Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Story Time

Jon: "Please.....approach no further."
 
 
"Wait. What is going on here? Why are you touching me? Who gave you permission to touch me?"

 
"No. No I don't want a story. My brain isn't capable of comprehending complex story lines. Excuse me, your personal bubble is basically touching my personal bubble."


"I'm not sure how I feel about this. Why isn't mom saving me? I'm beginning to develop severe trust issues."

 
"Um......HELP!"


"Phew, I knew that old fart trick would work. Disaster averted. I think I shall take a nap now."

Monday, November 24, 2014

Sunday + How To Destroy Your Favorite Sweatshirt

Yesterday I took all three boys to church for the first time. It was Jon's first time at church and the first time we had been in (insert guilty face) several weeks. I was prepared for the worst, but either my expectations are SUPER low lately, or my children were nearly angelic.

First, I picked up Jacob from "church school" (by the way, whoever had the genius idea of scheduling church school to start 20 minutes after the first mass and to end 20 minutes before the second mass, clearly doesn't have three kids to cart around all over town). Since we had time to kill, I let the kids run out their energy at a nearby park.

The result? My kids went to church like this:


During church, the kids were (relatively) amazing. I was in a huge rush to get out the door that morning and hadn't packed a single thing to keep the kids busy except for a snack bag of cereal. I usually bring books and crayons and other quiet knick-knacks. Go figure that the one time I don't bring these things, the kids actually behave.

Anyway, Jon slept the entire Mass in the Babybjorn and the older boys only got into three poking fights. Jacob only snuck of out the pew (and jammed into the knees of all the other pew occupants) three times to use the drinking fountain. Suspiciously, the second time he left, he didn't return for about ten minutes...hmmm..... Also, parishioners just might be finding cocoa puffs in the church for the next several months. But other than that, the kids were quiet and mostly sat still. For three boys, that's just about as angelic as it comes!

After celebratory donuts from the 7-11 (we're fancy like that), we came home and Ryan put himself down for a nap (what the heck?!) while we watched the Seahawks play the Cardinals (awesome game!).

Littlest 12th Man


The boys decorated gingerbread houses, which I discovered is the best way to use up Halloween candy. This is the first year that I bought pre-made kits. I usually make my own from scratch (last year, I resorted to super gluing the gingerbread parts together). I will NEVER make my own again. Pre-made is just way too easy. More and more, I'm starting to appreciate the beauty of shortcuts.



Before bedtime, my husband left to run a quick errand. And of course THAT is the precise moment that shit decided to hit the fan. Two minutes after my husband was out the door, as I was nursing the baby, Ryan came up to me screaming with blood literally squirting out of his mouth. I quickly put down the baby and set Ryan in the bathtub to contain the blood geyser. Of course I was wearing my brand new Seahawks sweatshirt, so I cupped my hands over his gushing mouth and ran him straight to the tub. I never did locate the source of the blood but after a few minutes the bleeding stopped (phew, ER trip avoided).

During this entire episode, Jon was thoroughly upset for having his meal interrupted and was screaming at the top of his lungs. I ducked out of the bathroom to check on him and found that he had his first huge diaper blowout. I mean apocalyptic poop. Poop everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Not gonna lie, all I could think about was my poor new Seahawks sweatshirt.

Oh hi, I'm going to poop now.


I decided that since 2/3 of the children were covered in blood or poop that it was a good time to give them a bath. I lured Jacob into the tub and cleaned all the children assembly-line style. And, you know, because my sweatshirt hadn't been through enough, Jon decided that bath time was the perfect time to pee. His aim is impeccable. PEE. PERFECT ARC. FACE. SWEATSHIRT. DRENCHED.

My husband came home to three sparkling clean children and one wife covered in blood, poop, spit-up, and pee. I was quite a lovely sight. In case you are wondering, I did not get any sweet, sweet lovin' that night. Not that I would anyway because, you know: four week old baby and exhaustion.

"I'm worth it. You love me."

 
You can just SEE the exhaustion on my face. You can also see a glimpse of my sweatshirt, pre-bodily-fluid apocalypse.
 
