Tucked Away

Away, tucked away in layers of cotton and breath.
I so hurriedly herded and encouraged and needed you there.
I held your half grown self firmly against me, absorbed your heat, your smell, your relentless adoration.

My heart pricked with the shame of my shortcomings.

Out from her mouth spilled the verbal commitment of her heart to me, her appreciation of her existence.  And I no longer wanted to give her to the night.
I needed her to know how sorry I am for showing up to this task with a nearly empty tank.
It's not ok.
I should be able to do it anyway.
I wanted to wail at her feet and beg for the day back- to not yell, to not speak harshly, to hold hands, to be still and listen, to be on the floor and catch all the moments that cannot be retrieved in these mourning hours of the night.

I wanted to promise that by tomorrow I will have it figured out.
I will be outfitted, somehow overnight, with the gear I need to be that mom. 
Maybe I just don't have the correct candle scent warming and filling my nostrils,
maybe the motivational quote on my computer screen isn't potent enough,
maybe the GMOs in my snacks are impacting my brain function.
Whatever it is, I wanted to promise her to have it solved and resolved by 8am tomorrow.

Of course I don't actually share any of this. 
Look at her.
She sees only perfection in me.
Why would I trouble her world when all of this only exists in mine.

She falls from my grip like a felled tree, vibrating the bed frame, sending the creatures surrounding her into the air, collapsing the pillow up around her face.

Oh, the 'fours'

So I have to say I mostly write (blog) when I'm stirred up.  If you're looking for some picture of my day-to-day (and seriously, let's not be a weirdo, huh?) then this is not the place.  If this is the only place you get input from me, then I may seem a bit like a drama queen: see my previous "stirred up" comment.

Luciana is nearly one whole year old.  No, really.  And I may have said this 10 times before, but I LOVE this age.  It is my favorite.  I might cry when it's passed.  Scratch that- I WILL cry when it's passed.  She's sweet, her needs are simple, she's snuggly, she's silly, her laugh is joy.  I would have babies over and over if only to have this time with them.

Rosanna is four.  She's FOUR.  I love her, therefore she still sucks air.  I think the person who coined, "terrible twos" was unclever and thought alliteration was more important than accuracy.  I'm bitter.  The "twos" are a memory, and the "fours" are fawful.  Or farty.  Fickle.  Fitful.  Fussy.  Every conversation is laborious.  Her ears absorb everything.  I say to you, you do not know how sloppily you speak until there is someone to call you out on your inconsistencies and to mirror all of your lovely speaking habits back to you.  She talks.  Endlessly.  She asks a question, keeps talking and then asks why you aren't answering her.  She swings from mood to mood like a monkey in the trees.  Her feelings are hurt, she's fine, she's found a new friend, they aren't friends anymore, she's fallen from the top of the steps and is ok, she's bumped her shoulder on the chair and is yelling in pain.
My grown-up brain is not wired to spin at this frequency.  Not all the time.  It freaks me out.  I have the patience of a crotchety old dog being bombarded by a puppy.  The effort it takes to be a 'good mom' is less and less available to me.  And I don't know what to do about it.

Then there's Luci.  She wants milk or she's tired.  Those are the two biggest issues I face with her.  Haha!  "Issues".  The kid doesn't even care if she sits in her own poop for a bit (not that I would do this purposefully...she's just not one to cry about a diaper change).  Rosanna's challenges are really just the difficult side of some really great characteristics: outgoing, exuberant, inquisitive, thoughtful.  I am grateful for these attributes (she says to herself over and over and over and over).

To all this I say: OYE.

Some perspective

Being a mom is not the same as not.  (Duh, right?)

It was weird, in the beginning, hearing my own voice loud and purposeful, waxing about how Ferdinand is content to sit just quietly and how Max's misbehavior sends him on an egoistic journey.  Now, it's odd for me to hear others' voices reading aloud to my daughter.  I get anxious for my turn, as creating a scene with inflection and drama have become something I look forward to.

