Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch...

2:00 p.m.   I put Sam down for a nap (which will likely not involve actual sleeping), and I close his door to the sound of his musical toothbrush singing "Here Comes Peter Cottontail" on repeat. If you're wondering, this is the kind of thing Communists could use to torture people into surrendering information. I've been listening to that toothbrush sing about a rabbit for the last twenty minutes and if I had any information to give the Commies, I'd have spilled it by now.

2:05 p.m.   I'm back in Sam's room with the intent of swiping the toothbrush before it drives me clinically insane. But, then I discover that he needs a serious diaper change. Whilst changing said diaper, the toothbrush continues to serenade me and Sam chews on it a bit. Then he smiles and says,

"Mmmm. Want a bite?" to which I answer, "No, thanks."

"Mmmm. It's tasty." Sure, it is.

"Tastes like cake," he says. Right. Or Chinese plastic.

I'm laughing hard at this point in the conversation and I realize that because you're not here to see how adorable he is or hear his little voice saying all this, you obviously can't enjoy it as much as I do. But, in the interest of writing things down for his future wife to (hopefully) read about his childhood, here I am posting it before I forget it.

This is the kind of moment in the long days of staying at home with a toddler that make it all so infinitely worth it. Thank the Lord for singing toothbrushes that taste like cake. I'm not sure I wouldn't just run away on occasion without moments like these.

Sigh.

P.S. I just noticed that this is my 100th blog post. So, I'm thinking I should have written something a little more momentous for numero hundredo. But, then, maybe this is just the right thing to mark one hundred posts. I suppose a post about changing diapers while laundry gets tossed around in the dryer downstairs is just about right for commemorating this blog's 100th entry. I think it's official now: I am a mommy blogger. That felt like a weird confessional. Oh, well.

The Danger Zone

With my somewhat inexact math skills, I've calculated the time between now and the day I turn thirty-five. And it turns out that it's something like nine months and eighteen days. I have a very real fear that when the calendar rolls around to that day that everything attached to me will instantly begin to sag and all those wrinkles I've been fighting back will show up with reinforcements and take over my whole face. In other words, thirty-five is haunting my dreams.

In addition to my sleepless nights over turning half of seventy, I'm also pondering the medical community's assessment of this random number of years, specifically in the life of a person who could potentially make a baby at any moment. According to them, thirty-five is the beginning of The Danger Zone. And this, my friends, is not the Kenny Loggins' kind of danger zone (Pause here to let that particular line of song from "Top Gun" reverberate in your memory as you see a post-Scientology Tom Cruise playing shirtless-jean shorts volleyball in your mind's eye). No, thirty-five is where my ObGyn starts getting cagey about the possibility of me having more babies.

My great grandmother had sixteen children. Sadly, only eight made it to adulthood and those eight were all boys over six feet who probably made her want to give a few back on occasion. (Rabbit trail: those eight boys all went to war during World War II and every last one of them made it back without a scratch.) Anyhoo, she was having babies into her mid-forties, which these days is unacceptable unless you're a well-preserved Hollywood actress who still looks thirty-two, despite having been in The Danger Zone for roughly ten years.

So, I'm wondering, is the day I turn thirty-five really the moment when all bets are off and the chances of my child being born with an additional arm or third eye become more than just a vague possibility?

I keep trying to sort out the fear that I feel about trying to have more children and my hope that there will be atleast one more person to use all the baby stuff I've got squirreled away in the attic. I'm trying really hard not to let an impending birthday make me afraid.

I did not expect my childbearing years to be as tough as they've been and, to be honest, some days I'm ready to throw in the towel and just get a small dog. But, as long as there's still a chance, it's hard not to keep hoping for just one more small, Johnson and Johnson-scented miracle.

Prepare yourself for an awkward confession happening in three, two, one... Sam and I were rocking his stuffed animals to sleep this morning and I was holding this scruffy old dog named Henry that belonged to Matt when he was a baby. There we were, me cradling a thirty-year old stuffed animal and Sam holding a cat puppet with the scariest plastic eyes you can possibly imagine. I was attempting to teach Sam "Rockabye Baby" which is a weird little tune if you take a moment to think those lyrics through. Pretty sure a mom who couldn't get a wink of sleep because of a crying baby wrote that song at 2 a.m.

Anyway, there was a weird moment as I held that stinky old stuffed dog (I've febreezed him, but he still has a bit of a 1980's aroma) where I was reminded of what it felt like to hold a real, live baby. I put that dog down in a hot second because I felt like that just might be the beginning of something I might need counseling for later. No more rocking stuffed animals to sleep for me.

