Reflections on becoming a mom of two (and counting)

When I first became a mom, I think I was a lot like other first-time moms, dumbstruck in love. Like, heart torn in two and half gone. And it wasn’t just the love-at-first-sight thing, everyone describes. When I first set eyes on that red and wide-eyed little bundle, yes, I loved her, but I wasn’t expecting that feeling to grow so exponentially, so quickly. As the days passed, I found I could look at her, just stare, for way longer than considered polite and kiss her more in one day than I’d kissed in my entire lifetime. I would wake up in the wee hours to nurse and rock my squishy, little red-head half-awake, but fully in love. She would wake up early, and we would side-lie nurse, falling asleep, more as one body than two. In the hours while she slept during the day, I would lie outside and journal and write her letters and reflect on how full of purpose and happy I felt. Elated really. And the surprise at that feeling was sweet as the buds just starting to blossom.

Then, when she was about three months old, my husband became very ill. It started as a migraine that would not go away. Not a drink-a-coke-and-take-an-Advil-migraine, but a throw up, lay in a dark room for days, can’t eat or sleep migraine. From there, he had intense waves of pain and pressure in his head that would often cause him to lose his balance and fall down or not be able to speak. I called 9-11 on multiple occasions and witnessed my larger-than-life partner fall like a toddler learning to walk. Doctors, even brain surgeons, couldn’t figure it out. Test after test came back negative. We began to wonder if trips between hospitals was our new normal. Finally, about two months later, he was diagnosed by an eye-doctor of all people, with hemorrhaging behind his eyes caused by excessive spinal fluid in his brain. To correct it, he’d need a spinal tap. Just as we had answers, it seemed, miraculously, symptoms were beginning to subside naturally. It was bizarre.

After missing out on nearly three months of his daughter’s life, he was back in it, and we were back to our normal groove. But the whole thing shook me pretty hard, and I found myself struggling with residual anxiety and illegitimate fears. I longed for those days basking in the sun and enjoying my newborn baby. I can’t say it was this longing that caused us to try for number two or our general understanding that multiple kiddos was always the ‘plan’, but I was getting those little itches to have a wee one in my arms again.

A few months after my daughter turned one, I found out I was pregnant. As we began to spread the news, we were met with a whole different set of reactions. This time around, instead of excitement and pleasant trips down memory lane, people seemed to smile knowingly and say things like “get ready” or “two is a game-changer.” I began to have flashbacks of older friends and acquaintances with multiple children who walked around like the half-dead, pale skin, dark under-eyes. It freaked me a little. On top of it all, I was still dealing with residual anxiety and learning how to cope with and conquer unwelcome thoughts.

When our son was born, a huge, cheesy babe, I was just as excited to meet my new baby as I had been the first time. But new feelings and thoughts were present too. I was concerned about my first-born, how she would feel, what she would think. Would I put too much pressure on her, would she still feel loved? How could I love this new baby with the same attention and fervor as I’d loved my first? It was like my heart, already half gone, was parceled out again and my brain scrambled with a fork.

And boy oh boy, was the second time around different. No more sleeping-in with a newborn snuggled against my breast. No lying in the sun reflecting and journaling during day naps. No leisurely strolls through the market for groceries. With a rambunctious toddler and less-than-ideal little sleeper, we were the undead. We were the zombies walking around crabbily with coffee in one hand, daydreaming of a night-cap to (hopefully) usher us into a full sleep cycle before the first siren-like cry. I remember looking at my Fitbit several times in the morning and seeing only minutes of “deep sleep” recorded. With our first born now blossoming into a willful human being, we were also trying our hand at the art of actual parenting. It was bumpy and uncertain and confusing and maddening (and still is!) And with the little sleep and irregular nutrition, my entire personality evolved into a survivalist. I would eat and sleep whenever I had the chance. I would lock all the doors and set the alarm while my child watched television so I could sleep when the baby did. I would shower…when I could. I would work out almost never and lived for the nights when relatives or babysitters took my children, and I didn’t have to think about anyone else for an hour or two. I look back at that time now with hardly any memories of my son’s first three months of life.