Gross things have happened.  Why, only hours ago, burbling and rumbling from my infant's bottom resulted in a costume change for the both of us.  My pre-mom days never had me consider how sticky infant poop is.  And, well...never mind.

My body is free reign.  A baby on a boob, a toddler in an armpit and a chunk of my butt in my husband's palm.  I don't take the time to hide myself at home, because it's just too much work.  And besides, why create body issues in my daughters so soon?  I do clothe myself, I'm not that "free".

Our bed is truly full of love.  By 6 a.m. there are no less than 5 bodies, breathing peacefully, resting side-by-side.  I never thought this would be something I loved.  It sounds quite annoying to 20 year old me.  However, being squished by two people who grew in my belly and who I couldn't love more if I tried, well that's pretty freaking awesome.

Extreme Effort

I was looking at a new baby's photo on facebook.  I was noticing all the comments, the well wishes and blessings.  One small, chubby, new face that everyone had waited and longed to finally see.

I remember finally seeing Luci's face, knowing that everyone would, in minutes, see her online too.  I felt a bit lost in those moments.  There are photos of me holding her for the first time, cord still attached and my face is emotionless.  Truth be told, it was also how I felt.  The effort of the previous hours had taken all of my everything.  Going through labor, this time, was more intense and gargantuan than I can begin to explain.  I was loud.  I said, "get her out of me".  I heard myself, in a strange removed sort of way, and thought, "What a drama queen".  And there was no other way for it to be.  The pain and effort had to release somehow, and my method of choice was vocal.  My husband would later tell me that he felt like he was in a war zone and I was dying and there was nothing he could do about it.  Yeah, that's pretty much how I felt too.  I was glad for the precious baby in my arms and I was depleted in way that left no effort to smile or to even feel joy.

So now, when I see those fresh, new baby pictures I see an exhausted new mom too.  Someone who might have felt like she was never going to get through it, until that glorious moment when she did.  

It didn't take me long to recover from my disconnect.  About an hour I think.  I have a tendency to look beyond the new baby lately, and am compelled to reach out to the Mom.  So much focus is on the new baby, the new baby will be fine, the new Mom might need some extra love though.

"Good night, Mom"

"I love you, good night baby."

"I love you too, good night Mom."

That "Mom" is me.  Is it weird that I am still caught off guard by "Mom" used in reference to myself?  It's been 3 years, 2 of those with verbal affirmation from the child herself that yes, I am "Mom".
As a kiddo I saw my Mom as having it all figured out.  I didn't doubt her motives and I assumed that it was all just second nature to her.  It may have been.  I certainly don't feel that way.  I feel like every day is another parenting challenge met and then, after she's in bed, I sit and question all the Ro-related choices I made and criticize myself into vowing that tomorrow I'll do better.

I know I'm not alone.  I imagine it's the nature of motherhood.  There's that word again, "mother".  It carries so much weight.  Heavy, hefty, loaded and smothering weight.  Aren't I just a child myself?  No?  I sure don't see myself as a 'grown up'.  But aren't grown-ups the only sort of people who can raise kids (I just snorted a little)?

I might need to take a philosophy class to sort it all out, this is getting intense.

Love and headaches

As my friend Ashley would say, let's bring it in for the real thing.  This era of parenting=the most challenging time of my life. 

I know it sounds dramatic.  And it's the truth.  We're talking about another person's life here.  My actions, reactions and basically any thing I do is a learning moment for my daughter.  This sucks.  Like, a lot.  I'm working on a 50/50 ratio here of  "Ro I can handle" and "Ro I wanna throw out the window".  This computes to: half the time I think I'm a pretty kick-ass mom, half the time my blood pressure is spiked, my head feels like it's going to explode and I'm wrestling with yelling awful things.  Rule #1: don't say things to a toddler that you don't wanna hear back.  Oh, yeah.

