Clever Baby!

Watching your child learn new things is one of the most amazing and best parts of parenting. Henry has developed a clapping fetish. He sometimes claps spontaneously, and other times joins in when others clap, even when he hears characters clapping on a TV show in the other room. Those chubby hands clumsily slapping together, coupled with the grin of pride and satisfaction he wears are enough to make your heart melt. It is seriously, so, so cute (just ask his Meema--she'll back me up)!

Henry is also on the verge of mastering skills that I dread him knowing. Like, the ability to open doors. He. is. so. close. Remember how terrifying it was in "Jurassic Park" when the velociraptors learned how to open the doors? Okay, now double that feeling. That is my terror level. But it gets worse: we have entered the pants stage.

I believe all seasoned parents are familiar with the pants stage, but in case you aren't this sums it up. The Pants Stage: the time when a toddler learns how to remove his or her own diaper, making it absolutely vital that they wear pants over their diaper at all times.

Now, I am not one to share gory details about the messy aspects of parenting. You know, anything that belongs in a diaper, or that should have stayed in a stomach. The gross stuff. So, let me just explain that sometimes a diaper change is much more like an exorcism than a diaper change. Seriously. That unholy stench reaches your nose, and you have to fight the urge to pray to the imaginary diaper gods, begging them to contain that bio hazardous mess. I mean really, you want to take back all of the wishes earned from shooting stars and tunnels that you spent on stupid things, and apply them all to the integrity of that padded protection from unplanned baths and outfit changes.

We have experienced a lot of exorcisms diaper changes like that this week (maybe it's from teething?). Among other conclusions, I have become very grateful for diapers. So imagine my horror when I heard the tell-tale sounds of diaper wings separating, and saw my sons diaper thud to the ground. He giggled, and took off, naked as the day he was born. I panicked, and frantically ran after him with the now compromised diaper, trying to place it back on him while he was still wiggling away from me, and laughing hysterically (him, not me).

So, we are officially in the pants stage. Pants all the time, every time. For life. There's nothing I can do to turn back the clock, so my new strategy is to encourage Henry's clapping habit so that those little hands are too busy to open doors any time soon.

Nevermore!

Mary, did you know?

Remember when I complained for months and months that Henry was teething, but had no teeth to show for it? Well, let's just say he is making up for lost time. His mouth is exploding with teeth, and my ambitious little boy is even working on a back molar. It has been a consistently rough five weeks.

So, here I am feeling exhausted, over-spent, frazzled, and unkempt as I dive head-first into Christmas craziness, and I've noticed something. Nativities. I mean, they are all gorgeous--even the simple ones! And the figure that bothers me most is Mary. Okay, I have had a baby, so you're not fooling me! I gave birth in a clean hospital, and the process was still a hot mess. So, I don't believe that Mary experiencing child birth in a filthy, stinky stable would leave her looking so ridiculously perfect! I get that her child was the most perfect, and most holy baby ever, but I don't think that his entrance into the world caused a blast of magic to sweep over the stable that made everyone look like they were doing a photo shoot.

So, what are we all playing at with our lovely nativity sets? I have thought about this a lot, because to me the holiness of that wonderful, perfect child is not enough. And then yesterday, I finally understood. I was playing with my giggly boy--grinning with his now toothy smile--after his nap yesterday, when I saw one of our nativities out of the corner of my eye. In that moment I realized that Mary and Joseph's "insides" are on their "outsides." We have put the feelings of their very full hearts, that properly reflect the beauty and holiness and glory of that moment, onto their faces and clothing instead.

This could not be more appropriate. Parenthood may not be glamorous, but it is glorious. If a figure were to be made of how I feel about being a mother, it would not look like me (frazzled, unkempt, etc.). The most accurate figure would show me radiantly and exquisitely happy--bursting with joy and with love.

Mommy Training

Henry sleeps in his crib now. It is beautiful, to say the least. After ten months of bed sharing I am finally free to once again roll over whenever I feel like it, and stretch out to my heart's content. He still is not sleeping through the night (a battle for another day), but the improvement to my quality of rest is enormous! 

