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.

Gravity and Babies

It seems that Henry has given up on ever getting teeth--who needs 'em anyway? Teeth are for squares!--and is instead focusing on learn to walk, and climb, and leap. all. at. once.

Example: Henry is learning to walk, but he's at the awkward fumbling stage where his movements are shaky and short (like a baby giraffe). Wednesday he decided to give sprinting a try, and sprinted from our ottoman pillow to the couch. Three whole steps--a new record. Of course, it's all fun and games until you hit the hard side of the couch at your full baby-speed.

My little bundle of energy seriously lives for the adventure that comes from being "tossed" in the air (false throws only, people. I've put far too much into this child to carelessly break him), held upside down, and spun in circles. But even that is not enough. Henry takes matter into his own hands whenever he can by climbing up onto things, and then hurdling himself off of them.

This is so nerve wracking for me, and I can almost hear the mothers of Henry's future friends saying, "If Henry Monette jumps off a cliff, does that mean you will too?" Not to make a point, the way my mother used the cliche, but rather as a valid question caused by genuine concern.

I've talked to a number of other parents, who all report that their ten-month-olds exhibit the same behavior. This does not make me feel better. I have this paranoid worry that other parents think I am exaggerating about Henry's adventurous tendencies, and so telling me that their baby is "the same" doesn't mean much. I'm not just a biased parent. This is based on chasing my babbling son around Sunday School while he walks enthusiastically about the room by grabbing the backs of chairs, and more often than not using the backsides of other class members to pull himself up. Meanwhile, the supposedly equally crazy child is sitting quietly on his blanket playing with a board book... for an hour. This makes me wonder: which one of us is actually exaggerating?

I catch my tiny adrenaline junkie in mid-air at least once per day, but usually more like three times. It is amazing! Yesterday he learned how to climb onto the couch without getting a boost from a pillow, or box, or toy. We're already down to just his little, mighty muscles pulling him up. My biceps are getting pretty strong as well, but I'm starting to worry. Will my Love Bug ever understand the consequences of gravity?

Maybe not...but probably...eventually. It is possible that he will mellow out in a few years. It is also possible that he will be in a five point harness every time we go out until he turns ten. In any case, he has got the independence thing down, so that's something--teeth or no teeth.

*If you have, or have had an adrenaline junkie baby please comment. I promise I won't assume you're exaggerating!*

Chivalry Wouldn't Be Dead if We Stopped Killing it.

Last weekend I read an article titled "What we wish every wife knew about her husband" which had been floating around my Facebook feed. This article lists 7 things that the author believes would improve marriages if known by wives. Most of the listed items had some merit to them, but the first one has bothered me non stop since I read it:

"We're not Prince Charming - we're your husband
We don't like it when you expect us to be Prince Charming. In fact, it feels objectifying. Not all of us know how to ride a horse or fight dragons. Not all of us are as dashing or debonair as Prince Charming, either, so don't expect us to be. Some of us would rather read books, work on cars or play video games. That doesn't mean we're defective. It just means we're a unique person. Please love us for who we are."

I will acknowledge that any married woman who still looks at a prince charming figure the same way she did when she was five, is probably not looking at her own marriage in a healthy way. In fact, that woman might need psychiatric intervention. But, I don't know anyone like that in my personal life. In addition, I am fairly certain that dragon slaying is not an actual option in our day and age (unless virtual dragon slaying counts), and furthermore horseback riding, while cool, is not as impressive or useful as it once was.

The article contains another link to a previous article all about how expecting a man to be prince charming is harmful to relationships because of the unrealistic and flawed character that he is. My problem with this is that the things that make Prince Charming so great have nothing to do with his outfit, wealth, ride, or looks.

Here are three qualities that Prince Charming has that every husband should have too: 

• He is there when his princess needs him-- every time. Charming is paying enough attention to know when his princess needs help, and when she doesn't. He offers the necessary support, comfort, or protection in a situation.

• He puts his princess' needs before his own-- Okay, do I even need to explain this? This is one of the basic principles of happy marriages. Prince Charming has to go to extreme measures that threaten his safety, but modern husbands generally don't need to do that. It's a lot easier for you, so instead of whining about how you don't like slaying non-existent dragons, maybe you should just start living this principle.

• He makes a special effort to let his princess know she is special-- Prince Charming does some pretty corny things. You don't necessarily have to sing a song or dance, or say flowery words, but you should communicate something. Or pick up flowers every once in a while. Or take your wife out on a date from time to time. Or take out the garbage. Really, there are a multitude of options (none of which include dragon-slaying). In fact, modern dragon slaying looks a lot like coming home after a full day of work and helping with the kids.

See, the words I read are "Some of us would rather read books, work on cars or play video games. That doesn't mean we're defective. It just means we're a unique person. Please love us for who we are." But what I'm hearing is "I'm just a guy who likes what I like, doesn't care about what would make you feel happier, and doesn't care to improve, so just love me the way I am, because this is who I was when you fell in love with me in the first place." All the while ignoring that being a modern, improved Prince Charming is well within your reach.