I'm also working with a pregnant body/brain.  Who knows if I could pull this off beautifully if not for hormons.  It's not even worth considering because that scenario doesn't exist.  However, now I'm freaked out that my unborn child is getting all kinds of stress hormones and will come out colicky and impossible.  It's a fact- stressed out pregos often pop out babies that are more prone to being stressed.  Time to take up meditation.  For reals.

What I really want...no, need is a day or two to myself.  Last year I went into the mountains, did yoga and ate delicious healthy meals 3x a day (that I didn't make!) for a few days.  It was a struggle for me then, it wouldn't be now. 

Oye. 

Family and a fetus

I really love family reunion time.  It's become even more special since Rosanna is our daughter.  I love sharing our wee-one, showing her off and watching her light up other people's lives like she does ours.  I may as well have birthed a beam of light (although it felt like more).

Family reunion time means seeing people I haven't seen in two years and being with them as if no time had passed.  This year it also meant setting my Rosie free into the wilds of cousin-land to tumble and romp through the grass, throw water balloons, crash legos and play hide-and-seek under a dark sky in the front yard.  This moment of 'letting go' could have been more traumatic for me, but the awesomeness of my family prevailed.  The other kiddos are much older than her, old enough that making space for a two year old during rough play (lots of boys) might have been annoying.  But they were amazing.  They slowed to show her the art of filling water balloons, they stood close enough to let her hit them with one, they were fabulous examples of kindness and love.  I was so touched.

It was perfect and tough to see my grandpa.  He is getting frailer each time I see him and it becomes more difficult to be in a conversation as he slows.  I do my best to avoid thinking of what the end game is.  I overhear my grandma talking about how she can't imagine what that will be like, how utterly incomprehensible it is.  I am so thankful each time I get to hug on him.

After our family beach day, when we were all home, showered and admiring each other's sunburns, I made a discovery that's been a month in the making (we work fast): I'm pregnant.  We told my aunt, uncle and cousin first since that's how it went down last time.  Silly tradition, and it was neat to be with them the day we found out again.  Then we, of course, told everyone else.

This was a momentary stall, however.  We are a bit spooked in the department of getting excited, last time was such a let down.  However, if something goes awry and we didn't tell anyone, then we'd be suffering alone.  I'm not good at hiding.  People can get a pretty good read on me just to look at my face.  And who wants to suffer alone?  So now you know.  We're not expecting the worst, and we're quiet in our happiness.

On a related note- I couldn't be more thankful that the last pregnancy didn't work out.  I'd have an infant right now, and I think that would be a bit too overwhelming.  Rosanna still is needy enough to deserve all of me.  When she's three (when this baby is due) I imagine she'll have pushed away even more and the spacing will be perfect.

Sleeping baby

There is nothing more simply divine, more perfectly precious than my sleeping child.

Throughout the hours of the day her voice is a constant, her expressions twist and shape her face.  She is a little girl with a swinging pony tail and quick running legs.

Deep into slumber she is my baby.  Her face is soft, round and warm- relaxed.  I can kiss her and snuggle her and she won't pull away to busy herself elsewhere.

I am reminded that she is still so small, despite her outspoken preferences and blooming independence.  She really will always be my baby.

Momma Trauma

Moments like this one, where my kid is in her bed, screaming "Mommy!" while coughing and choking on heavy sobs, make me wonder: what was I thinking?

I've already put her back to bed twice.  I can see her on the monitor.  I've decided that my methods aren't working (this is a trend for the past four nights).  I can see her getting out of bed so I call to her from my spot on the couch, "Lay down Rosanna".  A fresh gusto of dismay and tragedy pours out of her.  She lays down and pulls the covers up.  Her small body is jerking with spastic breathes and she is still crying.

I am fighting reasoning against intense momma-bear coddling that is urging me to go in there and hold her until her breathing is normal again.

This sucks.