But we got through. Yes. We all did. My children were nourished and grew in life skills and abilities. They even began to play together. I learned to tackle Target, go on walks (with the dog), cook dinner, road trip to my parents’ and back, and do so much more with only myself and my multiple young children. Though not yet the ‘mini-van- mom’ I channeled her inner calm and learned to do life with screaming and food smears in every scene. Though my son is not yet two, the months between his arrival in the world and where we’ve landed today are as different as Earth is from Jupiter. And I’m proud. Not just of myself, but of all the mamas (and dadas) who have made it through too.

As I tell this story, I know some dear friends getting ready to embark on the journey into multiples. I myself am about to add another little babe to our clan (which has really ushered in the interesting comments!) And I want to leave some sort of encouraging note. But instead of advice, I’ll just share what I know. I know there will be the dark months—the ones I won’t remember, and maybe shouldn’t, — there will be the curveballs and power struggles. The who’s turn battles, the reorganizing of vehicles and schedules and priorities. There will be the moments when prayer is the only way I stay sane. But I also know that in this dark and freaky tube-slide there’s little pinpricks of light and laughter along the way. Just like I was surprised at first, I am still surprised to feel flooded with love without warning, as my daughter muddies her entire outfit and my son runs awkwardly through the lawn, white hair bouncing like a halo above his head. I’m so thankful for my children and this wild and terrifying journey. And from what I’ve heard, these years go fast (but the days sure are long!!)

Xoxo

101 things

My kids are napping. At the same time.

This is the result of both tedious planning and dumb luck. I aim for this goal each day, but it is ultimately out of my hands and in the pudgy fingers of my littles.

One is snuggled in his crib, the other taking up residence in my bed. And, because I can’t be in my bed, I am now on the couch, draped in the sunshine coming through my window. thinking.

Of the 101 things. The tasky-things. The to-dos, must-dos and should-dos. And I don’t even have to really think because I look up and my to-dos surround me.

But I’m not doing them.

There is a conveyor belt of never-ending _______. Especially when you’re a parent of littles. They spew their toys and clothes (and fluids) everywhere and don’t give any poop emojis about it. They go through outfits like they’re working a runway. They ‘help’ and undo whatever you just did. It’s maddening. If you let it be.

But maybe we don’t have to do so much. Maybe choosing a thing or two each day that we enjoy might be more satisfying than another check mark. Maybe we could stop acting like martyrs (admit it, we do this!) and start enjoying life a little more.

My babe is awake already, and because he’s erupting snot like Old Faithful, I’m going to bring him out and cuddle his boogery-butt.

But I’m also going to finish this paragraph.

Because I don’t have to let to-do’s rule me. Because sometimes writing makes me happy. And because I believe that happy parents are better parents.

But even more than that, truly happy people are better people.

In joy,

Mama-megs

**Inspiration via my mommy friends at ECFE and a MOPS talk about throwing away your to-do list for one month

Real Love: Celebrating victories

Picture her,
face lit up with the false sun of some screen
scrolling,
scrolling like reaching…for
something

it will always slip
away, a balloon caught in wind-drift

Love does not envy…

It’s all too easy to be envious in this wide-web world. It’s at our fingertips–the success and beauty and brilliance of others. We attach to the perceived perfection and wish it was our own. We envy, wish we had that experience, physique, relationship, thing.

We forget:
a million likes can never equal love
someone else’s highlight reel cannot be compared to our behind-the-scenes.

We forget:
Envy is a thief. It steals our own joy and robs us of reasons to rejoice.

Merriam-webster says envy is “a painful or resentful awareness of an advantage enjoyed by another joined with a desire to possess the same advantage.”

So if love doesn’t do this, it must do the opposite.

Real Love must find pleasure in another’s ‘advantages,’ achievements, victories, experiences. Real love must be able to celebrate in another’s victory without making it hers. It must be content, at rest.

Love does not envy; it enjoys another’s success. Real love celebrates.