When we approached the task of teaching Henry to sleep in his crib and self soothe (we're still working on that one), we did a lot of online reading. The articles and blogs themselves were pretty opinionated, and tried to sound as credible as possible. Really though, Zac and I were totally aware that baby raising opinions are (for the most part) anecdotal at best. The author of each had developed a system for caring for their own child that seemed to totally meet that child's needs and work for the parent. Wonderful! I respect and admire that! However, it was clear that some of their suggestions and techniques would not work for my family. By reading several different takes on the issue we were able to take a bit of each one and create our own parenting cocktail we nicknamed "crib training." Because, hey, we are Henry's parents and we know him 100% better than any author or doctor or specialist, so we did what we knew would work best, and that's great!

I really appreciate those parents who shared their experiences. They were quite helpful, even if I didn't agree with everything they said. However, when I scrolled down to the bottom of the page and read the comments I was horrified! Mothers were slinging comments at each other like punches and tying the use of parenting techniques to self worth--seriously! Besides being puzzled by these women's apparent lack of "better things to do," I just couldn't (and cant) understand how sleep training or not sleep training reveals everything about a mother. This is probably because it doesn't.

I think the problem stems from good intentions. We as parents are passionate about our children. We want what is best for them. Consequently, we feel passionate about the way we raise them in our effort to give them the best. With the hope of giving all children the kind of childhood we are offering to our own children (the best we know of), we adamantly share our opinions and experiences. And if we feel to our very core that we are right on a topic, and that another parenting practice is hopelessly wrong we want to correct them. Unfortunately, sometimes in our passionate manifestation of these good intentions we forget that we are communicating with another human being, a mother or father, who is just doing the best they can.

I call this "Mommy Training." It is kind of like sleep training, but instead of following a routine and letting a child "cry it out" to learn independence, we attack and judge each other to try and get a result. Yikes, right? Here are a five reminders to help you if you are ever tempted to "Mommy Train:"

Every child is different, and so is every parent. Our individuality is what makes us unique. We have different love languages, health requirements, opinions, talents, deficiencies, etc. How egocentric it is to assume that every parenting experience can and should be like our own in spite of the obvious diversity inherent in individuality! If a parent chooses to teach or discipline their child differently (except for in cases of abuse), and it is working for them there is no reason to interfere and share our own opinions.

Your definition of child abuse may be too broad. Child abuse and neglect are behaviors that actually threaten the safety and health of a child. Signs are malnourishment, unexplained injuries, excessive fearfulness, etc. Click on this link to see more warning signs of child abuse. Letting a child "cry it out"  and forgetting to braid your daughter's hair are not manifestations of abuse. I mean, I let my son climb in a kitchen cupboard at my church. That doesn't mean I was going to cook him and eat him!

Parents already have plenty to feel guilty about. We parents have enough trouble shooing away the "guilties" as it is. So if you are about to join guilt's team over some personal experience or opinion you can just stay quiet. Seriously, freeze those finger. Nobody wants to read your manipulative sass.

YOU CAN SHARE YOUR OPINION NICELY! See what I did there? There is no reason for all caps--that was not an appropriate time to yell. In fact, there is never an appropriate time to yell online. Like, ever. The internet should not be a place where civility goes to die, and if you are a thoughtful, educated parent with worthy opinions to share you should already know that! Besides, a friend is always better than an enemy. Persistently friendly words will take you a lot further than a harsh scolding will.

That other mother you're harassing--you're not her parent! Seriously though, we are not each others parents. It is not our place to discipline and correct each other. It just isn't our business. Period. So, stop judging, and if you slip up and judge then at least have the decency to keep it to yourself.

That's it. This is my wisdom. It is also anecdotal and opinionated, but hey, I'm not telling you how to raise your kid--just how to follow the Golden Rule online. So please keep my opinions in mind as you traverse the mommy wars of the internet. Take it easy on those other parents, and don't be too tough on yourself either!

Love,
Miriam

That Blog I Used To Have...

Today, I couldn't stop thinking about that "blog I used to have" (this blog). After a four week hiatus, (that I wish I could explain with awesome vacation photos, but can't), I was really tempted to just never log in again. It's not that I don't love writing and connecting with others, because I really do.  It's just that the pressure was getting to me. Not just of the blog, but of everything, and the blog seemed the easiest task on my to-do list to ignore.

But then, I realized that burying this blog would be a terrible mistake because what I really want to do is talk about all of this stupid, ridiculous stress, and then bury it instead.