On the other hand any wife who is expecting her husband to be Prince Charming, had better be a princess, who reciprocates each one of these qualities!

When you walk into my tiny apartment, it certainly doesn't look like a castle--but it is one because we make it one. At the end of the day when I'm covered in whatever messes my baby has wiped on me, and tired, and grungy I sure don't look like a princess, but I am one because of how I live and treat others, especially my prince. And believe me, my husband is Prince Charming. He might just be the most charming Prince Charming out there too. And he reads, works on our car (a bit), plays video games, and I can't recall him ever slaying a dragon. He is a unique person, and I love him the way he is, and I also love him for always trying to be a little bit better. He makes me want to be better too.

The Non Post

Dear lovely people who visit my blog, the Monette's are sick this week and I find myself too foggy and fuzzy to write a coherent post. In any case, I would only be complaining that the one age group incapable of blowing their own nose (babies), is the only age group without cold medicine. So, I will get better and write a smashing post for next week. In the mean time live the happiest thoughts you can this weekend!

Crib Prison and other Confessions of a Sometimes Mean Mom

Henry has enjoyed the co-sleeping plus program since his earliest months. The plus means that he almost never slept without being held...like ever. And while my arms are now nice and strong, I couldn't wait to improve the arrangement. Since moving to our new apartment Henry has napped exclusively in his beautiful crib, and the improvement to my quality of life from that change alone is incredible. In addition, I can now get him to start the night in his crib, but he doesn't fall asleep in it, and he doesn't stay in it all night long.

I set about to change this, but there is a catch: Henry is a patternless sleeper! Nap times are unpredictable and there seems to be no correlation between his second nap time and bed time. Wednesday I worked very hard to get Henry to nap at times that would put him in bed by 9:00p.m. I had high hopes because his schedule from the day before had matched up with this.

Based on the instructions that I should put him in his crib when he was drowsy, but not asleep I closely monitored him for drowsiness. 9:00 came and went. Then 10:00 came and went. Finally it was 11:00 and we were still not in the same neighborhood as drowsy. Correction--I was well past drowsy, but Henry was crawling around at what seemed a million miles an hour and didn't seem ready to stop anytime soon. I'm not ashamed to say that I cried from exhaustion and frustration. When he finally passed out at midnight, I set him in his crib where he slept for several hours before moving into the bed with me. Shortly after that transition, and I mean very shortly Henry awoke at an obscene hour. I expected to see a sleepy baby wanting to nurse, but instead I got a bright eyed baby with a playful smile. "No", I hissed, "go back to sleep!" He giggled. I tried everything in my arsenal, with no luck. Finally I resolved to ignore him and create a sleeping human barrier than prevented him from launching himself off the bed (one of his greatest aspirations in life). He wiggled around playing and laughing for a while, and then apparently got bored, so he started pulling my hair.

Now, I am a pretty patient person and a very patient mother. I always feel calm and in control when dealing with Henry messes. I most often rationally conclude that they occur because I have left something in his reach. I am a nice mom. In fact, I'd have to say that Henry has a pretty awesome mom, but he doesn't have a perfect one.

Mean mommy arrived at the scene as I weighed my options. I was too tired and too irritated to get up with him, but the hair pulling was not working for me. I did the only other thing I could think of--I sentenced him to crib prison. I gently placed him in his crib, and then went back to the bed and ignored him for a few minutes of rest. Then when nice mommy was able to come back I retrieved him and he went back to sleep.

The truth is I can't always be a tra la la and games and songs and stories mom. I have limits. I have thought about mean mommy a lot since becoming a mother. I occasionally am a mean mom, and I write this post so that any other mothers who also experience mean mommy moments may know that they are not the only one.

Henry has totally recovered from his brief time in the big house, but this mischievous little love of mine will certainly meet mean mommy again, and that's okay because mean mommy loves him just as much as nice mommy does--it's just tough love.

Indescribable

Last week a neighbor described someone to my husband and me. His description went as follows:

"She's about 100 lbs, 100 years old, and she sounds like dinosaurs!"

Zac and I talked for a good thirty minutes after getting home about how one tiny and elderly woman could sounds like multiple extinct creatures, but we got the point--she makes a lot of noise in her apartment.

As I have thought about this, I noticed a few things. First, this woman's defining characteristics (according to my neighbor) are her age, size, and that she is noisy. I wondered what someone who knew her really well would say to form a description. I doubt that dinosaurs would be included.

I'm afraid of what someone like my neighbor might say to describe me. It could probably be limited to one word: messy. Between my consistently disheveled and frazzled appearance, and the current state of my home (let's just say we're unpacked but not all moved in), it would seem pretty accurate.

However, if you were to ask my husband, or my mother, or Henry (though you probably wouldn't get much out of him), to describe me I doubt they would come up with the word messy. When the people who love you describe you they describe you from your core--and messy is not in my core.