In this moment I ask myself: what was I thinking?  In a few years this upset will be small beans compared to what the world will bring to my most treasured soul.  It will tear me up and require of me to make more choices that won't make my baby happy, might even make her mad at me.  And it will be the best choice for her.  It'll likely give me heat palpitations (like tonight is) and I'll cry myself.

I signed up for this.

Right now she's quiet.  Every so often I hear a hard sniffle, one of those gasps that last for awhile after a hard cry.  She's still in bed.  I didn't even get up.  I feel like this should be a proud moment for me.

stay close to the stream

Two nights ago I became frustrated with myself.  Why am I tied to my kid as she falls asleep?  Am I the only Mom in America who can't just put her two year old to bed and leave the room to get on with the evening?  What an injustice I have created for myself!

Today I have gotten over that screed.  I somehow reconnected to myself and the innate knowingness of motherhood.  It's like a stream of truth that flows from somewhere unknown.  It just showed up, peaceful and patient at the same time my daughter's weight was finally rested into my arms.

The stream will never lead me astray.  If I stay near it, it will nourish me and therefore my daughter.  It leads me into simple and loving parenting choices.  Choices that are grounded.

Moving away from it gets tricky.  The forest around it is dense with everyone else's opinions and judgments.  Delving deeper into society's labels and pre-determined format for child rearing only makes me anxious.  I question myself and fret.  I feel lost and as if I actually need more input from the outside.

Best to stay near the stream.  It exists by virtue of being a mother.  It doesn't actually matter if my kid can't fall asleep on her own right now.  Looking outward I could get the message that I have somehow messed up.  I t think I'll stop looking outward for such answers.

Why I Rock

Number One:
I cleaned up poop-bath.
Me: "What are you doing?"
Ro: (from the tub) "Hiding"
Me: "Why?" (while simultaneously thinking, "Oh, dear God, no.")
And so it was.  She pooped while taking a bath.  Real classy kid.  And I, her awesome Mother, cleaned that sh*t up.  No belittling, no scolding.  Just a polite discussion on the proper place for poop....in the toilet.

Number Two:
In the span of three nights I have transitioned our kid from falling asleep with me sitting next to her, to falling asleep in her own.  One melt down on the first night that lasted approximately one minute and that was it.  I am mega-proud!

Number Three:
My kid sings an Adele song.  Without it playing.  Randomly in the kitchen.  She learned this from me- shamelessly singing the song in the car, loudly and with hearty abandon.

Number Four:
My kid rocks.  Therefore so do I.

BOOM.

and it's time to do the birthday dance!

When I think of my infant I think, "where'd I leave her?".

She was so danged small.  Her face was a different shape and her hair was so, so dark.

Today, her second birthday, she is tall, lanky and not so squishy.  She hair is streaked with browns and blondes that any woman'd love for their hairdresser to master.  She is proficient in her emotions, telling me moment to moment what she is feeling and how it came to be that way.  Her comedic side is strong.  She uses different voices to convey different messages and raises her eyebrows to up her chances of understanding.

She's a freaking miracle.  I am biting my tongue to not lay out every over-done saying about kids and growing and time passing and, and, and....it's all so tragically true.  I want her to be 2 forever.  It's the most fun.  I also wanted her to be 2 weeks old forever, and 6 months old forever.  I guess that's a promising sign.  All of these times are outrageous.  Her toddler-ness challenges me and rewards me over and over again in the span of a single day.

I want more kids.  Like 4 more.  In a few minutes I'll be convinced that Ro should be an only child.  Then I'll want 2 more kids.  Then I'll kick myself for ever having one because I love her so much it physically drains me and I wait around in terror that something could happen to her.  I can't win and yet I've won so completely.

Happy 2nd birthday baby Ro (geez, I guess I have to drop the "baby" now, huh?).

Taking Deep, Calming Breaths

IN, OUT.  IN, OUT.

It's the only way to get through it.

The screeching.  The wailing.  The whining.  The "NO!", over and over and over again.