The truth is that I'm busy. I am very, very busy (I think just about all of you can relate). I'm always fairly busy, but we are entering that epically busy time of year when our lists of tasks grow and spread like nasty, holiday colored viruses--it's a sickness. I mean, this week is my ward's Super Saturday activity. I'm on the
committee, and I have a lot of words to describe it--none of them are super.

As I was running around like a maniac yesterday trying to connect all of the last minute Super Saturday dots with the ever energetic Henry in tow, I whined and complained to myself about how I was over worked and tired. Then something unexpected happened. I let a car turn in front of me. I just paused my inner rant for a moment, and noticed the driver--a young woman who was patiently waiting to turn right onto the busy road. There was a seemingly never-ending cars behind me, and the traffic ahead of me was moving slowly. Almost without thinking about it, I motioned her forward. With the most enthusiastic gratitude I have witnessed in a long time the driver moved into traffic. In that moment I realized something: I wasn't too busy to be nice to that driver.

As I pulled onto the freeway I realized that I wasn't too busy to drive safely. As I wrestled with Henry in the craft store I realized that I wasn't too busy to be patient with him. By the time I had returned home I didn't feel as busy. The amount on my plate hadn't changed, but I had taken control of individual moments--they didn't all have to be colored by the busy. By doing so I isolated the business, instead of isolating myself in a bubble of stress.

So, I invite you all to join me in deciding what you are not too busy to do today, and burying some of that unwelcome stress!

P. S. I hope to post a week from today (if I'm not too busy), so that the blog I used to have, becomes my blog again!

An Open Letter to Naps

Dear Naps,

You are beautiful, wonderful, magical things. You make weekdays more bearable, weekends more relaxing, and improve physical and mental health. You are heroic and benevolent, and marvelous.

So, I ask this question with complete sincerity, a heart full of disappointment, and a brain that needs more sleep: why have you abandoned me? Is there a nap-fairy that I have offended? Did somehow becoming a mother disrupt a cosmic balance in my life that once made me worthy of you, Naps? Because, honestly, I need naps now more than I ever did. Sometimes, when I am so exhausted that I can't stop crying, I think about what I would be willing to do for just a little more sleep.  Naps, do you want to know what would I do for a Klondike bar? Very little. Want to know what I would do for you? No, you don't--because those grand gestures would land me in an institution...though perhaps I would see more of you there.

The truth is that you discriminate, Naps, and I am calling you out on it. You are wasted on the ungrateful young, but turn a blind eye to their needy and hopeful parents, kind of like a unicorn. A mean, mean unicorn. Don't believe me? Please turn your attention to the following example:

This picture above is of my son, Henry. He is napping. This is insignificant without the background information, which I will now explain. Naps, Baby Henry had already rejected this nap, not once, but twice! Finally, he collapsed into a sleeping puddle in his father's arms, and you allowed it! After you had been scorned and rejected, you still awarded him a nap. Now, as an adult I never scorn or reject you, but still my visits from you are few and far between. Naps, I speak for all parents when I plead with you to find your humanity and stop this injustice and award naps and well rested-ness for all!

I love you, Naps. Please, please love me back.

Love,
Miriam

Infertility in a Time of Babies

*Dear, wonderful readers of my blog.  You are fantastic people who consistently read my words out of the sweet goodness of your hearts, and I appreciate you immensely. I would like to show my appreciation by being consistent-- a mommy blogger you can count on to always be there for you on posting day. Last week (and a few other weeks in the past) I failed you. Please understand, last week was a rough week for me. An illustration of the difficulty is that I wore the same pair of maternity shorts every day last week. I'm not pregnant. I fit into all of my non-maternity clothes just fine. I just couldn't resist the ease and comfort of that elastic band. So, I wore them. Every. Single. Day. This is not something that I'm proud of. As I glanced at my fifth-day-in-a-row maternity shorts, and my very long to-do list I decided that I needed a break. I hope you can understand. Love, Miriam.*

In my life it is the time of babies. A sweeping glance over my Facebook feed will show you that. Literally one in three posts is about the children or grandchildren of friends. It is fun and full of joy and empathy--truly glorious. The posts are loud and bright, so much so that the contrasting non-posts of other friends is so quiet I almost miss it--but not quite.