But, the reality is that despite the seemingly long odds, two miscarriages, and a somewhat aging body, I can't seem to give up hope for another baby. I want to sometimes. I try to convince myself that I can be content with one child, that he won't grow up to be the Unabomber because he didn't have any siblings, and that our future Christmases won't be uber depressing with just one kid opening all the presents.

And yet, I can't get away from this hoping stuff. It's hard to push down.  

I mean, God gave Sarah a baby when she was like ninety-eight or something, right? I think He can probably work with thirty-five.

And while we're talking about babies, here's a picture to remind you of how cute Sam was as a babe.
                                                        
                                                                                            Baby Sam, circa 2010

Again

Lately, I've been feeling the urge to clean out closets, get in shape, lose five pounds, eat spinach, read more, watch less television, invest more in friendships, read my Bible, write more, learn new things, sit on the porch more, etc, etc, etc. I think I'm feeling a bit stagnant these days and realizing that if I don't live with a little more intention, I'm going to miss out on some things I don't want to miss out on.

What's prompting this mini-revival/premature mid-life crisis, you ask? Well, it's partly the wake-up call that turning thirty-four gave me. It's also something of a response to a change of plans we just got handed.

If you know me, you know that I don't share personal things as well as a normal person might. (Perhaps you disagree considering the fact that I have a blog, also known as a very public diary). But, to be honest, I'm not good at sharing feelings. Ask my husband. About once every six months, something comes over me and I find myself overwhelmed by all the emotions I've been stuffing for half a year and it all kind of blows up in one big explosion, usually over a rare dinner date with said husband, who is blindsided mid-meal. Also, as a bonus, I usually cry when this happens. Lucky Matt.

Anyway, I tell you this because, in light of my seeming handicap when it comes to sharing feelings,
I'm going to once again use this blog to mass-communicate something personal that I'd likely make really awkward if I was telling you in person.

Remember last summer when I shared about the miscarriage we had? Well, despite the odds being somewhat stacked in our favor regarding having a healthy pregnancy after a miscarriage, we had another lost pregnancy this summer. We're still processing this whole experience and trying to make some sense of it, so it's possible that I'm writing this post prematurely. (Which means there may be a sequel to this post that includes some sort of minor breakdown, possible identity crisis, or something else equally dramatic.)

I've been wrestling with a lot of the obvious things that probably anyone would after a disappointment like this one. It's been hard not to be angry and tell God He's really got some nerve giving Snooki and the Kardashian sister babies when we're obviously the ones who should be getting babies around here. (note: I realize the seriously gross arrogance I just expressed, in case you were wondering). But, beyond the issue of the Snooki/Kardashian/Hollywood people having babies like it was their newest hobby, I've had a harder time with the reality of others who have perfectly healthy babies choosing to medically dispose of them while folks like us are aching to welcome little ones into our family. I haven't been able to reconcile any of this just yet, although some light is coming through the crack in the door I've been trying to shut and the truths of common grace and the promised redemption of a fallen world are starting to filter in.

What I'm also keenly reminded of is how unbelievably miraculous it is that any baby makes into the world considering all the minute details that have to happen just right for the whole process to even work. It's mind-blowing, really. The ultra-sound screen we stared at a month or so ago that didn't have the baby we were expecting floating around in it only made me that much more aware of how crazy-precious the little one God gave us two and a half years ago is.

And so, in the midst of all the grief and the confusion and the rearranging of our life and our plans regarding our little family, I'm reminded that there is still hope. I'm still working out the details of what exactly to be hoping for, but regardless of my frequent lack of faith and the weight of this fallen world, I cannot help but believe that there will be some redemption in even this.

I've been spending time at my parents, getting help with the little guy and regrouping a bit in a place that's familiar and safe. And this is where I've been thinking about this need for intentionality that keeps waking me up in the morning with thoughts of writing books and traveling and praying more. Maybe I'm having an "Eat, Pray, Love" experience after a devastating loss, but I'm not sure that it's the same thing.

Having lost something I was really, really hoping for seems to have reminded me of what it means to hope for something at all. I think in the midst of baby-having, baby-watching, and the past year and a half of toddler-hood, I forgot how to hope for more than just the moment I was in.

After a different kind of loss years ago, a wise friend offered counsel that included "leaving a crack in the door for Jesus." I think that's where I am again. Despite the instinct of a wounded heart wanting to slam the door shut on the possibility of hoping again, I think the desire to see God do something new and restorative is strong enough to help me leave the door cracked a little.

A friend emailed me last week with this verse:

I Peter 5:10 "And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.

Restore. To give back. To return. To renew.

There's a boatload of hope in that word. I think I'm going to go write that one on the wall somewhere or crochet it onto a pillow.