In my experience, when describing someone I love I usually have a large list of wonderful characteristics. I can't make it more concise than that. I know them well enough to understand them and who and what they are more completely than an acquaintance could. One word won't cut it. Even after a thorough description, it feels inaccurate. Even the most eloquent adjectives in the English language can't capture an actual person.

When I have to describe Zac and Henry--the two people I spend my time with and know best--I just can't.  They are mostly indescribable though a few words like glorious and wonderful come close. I think the best description of a person is their name, as they alone have defined it. The name Henry is a symbol of all of the things my son is already, and when I say it I mean it as a description of him in all of his indescribable-ness (not a real word, I know).  

I think that Henry should grow to trust my description of him as someone who loves him and knows him. I hope that he will listen to the descriptions provided by people who, like me, love him dearly, and ignore the inaccurate and sometimes hurtful words of others who do not understand him as well.

People who don't know you, and don't know your core should refrain from describing you in an inaccurate and/or hurtful way, but they often don't. Ignore them, and listen instead to the voices of those who do know you, and then believe them. Please don't limit yourself to one or two words unless that word is your own name. You are much, much more than a handful of adjectives--in a beautiful and indescribable way.

Love,
Miriam

Counting Deer

If you need to stay awake on a night drive from Reno, Nevada to Eugene, Oregon I have a suggestion: count deer. I recently made this trip myself with my sister and baby. Let me mention that I have been in an accident involving a large deer (or possibly an elk--the jury is still out on that one), and a passenger in several other near misses. My first hand knowledge of the danger had me alert and nearing paranoia with my desire to protect my son and sister.

In the light, this drive is gorgeous as most of the highways are curtained by lush, green forest. In the dark, the likely possibility of hitting a deer and corresponding adrenaline can keep you wide awake with apprehension. If you have no experience with forest dwelling deer darting into the road at night, let me paint a picture for you. A deer suddenly leaps into the road directly in front of your vehicle. If you are lucky, it (or they) stay still and you can swerve around them, but usually they continue moving. To improve your chances of a safe trip you must be vigilant and constantly sweep your eyes across everything your headlights illuminate on and off the road (praying is also a very good idea).

The first deer on my drive made my heart slam around in my chest. It was off to the side, not quite on the road. My sister exclaimed "Oh, deer!," and we both laughed at her unintended pun. As I drove on and the tension subsided I reflected on how beautiful the doe had been. The subsequent deer (there were nine in total), all remained at a safe distance. I began to relax slightly, and decided that the deer out that night were the most benevolent and courteous in creation. It wasn't so bad after all.

Then I saw it--deer number ten. Dead. In the middle of the road. He was a large buck, splayed sickening across the center of both lanes, and I had to swerve slightly to avoid him. This deer affected me more than the nine before it had. I suddenly remembered how real the danger was. The absence of a crumpled car indicated that a semi had hit it, but I shuddered to think of the condition of my own car and passengers if I had been the one to collide with the buck.

I was overjoyed when we finally reached Interstate 5, and left the thickly wooded highways behind. Though deer still cross the 5, the visibility is much better. As the sun came up I continued to reflect on the ten deer, and when I fell into bed after reaching our destination they were in my dreams.

I was highly motivated on that drive to keep my son safe--protect him. I strive to protect him every day. I know that the world is not perfect, but I generally feel comfortable with the level of protection my husband and I provide. I think he is safe. I think he will be okay. But those ten deer have me thinking--reevaluating...should  I be so comfortable? Is he truly safe?

As I have pondered this I have begun recognizing metaphorical deer in my life. They seem okay, benign, much like inactive volcanoes. They don't seem to be harming anyone, but at any moment they could erupt. The tenth deer had erupted, but he was really no more dangerous than the other nine. The truth of the matter is this: a danger is always a danger.

No shift in values or change in policy can have any power over the danger of a volcano. It will erupt when it wants to, and we cannot control it or make it safe. Neither can my own attitude about deer make them more or less dangerous to me on a night drive. Safety comes in recognizing the threats and taking precautions against them, not in rationalizing them away, or pretending that they are harmless. I for one, am going to be more vigilant and recognize the "deer" in my life--because this baby is worth it!

Button Earring Holder

The Monette's are downsizing! After months of searching Zac and I concluded that to stay in the nice part of Reno we would have to rent a smaller apartment. Our final outcome is a one bedroom apartment--almost 300 square feet smaller. We are excited about the move, but it is requiring a lot of preparation. Because we currently fill up our much larger townhouse many of our possessions are going into a storage unit (which I refer to as an off-site garage), and some are going to the local Goodwill drop off site. In addition, the things we are taking with us need to be efficiently organized to fit in the space. This particular task is most difficult with organizing my craft things. Many can probably relate--but I have no idea how I ended up with so much stuff!