Real Love: love is kind

image1 (1) — Big thanks to my friend, Catie, who inspired me with this gem to keep writing & thinking about real love.

I looked at my wordpress stats from this past year, and I posted a meager four times! Sure, I posted on my website, for work and for a collaborative blog from time to time, but here, just. four. times.

The reason this is so not okay (with me) is because this site has been the home to my mental wanderings and spiritual searchings since college. This is the place where I spread paint on the paper, explore ideas, and share bits of my craft.

I began the real love series with an intent to finish it week by week… annnddd only got through week one. But 2016 is my year! I am committing to post (at least!) the 11 times it takes to cover this series with the hopes that I leave 2016 a better person and a more consistent writer.

How it began

It all started with a journey through Corinthians with some of the best people around and one of the most beloved, over-quoted and under-practiced passages of the bible–a passage even that even the ‘secular’ world can’t help but quote.

⁴^(A)Love is patient and ^(B)kind; love ^(C)does not envy or boast; it ^(D)is not arrogant ⁵or rude. It^(E)does not insist on its own way; it ^(F)is not irritable or resentful;^[a] ⁶it ^(G)does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but ^(H)rejoices with the truth. ⁷^(I)Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, ^(J)endures all things.- Corinthians 13:4-7.

I want to dig into this, get it under my fingernails and stop taking it for granted. Because, quite simply, love is worth it.

I hope this journey is one you’ll join because my perspective is just a pinprick of light on a topic that deserves illumination. Check out the first post, fishermen lovers (love is patient) if you like, and join in to share your stories, comments, and wisdom on real love.

Continue reading “Real Love: love is kind” →

The Art of Criticism: What Would Hester Heckles Do??

Every year around December 15th, my parents would commission me to write a family Christmas letter. As an oldest child, naturally I lapped up this responsibility and found Xtreme pleasure in being able to sardonically expose my family via one 8.5X11 sheet of paper. Inevitably, the ‘rents would read my work and deem the first draft much too “sarcastic” or “mean”… and annoyed I would storm off and hiss– “fine, then write it yourselves!” But… of course, being the controlish-freakish o.c. I was, I couldn’t really let it go. So draft after draft my precious letter would morph into yet another mundane (though slightly more sassy) Christmas letter.

Ironically, today I yearn for the open critique my parents offered–just a little feedback–even if negative. Though critique burns at the start, like any great wine the finish is well worth it. And my writing or thinking or something else I do usually improves or is at least challenged.

But because the “like” button on facebook has all but destroyed our ability to form opinions into words, I’ve decided (in oldest-child-bossy-pants-fashion) to offer some instruction on HOW to criticize/critique well. (Let’s be clear on this, even if you don’t care about critiquing writing, you may have other areas of interest that could use some genteel nudging toward betterment).

Take a look at the below critique written to Zach, author of Funwater Awesome 3. (Zach included this in his zine BTW, so I think that says something about how good it was)

Zach:
Most people are fine with the pointless feel-good of your zine, but I, for one, want more than what’s in the flabby folds of your head. There is nothing practical in your zine! Nothing of quantifiable SUBSTANCE! Where are the true Tumwater tales, the lessons, the stories of some use to people of today? Good minds want to know.
– Hester Heckles

Things to note:
1. There is no beating around the bush. No Minnesota nice.
2. And yet.. there is humor. “Flabby folds.” C’mon. You laughed.
3. He asks for specifics. He wants tales, lessons, and something a little more useful.

An easy/snarky way to deter unwanted parenting advice, I suppose

Take-aways:
I think we all stink at criticism/critiquing a little because, for the most part, it’s been done wrong to us. So we either 1. repeat the mistake, criticizing poorly (which leads to defensiveness or shame on the part of the other) or 2. avoid it all together (which leads to annoyance or dissatisfaction or worse on our part). But look at Hester Heckels– he did it. And so can we. We can be straight-forward, yet good-natured in our requests. We can help people and things grow without coming across like a bad-mannered, discontent sass-hole. It’s possible.

