 a.m. -- Finally feed Coco. And, I'm really tired.

Seriously, I don't know how single mothers do it. Were it not for Pearly-Q's help, I think I would flip out. The crazy thing is, for as insane as last night was, compare my shameless photo above with little Miss Bright-and-Bushy-Tailed:

The irony!

The Best Christmas Gifts

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about gifts lately. When Pearly-Q asked me this year what I would want for Christmas, I was honestly stumped . . . I literally don’t feel like I need anything. As we all eventually figure out, material things (beyond meeting our basic physical needs), really don’t bring happiness. Temporary satiation—maybe—but happiness? Don’t count on it.
Considering all the blessings I’ve been basking in lately as a mother, I honestly couldn’t think of any particular material item I should send my husband on a wild goose chase for. (Now if he were to offer cooking dinner for a straight week, that might be a different matter). As for stuff, though? Nah.

For me, this Christmas, I consider the list of gifts that I’ve been showered with and I can’t imagine any holiday season more resplendent. Here’s just a smidgen of them as a reminder for me in the future:

• An honorable, kind, and funny husband who loves me in spite of all my multi-faceted neuroses


Four awesome, healthy kids--Including a darling baby (who just started to cooing at me, actually), and made it through a precarious delivery safe and sound—without having to have surgery, which we’d previously thought was very likely



My health. (After going through a long period of difficult health and severe insomnia, I promised myself that I wouldn’t take this for granted again).


Not having to wear nasty support hose anymore


Food, warm shelter, clothing, education, clean water

And last, but definitely not least:

A Savior. I am so grateful for Jesus Christ and what He does for my life personally. When I am at my wits end with how short my best efforts fall, I thank Him for His remarkable ability to make me whole. I remember His birth with reverence and joy.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

"Shirley T"

I think I may have come up with a new, more fitting nickname for the Sass. Recently as I got her dressed up for church in her latest Christmas dress, I did her hair with the typical curls, this time with ringlets all around her head. (Hallelujah to the fact that I got at least one child—thankfully this one a girl—with my more low-maintenance curly hair!)

As she got up and ran from me, I remarked to Pearly-Q, “Honey, I swear that Sassy looks just like Shirley Temple.”

To this, he cocked his head to one side and slowly nodded, “Yeah . . . I think you’re right.”
Since that time I haven’t been able to get that thought out of my head, and have started to call her “Shirley T.” When I first used this name, Sassy responded in typical fashion, “I’m not Shirley!”

Then I explained, “Do you know who Shirley Temple was, honey? She was a beautiful little girl, with dark curly hair just like you. She was so cute that everyone loved her.”

Sassy lingered for a moment. Sassy is very picky about labels, I’ll have you know. For instance, we cannot refer to her as cute, or pretty—only beautiful. Fortunately, after much deliberation she finally answered, “Okay, I Shirley.” Yes! Victory!

I, for one, grew up adoring Shirley Temple, just like the generation above me. Regardless of the fact that I did like Sprite and grenadine anyway, I always ordered “Shirley Temple” drinks wherever I went just because I loved the name so much. I still remember watching the old 1939 version of The Little Princess, wishing that I could be Shirley Temple’s character as she wakes up one morning to the surprise satin quilt, beautiful robes, and hot breakfast her friendly Indian neighbor with the parrot has given her. I wanted to be her even more when she throws the big bucket of ashes on the resident snob/bully of the girls’ school where she has become an indentured servant. Call me precocious, but the film conjured all sorts of fun imaginary scenarios that I loved acting out as a little girl myself. I remember thinking how one day if I had a little girl, I would watch Shirley Temple with her, too.

So, in honor of that tradition, last night I picked up a copy of The Little Princess, and watched it with my kids. It was more charming than I’d remembered, and I was struck by just how much Sassy really does remind me of that famous actress. Her pout, giggle, smile, natural charm, and happy-go-lucky air were so similar to my own little girl—not to mention her joy in dancing. I can’t tell you how many hours a day are spent by the Sass twirling, leaping, and posing as delicately as a three-year-old can manage while she listens to Christmas music. (She’ll even dance to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir broadcasts).

Needless to say, Sassy fell for Shirley Temple as much as I once did. I delighted in looking over at her face last night. She was completely mesmerized, and when I tucked her into bed last night, after the initial requirements of kissing all my individual facial features, cuddling in her bed for “ooone minute,” and sharing a story from when I was a “wittle girl,” Sassy asked if she could watch The Little Princess again when she woke up. I happily grinned and nodded. Though there are definite traits I hope Sassy does not pick up from me, (i.e. my temper, potty mouth, or any other number of nefarious flaws I will be working on for my lifetime), at least this is one area I certainly don't mind her taking after me. Long live Shirley!

Freak outs and Epiphanies

I hate to admit it, but this picture captures part of what I've been feeling lately.

Now that the logistical realities of mothering four children ages five and under are setting in, I have been facing all sorts of new realizations about my shortcomings. I have found that in the midst of managing the chaos, I get more frustrated and frazzled than I would like to admit. Unfortunately, this also means my family ends up getting the brunt of my aggravation as well. Last week I had a complete freakout session when Pearly-Q inquired about why hadn’t put the berries back in the fridge. In my sleep-deprived, deranged mind, I decided to take offense about his “criticisms” of me in the face of me taking on what felt like Mount Everest. Poor guy.

My biggest annoyance has been what feels like the inevitable tendency of everyone around me to ignore what I have to say. Now, I know that most mothers feel like most of their children don’t listen to them, but lately it has felt more uncanny than I can describe. Regardless of the method of my communication—multiple reminders, calmly or not so calmly conveyed—I seem to be resolutely disregarded. Normally I freak out about this, and I have more than once recently. (I am completely ashamed to admit that I called Santa Claus on Bitty this last Friday when he had one doozy of a day. It wasn’t pretty.)

Recently, however, I have wondered whether or not there is something I am doing that is causing this insatiable problem. I am the common thread, after all. And, for as long overdue as it might seem, it has caused some real soul-searching about why my family doesn’t want to listen to me. Fortunately, in talking this out with someone else, I reached an epiphany: perhaps I am not listening to myself. This person observed that I am continually discouraged by the fact that I don’t have enough quiet time to pray and meditate. As a result, I don’t allow myself the chance to consider the various situations in my life, and what I can do to improve on them. I don’t have time to listen to the Lord’s direction, or pay attention to any other cues from my own spirit, for that matter.

This has been a helpful observation, and one which I’m trying to utilize. Easier said than done, I know. But, I’m considering how to allow my soul more quiet moments to . . . just . . . listen. I try to do this most often when I’m feeding the baby alone, (this seems to be the easiest time). In the process I find that I’m clearing the clutter of my own mind, which means that I’m less volatile. Now we’ll see if it makes a difference in how others around me respond . . . I guess we’ll all have to stay tuned.