 
 

Sunday, November 23, 2014

A Hundred Goodbyes

Jonathan,

I don't want to forget the large folds of skin on the back of your head.

I don't want to forget the way you contently caress my skin as you nurse.

I don't want to forget how, when I place you against my shoulder, your mouth opens and your head bobs spastically back and forth, like a newly hatched baby bird.

I don't want to forget the way your tongue reflexively flutters as you snooze.

How your whole tiny body heaves up and down when you sigh in your sleep.

The softness of your newborn hair.

The length of your eyelashes, straight and delicate, against your sweet olive skin.

The way you wrinkle your brow as your beady little eyes gaze with intense focus on an object of interest.

The shrillness of your cry, not fully broken-in.

How your pulse dances wildly in the soft spot at the crown of your head.


Right now I know you as a newborn. And I know everything about you. Our lives are completely synched and utterly interdependent. But everything I know about you will eventually fade away. I will begin to know new things about you, things that are not yet true, until all that I know about you in this moment is forgotten. It's happened twice before. And as much as I swear that I will not forget this time, I know I can't stop the forgetting. The forgetting is as inevitable as the passage of time.

Dear sweet little baby of mine. How I wish I could always remember. How I wish I could bookmark this moment and return to it at any whim, to gaze at your newborn face and to smooth your newborn fingers. God willing, I will have you to love for a long, long time. But you will never again be as you are today. So small. So tender. So synched with me.

Before you are grown and set off on your own, you will leave me over a hundred times. You will leave me slowly, day by day. As you grow and change, I will constantly be saying goodbye to the boy that I had loved. My only comfort is in knowing that each goodbye also brings a hello and that, as you change, I get the gift of getting to know you all over again.

Friday, November 21, 2014

Jon's One Month And Things That Make Me Sad

Welp you guys, I did it. I just seriously told my husband that maybe, just maybe it wouldn't be so horrible to think about having another baby (in four to five years). I never saw a man reach for the phone so quickly....to make a vasectomy appointment. He is insisting on getting it done this year, an effort I would have generously applauded and encouraged up until yesterday when I realized that Jon was growing out of his newborn clothes and I would likely not be able to use them (on a real baby) ever, ever again.

I just....I just love babies. Especially OUR babies. I kind of want a handful more (not all at the same time). I think I have a sickness.

Also, four weeks in to having three boys and I'm absolutely cured of all my previous desires and fantasies about being a stay at home mom. I'm such a better, happier mom when I go to work for a chunk of the day. I'll fully admit it. I just don't have the patience to deal with fighting, bickering, and whinning all day long. OMG, the FIGHTING. It's suddenly  nonstop. This is totally a new thing as of six months ago. I wonder if it's the fact they are both boys, if it's their ages, if it's the fact that they share a room and have zero personal space at all (gee, how do they think I feel when they are picking their noses in my face while I'm trying to straighten my hair each am...welcome to the club of tiny houses). Maternity leave was so much easier (and more fun) with just two. Also having kids TWO years a part is SO much different than having kids THREE years apart.

If I have to smell one more intentional fart, clean up one more uneaten meal, wash one more urine-stenched item of clothing, or pick up one more errant Legoman head, I may just have to go put myself in time out.

In other news, Jonathan (ahh, I still feel giddy saying his name, I love that name!) turned one month old today! He celebrated by showing off both of his chins, being extra adorable, and then refusing to sleep all afternoon and evening, demanded to be held constantly, and screaming his head off for an hour (very uncharacteristic). We are cuddling on the couch now and I'm afraid to wake him because I don't know if i will be greeted by normal Jon or crabby-ass jerk-face Jon.



Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Us: 2014

Last weekend we had our family portraits taken. I love family portraits, not because I'm narcissistic (although I may be that), but the snapshots say so many things to me.

To anyone else, the photo below may show nothing more than a young boy. But to me is says, "Remember your first born? Remember how tiny and small he was? Look at how big he has grown. But he still has that little round chin. How can he be the same boy that looked lazily up at me from the hospital nusery? There are those lace-up shoes that he refuses to learn to tie. It drives me crazy that he still slips his foot in and out of them. I can see his big boy front teeth. He was so excited about losing them and cannot wait to lose more even though it has been a while. See how he sits? That's how he sits when he is in the middle of building Legos but then gets distracted and mesmerized by the TV.