Repeat slowly to yourself: "you are not given anything you cannot handle", followed by, "this too shall pass".  Cliche?  Yup.  These lovely little isms are over used for good reason.  They provide a sense of relief in moments where I want to throw myself on the floor and throw an embarrassing-style fit to expel some of the frustrated energy that is threatening to blow my Mommy-cover.

The good times are good.  Like, really good.  I can light a Super Wal-Mart with my proud beaming.  The good times fill my cup and make a sloppy mess on the floor as it spills over and we slosh around in the glory of learning together, reading together and running wild through supermarket aisles together.  For my purposes today you can go ahead and equate the word 'good' with "not throwing a seemingly nothing-induced fit of epic proportions".

This fit has many faces and is rarely preceded by an event that one would say is fit-worthy.  It shows up with a hearty, "What the hell?" and as many longs breathes coupled with slow eye blinkings as it takes to get through the mess with out causing physical harm.  I've been successful 100% of the time.  I am mother, just try me.

Under my calm, composed exterior I am freaking out.  I wonder if this one is gonna last only a few minutes and just fizzle out into happiness again ("What the?") or if it'll be the one that breaks me.  The one where I cry too.

The new screechy sound that she has discovered doesn't help.  I imagine it was by accident, during a particularly intense roiling of emotions that she came upon this sound that made me wonder if she was seizing or possessed or some such frightfulness.  She wasn't (well, I suppose I don't know for a fact that she wan't possessed).  And since that day, oh happy day, she whips out that lovely tune whenever the fit strikes her.

Most recently these displays include falling to the ground, throwing things, flailing feet (hey, when you're strapped into a car seat, you do what you can) and loud, loud screaming.

My signature move is non-reaction.  Oh, man is it a challenge.  Part of my philosophy is to let her have her feelings instead of telling her she can't experience them (making her stop doing what she is doing- short of hurting someone/thing) by interacting with her non-reactively and inquiring as to what is going on for her.  It may not be everyone's cup of tea- but it works really well for us.  The way I see it, she gets acknowledged for her feelings and feels paid attention to and loved.  This gives the reason for the season (er...'fit') no more fuel, and off we go!

Reaction.  Therein lies the rainbow colored sloth in the room.  My internal reaction is everything I've already said and it ain't no picnic.

Whoever said parenting wasn't for sissy's was a gal-danged wordsmith.

Vegans are annoying

I hate labeling myself.  I don't want to fit into a category.  I cringe when someone says that I am this one thing or that.  As if simply the word associated to my person will now give you a context in which to communicate with me.  I'd really rather you just spoke to me the way you intended to, before I acquired all sorts of labels.

Some of my (least) favorites: stay-at-home-mom (SAHM).  This is one I wear with pride.  I adore staying at home with my truest love.  There is a stigma, however.  When someone I barely know finds this out about me, they look at me through SAHM glasses.  This goes one of two ways.

1-"oh, you are so lucky!"  Let's be clear here.  I am NOT lucky.  I did my homework.  I married a guy who thought the same thing I did: having a Momma at home with the babies is super important.  We make sacrifices to have it this way.  Scratch that.  We make choices to have it this way.  I don't feel like my life is lacking.  We bought a house when both of us had income.  Continuing to pay a mortgage, property taxes, credit card debt, utilities, gasoline, blah, blah, blah, wasn't an option on one income.  We filed for bankruptcy.  Our pride was kind of a whiny little b*tch during this time, but we got over it.  It's just "stuff".  Now we live in a place that is one third the size, we all sleep in one bedroom and our back yard is shared.  We got rid of so much "stuff" that I cannot really describe to you the volume.  We are goldfish.  We chose it this way.