All the time I have spent elbow deep in craft supplies suddenly reminded me of a tutorial that I never shared. This project is all about efficient storage--of stud earrings! There are plenty of display/storage options for dangle earrings, but stud earrings prove a little more difficult. My lovely sister-in-law asked me for advice on how to overcome this difficulty, and a very long time later I made this for her birthday present. Zac is responsible for the concept--he's so smart!

Button Earring Holder

You will need: a picture frame, buttons (with four holes), elastic string, and glue (E6000 is pictured, but I ended using hot glue for much of it and it worked great! 

You can immediately discard the frame's glass and stock photo.

 

Use a piece of the elastic string (the length of your frame) to tie a knot through two of the four button holes. Then tie another button to the other end of the string. Repeat this process four times (or however many will fit in your frame.

Glue the buttons (flattest side down) to the inside of the back of your frame. I recommend hot glue for this.

Hold the button in place until the glue is set.

Tie a piece of string through two of the holes of each button.

Use the string on the side to tie it to the strings glued in place. 

Make sure your knot is facing the backside of the frame. Repeat until all of the buttons are attached!

Close up frame (I ended up painted the background gold), and you're ready for earrings!

Here is a picture of the completed project complete with her earrings! (I stole it from her Facebook--hope that's not weird!)

I love that the elastic string makes it easy to get the earring off and on! 

If you end up making this project please let me know how it went.

Now, it's back to organizing craft supplies for me--have a great weekend!

Low On Time

These days it seems as though my to-do lists are much longer than the 24 hour periods I assign them to. I have come to the startling prediction that this overwhelming predicament will likely continue throughout my career as a mother.

Now, I am the type of person who LOVES lists, and loves to cross things off of my lists. Before becoming a mom I always completed my daily list by the end of the day no matter what. Finishing the list made me feel like an industrial, useful person--successful. After becoming a mom my daily list is never completed. Never! Seriously, it has no end. Each evening
the leftovers remain, and by morning there are plenty more tasks to keep them company.

At first, this resulted in feelings of failure, uselessness, and slothfulness. I would look over my life and feel a rising sense of panic: I was living each day with very little to show for it. These feelings were very difficult to shake as piles of laundry became mountains, half-done projects were strewn about the house, and errands remained undone.

This problem was heightened by a deliciously lovely baby who though mobile, loves to snuggle (a really nice problem to have). Henry plays independently each day, but not for long enough to complete an entire task. When he gets tired of not having my attention, he crawls over to wherever I am and pulls himself up on my pant legs. Then he holds tight with a fist closed over each leg, puts his head between my knees and yells at me, presumably to make sure I am aware of his presence. This has resulted in the perfecting of a rather complex maneuver used to retrieve him, but it does not save me time or help me to get things done.

My view changed one night as I held Henry in my arms after he had fallen asleep. I looked at his sweet little face, and forgot all about my giant list of left-overs. Instead, I wondered if I had been the kind of mother he deserved that day. Did I play with him? Did I try to teach him something? Did I communicate through my actions that he is more important than the list? Did I give him all of the snuggles and loves that he needed?

I suddenly realized that as long as I could honestly answer each question with a yes, the list didn't matter. Time is a precious resource--it exhausts quickly, and there is not much of it. The truth is: there will never be enough time in the day for me to finish my list. Success in my job as a mother is measured by my ability to prioritize well--not in the number of tasks I get done each day.  And if another rendition of "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" is performed in place of washing dishes--so be it!

Fathers: We Need Them

The world needs more fathers. A lot more. Our world is suffering from a major father deficit. For some bizarre reason, our society has concocted the idea that fathers are unnecessary. Our society is wrong. We need them. The devaluation of fatherhood takes many forms, the most illustrative being the ever present archetypal "idiot father" overly represented in television shows. Whatever the approach may be it succeeds in sending the same message: "We don't need you. We are doing just fine without you. You just get in the way."  We need to send a very different message.

Fathers, we do need you:

And for more than just a genetic contribution, and/or financial support. You are not just half of the DNA, you are half of everything. I'm a pretty darn good mother, and my baby adores me, but I am not perfect. If I denied my child the opportunity to have a father I would be sincerely ripping him off. How? Because I am only providing him with half of what he deserves. Zac plays games with Henry that I don't know, sings songs that I have never heard (some of which he makes up), soothes differently, teaches differently, and even has a different technique for successful diaper changes. Missing this 50% of his parenting would be unfair, and the injustice would only grow as my baby does.

Fathers, we aren't doing just fine without you:

Okay, just because missing a parent is common now, doesn't mean that the negative consequences have disappeared. The critical lessons that both boys and girls learn from their fathers are being skipped. We have a lot of problems in our society that have a huge presence in the media right now, outfitted with an entourage of hash tags and celebrity spokespersons. The solution to these problems, is in large part to bring back the fathers.

Fathers, you are not getting in the way:

This entire concept is twisted. Getting in the way of what? What goals do mother's have that are more important than the influence of an entire parent? An entire person? What incredible heights of intelligence have women achieved that the lowly men we allow to father our children couldn't possibly understand? This ideology is born from female supremacists, who currently call themselves feminists. It is wrong. It is perverse. There is more than one right way to change a diaper, and more than one right way to do almost everything else a parent does too.