As much as my heart fills with joy at the happiness of my friends with baby-filled homes, it breaks deeply for those lovely and dear friends who have not been blessed with that opportunity in spite of their best efforts and most sincere prayers. Some blog about their experiences, but it is a private, painful thing, and I think many of these blog to put an end to all of the uninvited and personal questions about their family planning. Others stay silent, and their own posts contain other happy things in their life. I cannot imagine how it must feel to struggle with infertility in the time of babies...but I can guess.

After my first pregnancy ended so abruptly I was bitter. I would never wish such a tragedy on anyone, but as I scrolled through a never ending list of pictures of pregnant woman cradling their beautifully swollen bellies, and the stunningly gorgeous shots of my friends' infants the perceived injustice of it all stung.

Soon enough, I was posting beautiful pictures of my own, and overjoyed with my blessings. It was suddenly so easy to live happy  thoughts. But sometimes I imagine what it might have been like to be crushed and yearning for a child every day for months and years, possibly without end while daily viewing the happiness of others who had been blessed with the desire of my heart. Then my imaginings are interrupted by my rambunctious son, who is incredible and the perfect embodiment of my own prayers and wishes, and I breath a guilty sigh of relief that I have only had a small, theoretical glimpse into that disappointment.

My point is of course not that the only value in being a woman is bearing children, or that it is impossible to be happy without them. My aforementioned friends are evidence that both of these ideas are completely false. Neither is my point that those of us who have been blessed with growing families should stop posting so much joy, as if we are rubbing it in. My point is that we mothers shouldn't let our joy and comraderie leave others forgotten.

I have noticed a division in church and our society as a whole between the child-blessed and the childless. How many of you with children regularly spend time with childless women from your church? Based on my experience, not too many.

I have no desire to shame anyone, but I do urge you to change. Often I have heard justifications like these:
"We don't have that much in common," "I'm just in a different stage of life right now," "It's much easier to coordinate with women who have children the same age as mine, and I am terribly busy." These excuses make sense, but they do not justify excluding a childless woman. Linda K. Burton, the General Relief Society President of my church offered the following advice: "First observe, then serve." (You can read her entire address here: https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2012/10/first-observe-then-serve?lang=eng). This principle is simple, and powerful. If we each make it a priority to take notice of others around us, including those not currently part of our circles, and then act on those observations we might find that we can provide comfort and friendship to those suffering from infertility in the time of babies. Every single one of us is important, and the number of children we have does not increase or decrease our value and shouldn't make us more or less relevant to each other. We are all women, we should reach out and care for each other-- extending kindness and friendship to all.

The Value of Staying Quiet

This week, an incredibly unpleasant man at the grocery store helped me to develop a skill that is greatly undervalued in our society. The skill is biting your tongue--and I mean literally biting your tongue, which I did three times during this encounter (he was really that nasty).

I think everyone has experienced a confrontation, and immediately after its conclusion thought "this is what I should have said." It's incredible how easily the most articulate and cutting words arrive in our minds just after it is too late. This did not happen to me. I knew instantly exactly what I wanted to say, and how I wanted to say it (hence the tongue biting). I also knew that I was right. The problem is, that being right doesn't matter all that much. A wise professor I once had said, "It isn't enough to be right. You have to be right with your brother." 

It seems that our society has confused standing up for yourself with saying whatever you want to say. These are not the same thing. You can't stand up for yourself if you lose who you are because of the things you say. Giving someone a well deserved piece of your mind is not worth sacrificing your integrity. Taking the high road is seldom easy. For me it was really, really hard!  But as I pushed my cart away with my tongue still clamped between my teeth, and looked into my baby's eyes and the eyes of the other bystanders I realized that engaging in an argument with Mr. Grumpypants would have affected each of them. I felt truly grateful that I had no reason to feel ashamed of my conduct. That unpleasant man could be unpleasant to his heart's content...by himself.

Biting your tongue and turning the other cheek is not weakness--it doesn't mean that you need to become more assertive. Being kind and patient is heroic. Those who bite their tongue and choose to speak only with calm and kindness are the unsung heroes of our world. They are the parents who choose the words they say to maintain a peaceful home. They are the leaders who prevent our organizations and countries from collapsing with their diplomacy. They are the teachers who make a difference. They are the people who make a difference. By employing compassion and peace and kindness they spread it, and our world needs much, much more of these things.

I hope that we can all choose kindness more, and I hope that when the kind words don't come we have the strength of character to bite our tongues.