Or maybe have it tattooed on my arm.

                  This guy is a daily reminder of God's faithfulness to me. He's also the reason I may

 need to take valium on a daily basis at some point.

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

You know how sometimes you're cleaning the lint out of the dryer, or picking up the forty-two thousand cheddar bunnies that your child has tossed onto the carpet, or walking up the stairs to get the laundry you keep forgetting to bring down for the hundredth time and suddenly you have an unexpected flashback from The Old Days? The days when things like cheddar bunnies weren't on your list of things you knew existed and laundry only happened once or twice a month and you wore make-up more days than you didn't.

I had a flashback like that the other day whilst doing something mundane and house-wifely, like washing the dishes or making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Out of nowhere came this image of my younger self with dyed, one-shade-lighter than goth hair, glistening in the sun. What was that about, I wondered. I remembered that those boxes of impermanent hair dye come with this magical conditioner that makes your hair shiny and awesome for a few weeks. I found myself considering dying my hair again. And then, the logical part of my brain shot that idea down.

After pondering the benefits of hair dye for a moment, I washed another dish and mulled over that bit of my hair's history and then recalled a little more about what the catalyst for one-step-away-from-goth hair had been. The Kardashians weren't ubiquitous then, so it couldn't have been an unconscious attempt at achieving the hue of their lustrous, unnaturally shiny locks. And then I remembered.

That dye job was right out of my old "I just got dumped" playbook. I dyed my hair soon after a less than enjoyable summer of yo-yo dating and then a subsequent break-up. My solution to this "devastating" loss was to dye my hair a semi-ungodly color. It was super shiny for a while and then it was just awkwardly dark.

This stroll down breakup memory lane prompted a bit of reminiscing about my ill-advised responses to breakups during my twenties. In case you aren't there yet, or can't really remember them, the twenties are a teensy bit tumultuous. There's a boatload of figuring out how the heck to be an adult that spawns more than a little drama. And, everything feels so intensely important and weighty and life-altering. Turning thirty solves some of this, and having a child solves a whole lot more of it. However, I have this sneaking suspicion that it might start all over again at forty.

Anyway, I thought you might enjoy a little look back at some of the ways I turned a breakup into a dramatic life-altering revolution. And if you're still a single, twenty-something or other, maybe you should take notes.

1. My first misguided response to a break-up may seem pretty dull, and to be fair, it was. Essentially, the choice here was to become a nun of sorts. I lived in a house with five women, spent hours and hours reading my Bible and praying and was for all intents and purposes a nun/hermit. I think we even called our house a "nunnery" if I remember correctly. Looking back, this wasn't as dramatic a response as it could have been, but it took me a while to get back in the game after a semester as a nun/hermit/potential una-bomber.
NOTE: This is not to say that a semester of reading my Bible and praying was a bad thing. I just didn't get out much. Or ever.

2. The second response was a little bit more dramatic and maybe a little more pathetic considering the boyfriend in question wasn't an official boyfriend. Lots of ambiguity and confusion here, friends, so we'll just skip to the misguided response part. After a dramatic conclusion to our non-relationship, I resigned from my first real job in the city and moved back in with my parents, four hours away. I was 23 so let's all give early-twenties-me a break.

3. Breakup number three was less dramatic and more crazy ex-girlfriend-ish. No, I didn't burn anyone's house down or key anyone's car. I did, however, decide that it would be a really good idea to join the gym which my gym-obsessed ex-boyfriend frequented. I still cannot explain what made this seem like a good idea at the time, especially when my greatest fear was running into said ex-boyfriend at said gym.

Feeling better about yourself yet?

4. A few years later, after a long-distance relationship suddenly became no-distance, the "no" part of that equation led my boyfriend to decide that we should call quits. This breakup was the catalyst for the goth hair I mentioned above (which really wasn't as bad as you're imagining). It was also the impetus for the purchase of an almost brand-new Jeep Wrangler. Turns out, owning a new car doesn't make being dumped feel any more awesome in case you were thinking it would.

So, maybe there weren't as many unfortunate responses to breakups as I remembered. Maybe I'm blocking a few out for my sanity's sake. All I know is that it's a good thing Matt showed up when he did, or who knows how long this blog post would be or what sort of lunacy I might have engaged in over a breakup (i.e. I was probably just one breakup away from a tattoo).

Now I'm curious if anybody else out there has made an ill-advised decision related to a breakup. I'd love to hear it...

Picking Fights with Preschoolers

This is a post where it's possible that I might rant a teensy bit. So, prepare yourself. And, maybe hide the children.