Your thoughts, critiques??

p.s. now next time I include a snapshot of some of my zine writing, you are well equipped to (kindly) lambast me.

Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace

It’s been a blah day. Did I say day?–month. January is notorious as “divorce” month, and it is undoubtably the coldest month for northerners to endure. So yes… blah. Picture the adults from Charlie Brown kind of blah. Everything a blur of garbled words, of unconscious motion. And the sense that the -11 temp had somehow seeped into my heart. Trying to turn up it’s heat only fogged up my mind.

I needed truth and grace when all I seemed to have was tears and anger.
This lovely exposition popped up in my google search; since then, I’ve been reeling.
It’s a talk given by a speaker whom I love, only days after 9/11.

First the prayers. Individuals from different backgrounds and cultures praying for a hurting nation after the greatest tragedy since Pearl Harbor. A city and nation which prided itself with accomplishment and power was left unhinged. And the grieving began.

And.. so did the lame-sauce “answers” for the tragedy:
1. We are being judged–for (Democrats) our lack of care for global justice (Republicans) our lack of moral values.
2. THEY are the evil ones (even subhuman.) WE are the good.

In the midst of this, the best leaders spoke not of answers. They spoke of hope– a hope to see new life come blazing from the ashes.

And then this story

Jesus hears a good friend of His is dying. So he hits the road and on the way into Bethany, meets up with both of the sisters of his now dead friend, Lazaras. Though Jesus is intending to (and later does) raise Lazarus from the dead, he also responds very acutely to what he’s hearing from Lazarus’ sisters.

the first sister

Martha said to Him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever You ask of God, God will give you.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to Him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.”

There’s the truth that no one was expecting. Jesus claims not only to hold the power to raise the dead, but claims to embody that power–to be new life for anyone who believes. But he doesn’t stop with speaking the truth…

the second sister

“Then when Mary came where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying to Him, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” Therefore, when Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her weeping, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled. And He said, Where have you laid him?” They said to Him, “Lord come and see. Jesus wept.

Truth, Tears, Anger, & Grace Why is it that out of those four all I really hear about from Christians are the two bookends–truth & grace.
Though it’s translated “He groaned in the spirit and was troubled” the actual Greek words used refer much more to the emotion of anger. He was angry. Angry at death and the havoc it had already caused. And though he knew he would conquer it, death was still worth being mad at.
And then He was sorrowful, and in his tears he didn’t just weep out of sorrow for His own loss. I believe His own grief was for not just the temporary loss his friend’s life, but the lives of countless others before and after. The sting of death was felt by God even before the cross, and He wept.

grace, a gift undeserved

While still grieving, Jesus told the people to roll away the stone over the tomb where they’d placed Lazarus. Four days his corpse had been rotting, so with some convincing, they consented.

Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead man was lying. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said. “Father I thank you that You have heard Me. And I know that you always hear Me, but because of the people who are standing by I said this. that they may believe that you sent Me.” Now when He had said these things, He cried with a loud voice. “Lazarus come forth!” And he who had died came out bound hand and foot with grave clothes. Then many of the Jews who had come to Mary and had seen the things Jesus did, believed in Him. But some of them went away to the religious leaders and told them the things Jesus did… Then from that day on they plotted to put him to death.

Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead knowing this would eventually lead to his own death– all as a prequel of what he did for the rest of humanity on the cross. He knew pain, injustice, tragedy more deeply than any human to walk this planet. And he did not stop there; to prove that suffering is never a waste, He made a way to God through His own. He died so that real death would never have to touch anyone again.

Whether or not you can believe this story to be historical truth, the process with which Jesus grieved–truth, tears, anger & grace will always be the only complete way to find hope amidst evil, tragedy, and death. This kind of hope doesn’t seek cheap answers. This hope weeps, curses loss, and yet rubs the joy of new life in the face of death.

**this is my own mini-recap of a talk given by Tim Keller entitled “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” props to him.

the bible passage can be found in the book of John, chapter 11.