Certainly there are exceptions to the rule--I was raised by a single mother who did a phenomenal job. But the great majority of children deserve access to their fathers. This is the generation of parents that could give the proper value back to fatherhood.

Here are some ideas I have of how:

Ladies--

• if you are single pay attention to what kind of father your dates would be. Believe me, it matters. Some day you will grow up and chances are good that you will become a mother. It is your responsibility to skip the duds. You owe it to the children you don't know yet. You owe it to them to pick a good father for them. They are counting on you. No duds.
• if you are a married mother allow your husband to be involved. Encourage him to fill the fatherly roles that he is comfortable with. Relax a little about the things that don't matter too much. Refrain from criticizing his parenting skills unless it is absolutely necessary.
• if you are unmarried mother let the father of your children be as involved as is safe. Again, refrain from overly criticizing. If he is a truly unfit parent find other trust-worthy father figures for your children. Don't leave it to chance. 

Gentlemen--

• Prepare to be a good father. Pay attention to good fathers around you. Emulate them. Prepare to be a grown up. It will happen some day, and shirking your responsibilities is unacceptable.
• If you are already a father be the best one you can be. Give your kids the gift of time. Teach your children good things.Work with their mother (whether she is your wife or not), to reach an agreement that you are both comfortable with. Your pride is never going to be worth more than your children. Never.

AND SHOW APPRECIATION FOR FATHERS EVERY CHANCE YOU GET!

Because we sure need them!

How to Marry the Perfect Husband

I had a whole introduction for this post written out, but when I read it back it sounded really pretentious. So, here are the facts: I am married, and we are very happy. There are ways to prepare for a happy marriage (and be happier now), and I have identified ten of them. Here they are:

1. Learn to be an above average friend. Go out of your way to think of and meet the needs of your friends. Be a good listener, and be loyal. Say kind things to them and about them. Spending time with you should make your friends feel good about themselves, and bring out the best in them.
2. Become an extraordinary roommate. This step is quite like #1, but harder. In addition to above average friend duties you also have to set up clear boundaries and lines of communication, and learn to keep the peace by squelching drama with a loving attitude. Hard? Yes! But remember that this behavior will do a lot more for you than for them. Whether you live with family or a group of semi-strangers the way you treat them is incredibly similar to the way you will treat your husband.
3. Work out your crap, and do it now. When you do eventually tie the knot you are going to have to combine all of your old stuff and new stuff, and there really isn't room for any extra baggage. Your heart needs to be wide open when you are newly married, and then stay that way.
4. Be more freaking patient than you ever thought possible. Some women feel entitled to get annoyed,  or think it is their prerogative to be grumpy they aren't feeling well (you know when I mean). If this is you, then I have bad news: The door swing both ways, sweetheart. It is your responsibility to try to be pleasant regardless of what you are feeling (though grumpiness will still sneak through sometimes). It is your duty to see things in the proper perspective. A toilet seat left up or socks on the floor aren't worth getting upset over. I think we can all agree that fighting sucks, and making up is overrated. It is far superior to just not fight in the first place. Patient people don't fight, they disagree. When you disagree you remain calm and pleasant and rational.
5. Expect others to treat you with respect at all times, and do not associate with those who don't. It may be time to clean out your friend fridge. Throw out everything rotten, and keep the good stuff. You may have forgotten some of the awesome, yummy stuff in there because stinky leftovers were in the way. Putting up with people who don't treat you well is a bad habit to have and may stick you with an unacceptable spouse.
6. Live your life now! I realize that there were extenuating circumstances (cursed spinning wheels and such), but even so, consider all of the amazing stuff Sleeping Beauty didn't experience because she was just waiting for a prince to find her. Mistake number one: she was so obsessed with being found by a prince she just slept for 100 years until he found her. Mistake number two: She was waiting in the most obscure place possible. It's a miracle he found her at all. Trust me, no one swoon worthy will find you if your hiding out feeling sorry for yourself.
7. Love your body. Take pride in your appearance. You should feel beautiful and confident when you look in the mirror, and that is generally going to take some effort. Dress nicely, style your hair, and put on a little make up, paint your nails, etc. Do whatever combination it takes to feel good about the way you look. Change what can be changed, and don't get hung up on the rest. You and Mr. Wonderful are going to be too busy doing awesome things and being crazy in love when you finally get together for him to spend ten minutes making you feel good about yourself every day. It would seriously throw off your groove!
8. Work! And work hard. Develop a good work ethic and learn how to self-motivate. Gain independence and become assertive. Good partner's depend on each other, and you need to know how to work if you are going to be dependable.
9. Learn everything you can. Read, go to school, attend workshops, do anything that increases your knowledge of good things and widens your view of the world.
10. Become a forgiver. Learn to let go of anger. Don't hold grudges, but remember step #5. Becoming a forgiver doesn't mean that you let people take advantage of you again and again. It means letting your heart feel peaceful instead of hurt and angry. Forgiving quickly (relatively) in marriages is key to a healthy relationship. Partner's don't try to assume a superior role to punish each other. They view each other as equals and work out solutions together. Practice forgiveness for the big and little things you have been holding on to.