This cautionary tale begins last Saturday, a day in which we ate pumpkin pancakes, shopped at Ace Hardware and Wal-Mart, and happened upon a pretty great cheap Mexican place for lunch. Later, we had friends over for shrimp and grits and some pretty amazing derby pie a la my friend Carli. Yes, I just mentioned what we ate that day three times in the last two sentences, which means your assessment is correct: we consumed an ungodly amount of calories last Saturday. But, that's not really important. Along with all this eating and errand-running and fun-having, there was also a semi-fateful visit to the community park.

Matt usually takes Sam to the park on Saturday mornings so that I can do things like paint my toenails, read People magazine and call my bff's (besties if you're under 19). What actually happens is that Matt takes Sam to the park and I clean the kitchen, clean the bathroom, do the laundry and possibly take a shower. Sometimes, just sometimes, I paint my toenails. Also, this is not important to this story.

Anyhoo, Matt took Sam to the park and then I met them there so that we could all ride together on our way to make all those things I mentioned earlier happen. Sam was sufficiently hot and sweaty which meant he probably enjoyed his little visit to the land of stuff you can climb on/hang on/jump off of. But, Matt seemed a little perturbed.

It turns out that there were a couple of four or five-year old punks (I'll explain this choice of words in a moment) who decided to hang out on the side of the park where toddlers do their thing and Sam was instantly drawn to these two older boys on the wrong side of the playground. Apparently, he went right over to sit down beside them and I can only imagine what kind of conversation he tried to start. Probably something about the rock he just picked up or the fact that he'd just eaten a graham cracker.

Anyway, Matt went on to tell me that those two boys basically made fun of my little guy and called him a "stupid baby."

Here is where I want to use curse words and pick fights with anyone who looks at me the wrong way. When Matt told me this I literally felt my hands ball into fists and veins pop out of my neck. I now very clearly understand what the term "Mama Bear" means.

At church the next day I noticed Matt's eyes narrow and I glanced in the direction he was looking. Apparently, a kid a few rows up looked like the one who had been mean to Sam and for a second there, I kind of thought we might have a little situation on our hands. Obviously, nothing happened. But, you never know. I mean, Sam got called a "stupid baby," so our emotions were running a little high. (It wasn't this kid, by the way, so no fisticuffs ensued).

It's weird to want to (kind of) pick a fight with a four-year old, but something about the thought of someone, even a silly kid, making fun of my baby makes me want to punch a wall. It also makes me want to squeeze my baby as tight as humanly possible without accidentally suffocating him.

After taking all this in, I found myself fast-forwarding to the future, formulating a systematic strategy for how I would protect Sam from any and all bullies until the day he turns forty. I knew this would obviously not be possible, but for a second or two, I was pretty sure I could make it work.

What I do know is that it broke my heart more than a little to even imagine that anyone could treat my little guy with any kind of unkindness. And, it made me feel incredibly helpless to protect him.

I'm reminded of the a quote I read somewhere years ago that says: "Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart walking around outside of your body." (Elizabeth Stone).

I didn't know it would feel quite this way. And, I really didn't know if would make me want to beat up four-year olds. 


I think it's probably time to go talk to Jesus about justice and forgiveness and all that jazz.

Mamapalooza

This coming Sunday marks the third Mother's Day in which I am an official participant. It's a teensy bit surreal to be included in that group of women who have had little people growing inside their abdomen. If I really think about it, usually while doing the dishes or folding sized 2T shorts and t-shirts, it blows my mind a little. I'm a MOM. It's staggering, really, what that short sentence holds within those three little, unassuming words.

Lately, the advertising gurus have really been pulling out the big guns and it's kind of ruining my mascara, but I'm okay with that. Hallmark's Mother's Day offering this year is a simple commercial with all these normal-looking (a.k.a. not supermodels posing as moms) women asking their kids to "tell them" that they're doing enough, that they've taught them something, that they've heard them, etc. It gets me EVERY TIME. And this morning there was another mom-related commercial (by Proctor and Gamble) which highlighted moms from other cultures/countries sacrificing for their little future Olympians. At the end it shows them tearfully hugging their kids who've just won gold and made all their sacrifices worth it. Cue the waterworks. (Conveniently, Proctor and Gamble owns Puffs tissues, which makes me wonder if this commercial wasn't just a pretty genius way to get me to need their product.)

Their tagline at the end is:

"The HARDEST job in the world is the BEST job in the world."

And, basically, that sums up the whole of motherhood. It's hard, but good.

