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.