Mastery of these ten steps is the work of a life time. I celebrated my third wedding anniversary this week, and as I wrote this post my thoughts were full of the steps I can take to improve on these as well. You aren't aiming to become perfect, but you do want to improve and become better. Some people won't like this list because it is so idealistic. Ladies, the idealism is completely intentional. Improvement is hard work, it's changing aspects of your personality so that you become better. If you are of the "this is just the way I am" philosophy that is fine, but you need to understand that every aspect of your life will be "just the way it is" too. You are in charge of your own life, and you get to choose what kind of woman you will be. So, what kind of woman will you be?

My final tip is this: NEVER SETTLE FOR LESS THAN YOU DESERVE. You are just as valuable single as you are married, so don't feel pressured to marry the first person who comes along just for the sake of getting married. Keep sifting through frogs until you find your prince, and trust me-- he will come someday.

Becoming a Mommy

Having a baby instantly made me a mother, but it did not instantly make me a mommy. In fact, my journey from "milk lady" to "most awesome big person in Henry's life," spanned several months. To illustrate this, let's travel in time back to Henry's birthday. Shortly after entering the world, Henry was placed on my chest by a nurse while the medical staff continued to care for us. I was exhausted, and amazed to see that he was finally here, and perfectly perfect. Someone in the room asked me a question, and I answered. Henry suddenly whipped his head towards me, looking into my face, which was mere inches from his. He recognizes my voice, I thought tenderly. As our eyes met, his face showed surprise with a twinge of dismay. I swear he was thinking, "Is that--Is that what you look like?" After all of the time bonding during pregnancy we were strangers.

Fast forward through months of changing diapers and soothing discomforts, calming tears and singing songs, reading books and playing games, and you will see the new "us". We aren't strangers any more. I can see the change most when Henry flashes me his "sneaky" smile, which communicates that we are partners in crime who spend our days colluding to orchestrate the coolest of cool things. I feel like a million bucks every time I see it. Or this week, when we both have been sick with colds (Henry's first sickness), and his actions show me that I am his sanctuary and hospital. Becoming a mother was magical in every respect, and I look forward to hopefully having that experience again someday, but becoming a mommy is having all of your bones turned into "warm fuzzies." This transformation is necessary to make room for your heart which is bigger now, and a whole lot fuller. I love being a mommy, even during the rough days, and sick weeks, and even though I wish I could stop time at least once a day, I can't wait to see what the future holds for this mommy.

.

Mr. Henry Teaches a Lesson

This is going to seem biased, but I think that Henry might be a genius. I mean, seriously, he is showing signs. I'm making an educated guess here that he will probably grow up to be the most brilliant, awesome, and charming human ever (think Sherlock Holmes meets Indiana Jones with a little Aragorn thrown in there too). However, in spite of how incredibly clever he is, he has moments that make me believe that he is not ready to solve cold fusion just yet.

Consider the following, increasingly common, scenario: the adventurous and inquisitive, newly mobile baby is gleefully crawling around on a search to identify any object that could become a choking hazard (and he gets creative with it--believe you me). His motion brings him to a solid object like the couch, my leg, a wall, a pillow, and once even the toilet (yes, the bathroom door is always closed now). Henry attempts to go through said object, and after two or three tries his "angry face" shows up. Now, like me, my son cannot maintain the emotion of anger for long. In fact, for him it lasts only a second or two before the angry feeling collapses into grief. But for those brief seconds Henry frowns slightly, narrows his eyes into slits, scrunches his nose in the most impressive of ways, and then breathes loudly through his nostrils, like he is trying to stay calm. Suddenly his head falls as he weeps, while continuing to try and push it through whatever obstacle he is facing. This continues until I pick him up and turn him in another direction. I find this phenomena amusing, particularly when the impassable object leaves a plethora of directions available for travel, and Henry has mastered the skill of turning already. The problem is that Henry is so fixated on his goal that it blinds him to anything else.

On another note, this was Zac's first week of working a night shift. While we are grateful for the work I really hate our new schedule. And when I say hate, I really mean that I abhor it with the strength of a hundred grizzly bears. When Zac called to tell me he had gotten the job I burst into tears the moment our call ended, then dreaded it enthusiastically until his first day. Hours before he left I cried again, tearfully admitting to him that I had secretly hoped that he would not be chosen for the position, and find a different job instead. He tried to comfort me with sincere sympathy, and then charged heroically into the night to provide for our family.