If you haven't seen this, prepare yourself:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FqODFzo-G2Q&feature=relmfu

TEARS. Don't be ashamed that you now need a Proctor and Gamble manufactured Puffs tissue to dry those eyes of yours. You've just witnessed some seriously moving stuff. And I bet you want to hug your mom right about now. And you're also probably wishing you'd been a bit more committed to those swim lessons.

I still can't quite wrap my distracted mind around the myriad of things it means to be a mother. I think if I could, I would be totally overwhelmed by the magnitude of this role I'm living and it's possible I wouldn't be able to bear the weight of it. But, luckily, I don't have the time to actually process what it means because I'm too busy doing laundry and making PB&J's and changing diapers and building miniature railroads.

What I do know is that each of my days is made up a million little things that don't have too much significance on their own, but altogether make up this immensely lovely reality of my being Sam's mom.

I'm more than a little lucky. 

The Accidental Shoplifter

Today has not been a banner day. It's included some unfortunate things, such as Sam's gagging on a mushy strawberry and losing his lunch (actually, his breakfast) all over the couch. Boo. The rest of the morning including cleaning up haz-mat style, which means I steam-cleaned the heck out of those couch pillows while Sam watched Curious George and ate pretzels.

Anyhoo, we went to the grocery store after lunch and I had a nagging feeling that it might include some weeping and gnashing of teeth. This proved to be the case AND, as a bonus, some intermittent yelling, some begging for crackers, some hitting, a little biting, and a lot of "NO!" It was not awesome.

Sidenote: I think the little guy is feeling poorly, which would account for some unusually bad behavior. So, let's all give him the benefit of the doubt and keep thinking of him as the cutest, sweetest, best-behaved little guy this side of the Mississippi.

So, we shopped. And we talked to the butcher dude. And we perused the cookies aisle. And I got talked into buying Oreos by a two-year old. And then we checked out, whilst Sam said "No!" to the unassuming person in line behind us. Sorry, random lady, for my rude progeny.

And then, a little something of interest happened. I got carded. (I was purchasing a 2012 vintage bottle of vino for roughly $6.79. I like the cheap stuff. Plus, I have a great recipe for crockpot beef au vin with mushrooms.) The cashier glanced at my birthdate and noticed I was born not one, not two, but three decades ago. And, then, she said (drumroll, please): "WOW. You look good for thirty-three!!"

And then I said, "Actually, I just turned thirty-four." Why did I feel compelled to add on that extra year? I don't know. Except that I'm scrupulously honest, as you will see in just a moment.

I couldn't help but feel a little flattered by that comment, but after thinking about it for a minute, I wondered what exactly one would expect a thirty-four year old to look like? Is thirty-four really that ancient? Well, all I know is that Avon's miracle night cream must be doing it's job. Thanks, Avon!

After peeling Sam away from the tree of suckers near the cash register, we made our way out the door with our cart full of Ingles' finest. Back at the car, I put the little guy in, put the groceries in, and then noticed that something was under the cart that I'd forgotten about. Hm. That 8-pack of paper towels that was on sale for $6.78. Uh oh. I forgot to mention those were under there. I glanced back at the storefront. I glanced back at the car with the two-year old and the melting groceries in it (it was a steamy 84 degrees in there). What to do?!? Moral dilemma!

I decided to go back in, toddler under one arm, 8-pack of paper towels under the other. Wait, no. That was a bad idea. Said toddler was about to lose his mind for a graham cracker and the pre-naptime crazies were beginning to set in. Plan B: I decided to pull the barcode off the bag of towels and take it in so that I could explain the situation and pay for it really quick, maybe even leaving the little guy in the car with the air on. But, wait. What if a stranger decided to hop in my already running car and make a run for it with my little guy AND all my groceries. Um, no. Plan C: Write a mental I.O.U. to Ingles and pay for those paper towels next time I'm there. Check.

We drive away. I feel guilty. I feel shady. I feel like the police car waiting at the red light in front of me can sense that the paper towels in my front seat are STOLEN. Luckily, he doesn't do anything about it and I make my way up the mountain eating graham crackers with Sam while The Civil Wars sing "Poison And Wine."

Well, we get home and I unload the boy, the groceries, the contraband and then take a moment to look over the grocery receipt. And, as it turns out, that conscientious cashier who thought I was an ageless freak of nature had scanned those towels! No more running from the law for me! Pshew. I felt better. But, then, I noticed something. I didn't get the discount on those towels and actually paid $10.54 for those things. I think this may be my punishment for semi-shoplifting. Darn you, Ingles.

scene of the "crime"

Well, the moral of the story is that I look younger than thirty-four, which warrants an Oreo or five. Here's to you, Ingles' cashier for your keen eye for under-the-cart items and your impressive ability to make haggard stay-at-home moms feel like a million bucks.