2- "I could never do that".  Well...you could.  You'd have to make the choice to.  Please let's not act like I have a super power here.  I think my job is super important and rewarding.  So much that I choose to do it instead of doing something I'd get paid for.  It sucks for me when Moms say they couldn't stay at home.  It usually boils down to either they think their family couldn't survive without her income or that they believe they couldn't be with their kids for so many hours.  They think they'd go crazy.  Or some such nonsense.  Then they have short lived, snippets of time on the cusps of waking and going back to sleep to spend time with their babies.  This is their complaint, not one I made up for them.

Are your toes stepped on?  Are you feeling defensive?  I love you anyways.

Another one: vegan.  EEK!  Maybe it's because I am so new at it that I feel like my ammo is lacking.  Notice I went with the word, "ammo".  That's right, I feel attacked pretty often.  I see that it's my interpretation, when people give me a "look" and I see, "you're kinda weird".  A month and a half ago I was no such weirdo.  Today the bartender at our lunch venue did the full eye roll, said: "oh god, I can't even talk to you" and walked away.  In an attempt to be.....funny?  Ugh.  I don't even wanna talk about it with anyone, because it becomes a thing.  I wanna eat my food and you can eat yours.  Why is the conversation always about how you (you are the other person in this imaginary conversation) could never give up **insert favorite animal-derived food here** and therefore could never be vegan?  GOOD FOR YOU.  Somehow, just by being a person who has made a food choice, I am now an outsider who is strange.  If you wanna give up junk food or wheat- you're noble.  But I'm a crazy person.
My conclusion here is that vegan people get really passionately into veganism.  I get it.  What's not to be passionate about?  It's so awesome that I want the world to choose it too.  But it seems that this passion comes off as annoying or pushy, so there is a preconceived annoyingness that the receiver of such conversation is armed for.  And thus, I am now annoying.

I want to have preferences and passions without carrying their labels.  I'm not a stay-at-home-mom.  I am a mother whose full time job it is to raise my child.  I am not a vegan.  I am a woman who eats only plant-based foods.  How does that land?  They are less weighty, right?  Less connotations associated with them? The media and who-ever hasn't spoiled their inherent loveliness.

It's my goal to be this non-judgmental person who enters into communication with another person and speaks to that person...not that person's labels.  Won't you join me?

Words

Today's topic is words.  Here's my 'words' photo:

This sums up my parenting philosophy.  I'd add more, but it's all there in succinct perfection.  

Love.

My new emotional state

Sounds like fun, yeah?

Since I became a Mommy, I can and can't handle things the way I used to.  It's a fairly dramatic shift for me, and one that catches me off guard on a nearly daily basis.  For example, on a trashy celebrity news website they were talking about a young boy whose mom had succumbed to cancer (the a blurb was about a custody battle) and it was all I could do to hold back tears.  All I can think about is what if that's me?  What if I leave my kid motherless?  What if I don't get to see her grow up and she only knows me through pictures and stories?  It's enough to get me sobbing, snotty and swearing off processed foods in an effort to live forever.

And what about these movies where a kid get kidnapped or gets killed by some murderous villain?  Holy crap- I can't do it.  The movie gets turned off.  I used to watch those movies with an appropriate sadness and then was able to go on with my life.  Not any more.  Have you seen the comedy "Life As We Know It"?  I had no idea what this movie was actually about.  I thought, "Couple gets prego accidentally and they have a hilarious time figuring out how to live a life with a baby".  Which I, now, can relate to and laugh/cry about.  Well, I was only half right.  These two acquire a baby because the baby's parents DIE IN A CAR ACCIDENT.  I was in tears within the first twenty minutes of this "comedy" and had to stop watching it.  I cried and heaved for the next hour.  Yipes.

That's my life.  No more entertainment that involves broken family life (divorce included), it just doesn't work for me.

On the flip side, I can handle a poopy mess like a pro and I've wiped boogers with my bare, naked fingers when it had to be done.  That's right, I can be pretty hard core.  And heaven help you if you cross or bully my baby because this mamma bear has no qualms with sticking her finger in your chest.

All of this because of her, she's a powerful force!