The Beer Store & Other Short Stories

The Beer Store

Walking into a beer store* and asking where you can find one single can of beer is kind of like walking into Burlington Coat Factory and asking where you can purchase a mitten. One mitten. Oh, there are the looks as you roam aimlessly through aisles of whisky and vodka, then stare shivering into coolers of 6-packs. Finally, your helpless eyes meet those of an employee. One beer? Upon consenting for help, the employee– who happens to have koolaid-orange facial hair– starts yelling across the store to the other, somewhat haggard, hippyish employees about where to find ONE beer. Now two of them stand on either side of you telling you, yes, Surly is surely the answer. It’s the best. I’ts MN beer for Paul Bunyon’s sake. So you take it. (All this for beer cheese soup, you think) And you take another bite of your apple because you are starving for dinner, and you and walk up to the counter. You fiddle with your purse, trying not to ooze apple juice onto the counter and you hear the cashier say, “so it’ll just be the one beer and an apple?” And you look up, maybe half-expecting a judgmental smirk, to see something like acceptance–in a stranger’s smile….

*I prefer beer store over liquor store. the word liquor seems nasty and harsh and looks kind of ugly and nearly threatens to infuse you with guilt or that gene that supposedly makes you susceptible to Alcoholism.

The Pocket Knife

You are hungry. And it’s never good to grocery shop when you are hungry. Even beef-flavored tea begins to sound good by the time you pull (not push) a staggering, on-its-last-wheel cart up to the cashier. You unload your cart methodically– dry stuff and cans, eggs & dairy, veggies and fruit. All the while you look sideways to the man in front of you, who’s very bushy head is leaning deep into his shopping cart’s belly. The cashier-boy waits patiently. Then you notice it– something in Bush-man’s hand. He is making little jabs with it. It’s a pocket knife. He is trying to cut out his coupons with a pocket-knife dull enough to clean your ears with. It takes nano-seconds for your brain to jump all over the place. How will this young, pre-pubescent cashier react? Will he ask Bush-man to put the “weapon” away? Is there such thing as grocery-store security? Are pocket knives legal to display in public?
Cashier boy leans out of his little cashier cocoon. He says, sir, If you’d like I can scan them right from the book. Bush-man grunts in acknowledgement. You smile. Cashier-boy scans flawlessly…

Guilting Grandma

It’s been a long week. You come home to the smells of fermenting garbage and a chill that says your furnace is still not working properly. Usually, you loosen your stuffy dress clothes while leafing through a pile of bills. Tonight though, one lone letter has the familiar slant of grandma-script. So you open it, feeling the corners of your mouth lift a little at the lightness of thoughtfulness coming to rest on you.

Dear________ you read,
I am disappointed in you. I have not received a thank-you card from you for sending you a birthday card or Christmas card,..and I was not included in the thank-you for the wedding gifts from _____relatives . I write this only hoping to teach you a lesson….

You stop, pick up the phone and dial your grandma. You mention the letter, apologize for your lack of thoughtfulness (recalling in your mind the very in depth hand-written thank-you, sent for her wedding gift).

You know, it’s not only you, dear. She is saying, I won’t say names,… but your two brothers… Oh the tact! You mute the phone. You laugh. You let out all the tension like a balloon. You are practically snorting and your grandma is saying … And your cousins, all of them male, … You laugh a bit more…have also forgotten to say thank-you. You take a deep breath, take the phone off mute, apologize again. You are smiling now, telling your grandma you love her. And, at this moment, you are thankful.

It’s little stories like these that I wish to put in my zine. Nothing necessarily profound, but hopefully all very real. I will also be critiquing our local “pastry” shop’s donuts. (which may or may not include gas station donuts.) In this way the zine will have something consistent with a spattering of short stories. I want to hear from you! What do you think? Did you like/dislike the 1st person? Should I start a new blog for the zine writings only? Is the donut idea totally loco? (A little loco is okay with me.)

Hello again.

“To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.”
—Allen Ginsberg, WD

It’s been too long.

It’s been months of engagement, and more of marriage. It’s been transition and change and everything small in-between.