This is not the first time that something in my life has not gone the way I wanted to, and it won't be the last. Our ideals and realities rarely co-exist. It was on my third day of associating only with a seven month old and actors on netflix for the better part of each day, feeling disgruntled and defeated that I realized I was behaving just like Henry--Like. A. Baby. I was so focused on not getting what I wanted that I didn't notice that even a slight rotation in my attitude would give me good opportunities. Maybe they wouldn't be exactly what I wanted, but they would be better than sitting around feeling gloomy.

This metaphor provided by my son beautifully illustrates how silly we all look when we approach setbacks without the proper perspective. As I try to teach Henry how to patiently choose a plan B, I will strive to learn the same principle and live it. And voila--there you have it: even in his less intelligent moments Henry is capable of inspiring epiphanies and reform. Biased or not, that is impressive. He may solve cold fusion after all.

About a blob of tissue

The day of my very first ultrasound was a blur of nerves and excitement. I was so happy to finally be pregnant, and ecstatic about seeing my baby for the first time. I knew there wouldn't be much to see--I was only seven weeks along, but I had already received plenty of literature and knew what to expect. The doctor dimmed the lights, and my eyes locked on the screen as the squirt of warmed jelly hit my skin. The doppler device began making circles on my stomach as I held my breath, and... silence. My eyes searched the screen frantically, but I couldn't see anything. Nothing. Finally, the doctor's voice cut through the panic, "hmm... there should be..."

I guess I didn't know what to expect, after all.

Flash forward several months to the first ultrasound of my second pregnancy. Same exam room, same doctor. The lights dimmed, just as before, but this time my eyes were trained forward. I couldn't bear to look at the screen, terrified of seeing nothing again. I heard the doctor's voice, "ok, so..." She stopped speaking suddenly, and I felt her hand smack my shoulder. "Are you looking? Look!" I turned, queasy from more than just morning sickness. "There's your baby," she said, pointing at the screen. And there he was.

I could see his little heart beating away. He was so beautiful. "Sorry. I'm trying to measure him, but he's so wiggly," she said.

"He can move?" I asked, surprised. I had only been pregnant for
eight weeks, which meant he had only been growing for six. I watched him, amazed as he turned over.

"Oh yeah," she replied, "he moves a lot. Right now he doesn't like that we are poking him, so he's trying to turn away."

Lovely. Incredible. Exquisite. Breathtaking. I can't put into words that joy and warmth that raced to replace the fear in my heart when I saw him. Truthfully, that image is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, and I tear up whenever I see an ultrasound image.

I can see why pro-choice health centers avoid performing ultrasounds for pregnant women. Once you see even the earliest evidence of your pregnancy, you have visual proof that your baby is alive, and uniquely formed, preparing to grow their body as we all have. And, once you see that, it's awfully hard to write off an embryo as nothing more than a blob of tissue or a lump of cells. But, if we're being honest, they are.

Yes, babies are a lump of cells. So am I. So are you. Truth: Everyone's body, when broken down, is nothing more than a lump of cells. That is if by lump, you mean expertly designed configuration of cells that grow and progress through the stages of life in their proper order, beginning at conception. In essence, "lump of cells," is a nothing more than a crass euphemism for a human's body.

Here is the thing about babies, both the kind you carry in your body, and the kind you can hold in your arms: they are the most exquisite blobs of cells and tissue in existence. They have never told a lie, or said an unkind word. In fact, they have never made any kind of mistake. No ugliness, only beauty. They are the embodiment of promise, and life, and unknown potential, and joy.

Here is what my sweet little lump of cells looked like
at eight weeks gestation:

 

At ten weeks gestation:

 

At twelve weeks gestation:

At twenty weeks gestation:

At forty weeks:

My Mother's Day was filled with reflection and deep gratitude for the opportunity I have to raise my son. He is the crowning blessing in the life my husband and I are building together. I am aware that it is fundamentally unfair that I should be so blessed with a beautiful, healthy child. It is absolutely unfair--when so many couples struggle against infertility, lose children to illness or accident, and when many people long to marry and begin a family with someone they love. I am forever thankful that I did not compound that inequality with the foolishness and ignorance inherent in looking the opportunity for motherhood straight in the eyes, then shutting them tight and screaming "it's just a blob of tissue!"

Guilty Much?

Henry had been home with us for less than a week when I realized that I might be a terrible mother. "I feel bad that our room isn't warmer, that I'm so tired, that I forgot a back up outfit, that I can't help him stop crying, that...." Finally, after my hundredth "I feel bad that..." statement Zac said, "I'm learning that there are a lot of things to feel guilty about as a parent." And there are SO MANY for us to feel guilty about, if we let ourselves, which is why a little perspective can go a long way.

When I catch a case of the "guilties" I repeat in my mind the words my mother told me just before Henry was born. This is her parenting philosophy: "It doesn't really matter how many mistakes you make as long as you are trying, and as long as the children know that you love them." Now, my mother isn't perfect, but she could take a gold medal for many events in the mom-lympics--no contest. If the best teacher, protector, and sacrifice-maker I know makes loving her children the priority, and cuts herself some slack on the rest, than I can too.

Beating myself up generally won't turn me into a better parent, just a more disheartened one. I am slowly learning to give myself a break. My technique is simple: when I catch myself self-censuring I think about how I could do better the next time, and then about two good mommy tasks I have done that day. Luckily, I have a husband who thinks of a dozen reasons why I'm a good mother, and assures me of this every day. You may not have someone like that in your life, so I'm calling it just in case: You are a good mom.

You try your best every day, even though what your best is changes from day to day; and some days are better than others. You do what absolutely needs to get done, and if some less important things (meaning anything not directly related to keeping your children alive) fall through the cracks, so be it. In fact, according to my mother's wisdom as long as they feel your love you're doing great! And I'm willing to bet they feel your love constantly (mean-mom moments included--yeah, I've been there).

In just two days a calendar-mandated celebration of your contributions as a mother will commence. While your families are appreciating you, take a moment to appreciate yourself. Instead of allowing yourself to feel overwhelmed or defeated, allow yourself to feel successful and valuable.Take a look at what you have accomplished and feel happy about it. Motherhood is challenging enough as it is--we can't afford to side with the opposing team.

So give yourself a break, you wonderful mother, you! And have a fabulous mother's day, every day.

Please Don't Judge Me By How Loudly my Baby is Screaming

Henry is a generally happy baby, but he has moments. Like, serious moments. Moments when I worry that some good Samaritan will get the wrong idea, and call child protective services. Zac and  I refer to this phenomena as Henry's"hulk rage," because of the torrent of emotions that consumes Henry.

When reflecting on "hulk rage" moments, two in particular come to mind. The first occurred when Henry was about four months old. As previously mentioned on this blog he is sensitive to dairy. By four months old Henry was well passed the 12 week mark, which the lactation expert we consulted identified as the point when his digestive system should be matured, and his gut sealed; so we decided to do a test to see if we could reintroduce dairy. I ate a small piece of cheese, and 20 hours later we had our answer: dairy is definitely not OK.

It is so not OK, that he screamed for 90 minutes straight, and no amount of colic calm, or tummy rubs, or bicycling of legs could calm him. About 30 minutes in to this ordeal, I started to worry. My neighbors were all young college students without children. What if their annoyance with our noisy baby escalated into concern for his well being. After 60 minutes of crying my worst fear was realized: there was a knock on my door. I immediately tried to camouflage my exhaustion with a smile that I hoped looked sincere. Luckily, my visitors were members of my church, and not officials come to assess my capability as a mother.

The second time was in the bathroom  of a Kohl's department store. Henry hulked out because I had the audacity to change his diaper before feeding him. Bathrooms have great acoustics, and the incredible volume of his wails made me realize that all of the lectures I had ever received about not listening to loud music were a complete waste of time. I was clearly going to be deaf anyway. Throughout this ordeal I also had the pleasure of seeing the priceless expression of every woman and child who entered the bathroom. Each crossed the threshold with wide, worried eyes, and lowered jaws. Their eyes quickly assessed the situation, and I can only assume it was the lack of blood that made them studiously look away and go about their business with acutely uncomfortable countenances. And, you must consider that these women were mothers and grandmothers, OK? This give important context to the "hulk rage" because they had been around babies before, and yet none looked at me with any sympathy, or understanding. I suppose their reactions were understandable-I was changing his diaper, but I might as well have been cutting off his toes for the noise he was making. Big tears rolled down his face, and he babbled indignantly through his sobs. I fed him as soon as I was able, but because he was still angry he paused several times while nursing to continue telling me off. When it was over, I was happy to realize that I
still have hearing in both ears. I hope the same is true for the others who were in our proximity.

These terrifying rages are thankfully few and far between. I don't know how I would have reacted if the people I had interacted with had felt it their place to say something judgmental or unkind about me or my parenting, based on a small snapshot of my life that does not accurately reflect it as a whole.  I can imagine that I would be angry and hurt and frustrated. Not only would they be "kicking me when I'm down," it would also distract me from caring for my baby. Only I know the kind of morning we had already had, or how much I was trying to care for and calm my son. Consequently, I am the only one entitled to hold an opinion on it.

It baffles me that some people think it is OK to pass judgement on other parents. A mother I know recently posted about an experience on her Facebook. She was at a grocery store when her toddler threw a tantrum (like they do). It was at this moment when a stranger opened her big, mean mouth. You guys, she actually had the nerve to tell this mother "you are a bad mom." Just in case you are confused: it is NEVER OK to pass judgement on other parents. This rule is absolute with two exceptions--abuse and neglect. You might not agree with how others parent, and that's OK because you do not have to raise your own children that way.  If you want to be helpful try your luck at saying something kind and encouraging.

Every parent in my association is just doing their best. Parenthood is a beautiful, messy adventure. Mine is filled with "hulk rages" and happy smiles and giggles. It is glorious and hard, and has no room to accommodate harsh words and judgements from the unqualified. So please, keep these to yourself!