It’s time to write again.

I don’t really know what made me decide. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s cold again and I’m sitting outside wearing my husband’s red-checkered flannel.
Maybe it’s just time.

It’s definitely a less than ideal time. (E is currently letting out mini-grunts as he tries to fix our screen door, only inches away from my requested “alone” time.)

And I still haven’t figured out my blogging “niche” so who’s gunna ever really read this and follow it religiously and flood my inbox with adoring comments.

But I’ve got to keep going. I’ve got to keep recording the funny, the simple, the wildly strange things that help me learn to really live.

If I don’t I’ll just keep walking around my quiet little condo, narrating in my head. Sometimes in British accents.

And, though listening is important, if I never speak at all, am I really part of the conversation? I suppose this is utterly confusing and the best way to ditch the 6 followers I probably still have. So for those of you readers (if “you” even exist) who are lost, here you go: For me (and many others I think) to read is to listen; to write is to speak; to live without the conversation is to never fully live.

I could start every post with “it’s been too long.”
But I don’t want to.

I want to write.

Am I ready?
Nope. I’m not ready. Never ready.
And it’s embarrassing to know that I’m not sure I’m doing this well, not sure I’ll ever reach beyond this little blog. But at least I will not grow numb to the conversation. I will will not forfeit the few words I have that must be heard. And most importantly, I will hear what hundreds of thousands have joined in on throughout all of history. And what a beautiful, strange sound it is.

The Poop Knife & Laughing at Life

No one is listening until you fart. ~Author Unknown

It’s been months. I’ve avoided it like the plague, and now, I can escape the poop knife no longer. Let me explain.

The poop knife is part of a diabolical system called cloth diapers. As a nanny, I work for a very environmentally-conscious family, and really, so far using the cloth hasn’t been that bad!

Until solid food.

I used to chuck the cloth diapers in a well-lined garbage can, Momma would wash them, and no worries. But no longer is that an option. Hence, the poop knife. And yep, the name says it all. Maybe poop spatula would be more descriptive, but you get the picture.

The funny thing is, the poop knife is only the cherry on top. Lately it seems any inanimate object is ready to turn on me…

Scenario 1. I’d been using this bristly, really nice-looking brush for … a couple weeks probably… to clean dishes too big for the diswasher or too covered in crusties. Then, just the other day, I inspected the brush to find it covered ((COVERED)) in human hair.
“Uhhhh, did someone use this brush to clean the floor?” I asked my housemates, trying not to gag.
— “I think that’s for cleaning the bathroom, Megs”

Scenario 2. I’m enjoying a nice hot shower, when, to my dismay I realize I’ve left my razor in the cabinet. Well, might as well put use to my long appendages and reach out into the nearby cabinet. I’m fishing around, just feeling it out, when kerplunk.
I’ve knocked my favorite body spray into the open, unflushed toilet.

Why all this shnasty-happenings narrative?

I think it’s funny.
Yes at first it’s annoying, and can really put a person on edge. And after getting over myself, sometimes I have a rare moment of absolute clarity. And those poop knives in my life bring me back to the hilarity of it all.
Life is so increadibly out of our control it’s almost hilarious.

Soooo, what your poop knife?

Only a few hours after writing this I dropped my toothbrush in the toilet. :}

From T.P. to Duck Tape…

149887_453056957042_629317042_5623687_2948378_n — desperate times call for desperate measures

When it comes down to it, we are simply not always prepared for what “life” throws at us. And sometimes it’s not always life that’s pitching anyways. What I mean is this: often times people are the ones surprising us–in good ways, yet often bad. I don’t expect my friend was prepared to “do some business” and find his t.p. replaced with a lovely roll of duck tape. OUCH. At this point he has one of two choices

1. Get mad

2. Laugh.

Knowing the kind of person he is, he laughed. I wish we did this more often. People are going to fail us, hurt us, disappoint us—it’s inevitable. But how we react is always up to us.

Meg Writes Life

stories & essays on life and living with loss

Tag: life