 
 
To a stranger this is just a picture of a boy. But to me it beckons the memory of a sweet little blue-eyed toddler collecting snails in his pocket at the park and tells of his transformation into a green-eyed inquisitive child. His eye color is different, but his passion for following the rules, learning new things, and discovering the world around him is the same.
 
 
This may be just a picture of a toddler. But to me, this picture of a sweet, smiling two year old harbors just the hint of a wily, rough-and-tumble boy masked beneath the skin's surface. The faint scar on his forehead reminds me of the numerous falls and tumbles this tough boy has taken while endeavoring to take the world by storm. I'm pretty sure nothing will come easily to this boy, unless he receives it as a result of his dashing, cheeky smile.
 
 
 
This picture of three ordinary boys tells the story of the power struggle of a two-year old trying to find his place while desperately loving the object that misplaced him as the baby of the family. He loves roughly, but only because he loves with his whole heart AND body. It also tells the story of an oldest brother who was beside himself with grief to learn that he was getting another baby brother instead of a sister but who instantly took on a new role as The Protector. He is guided by strong convictions and has a hard time dealing with the reality of the unfairness of this world (especially of the rivalrous world that exists between siblings). This picture also tells the story of a new baby boy, who is now completely oblivious to the non-stop love and admiration of his two older brothers. The baby that made us feel complete and our lives overflowing with blessings.
 

 
Four guys. MY guys. They are mine. They are the other parts of me. They are each and every one imprinted in my mind and my heart. Right here, in this picture of four regular guys, is everything I love most in the entire world. I don't have a big house or a fancy car or this season's wardrobe. I have them. And they make me feel rich.


 
Then there is all of us. I love reflecting on all the ways we change over the years. I especially love the portraits of those years in which ta-da! a new person suddenly appears, like magic, or spontaneous acquisition.
 
We all need each other for different reasons and love each other in different ways. Sometimes the love comes more easily than other times. Despite the impeccable color coordination and bright smiles, we are not perfect. But dang-it!, for a measly three snap shots out of the year, we can sure try our best.
 


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Giving Tree

In my Facebook newsfeed a while back, I saw a post about Shel Silverstein's book The Giving Tree (maybe even through one of my fellow MILPs?). The post asked whether people loved or hated the book. I was shocked at first at the slightest suggestion that the book could be hated.

My mom loved the book and read it to us often. A tree that gives and gives and gives, motivated solely by love, and never asks for anything in return. To me, that book was the purest and simplest definition of love. To be completely selfless To never question the needs of others but to always put them first. To show your love through actions and sacrifice rather than through words. To love someone so much that you completely exhaust yourself in every way.

Reading through the comments, it became clear to me why some people hate the book. The general gist of such comments was that it is unhealthy to love so blindly without reciprocity. Unhealthy to give everything you have to someone who appears completely ungrateful and indifferent to your own needs. The tree is a horrible role model for children, so say some of the commentators.

I was taken aback that one of my most beloved children's books could be viewed so negatively. I had never once considered this side of the story. But after mulling it over some more, I simply cannot agree. The focus of the book, to me, is really the love and sacrifice of the tree, not the healthiness of the relationship between the boy and the tree. In my experience as a parent, I feel this is especially true. As parents, we have no choice but to love our children. We can't just abandon the relationship we have with our kids on the basis the relationship is imperfect- that our children do not reciprocate, that our children are ungrateful or indifferent to our needs and affection.

Perhaps the negative Facebook comments hold some truth in regards to romantic relationships. But certainly not of the relationship between parent and child. This relationship is rarely equal. And as I struggle to survive day in and day out with three little boys, the truth of this fact is abundantly clear. I give so much. By the end of the day, I'm exhausted from giving. I have nothing left. After I tuck two little bodies into their beds and collapse on the couch with a third little body snuggled up under my chin, I feel drained in every way- physically, mentally, spiritually. I am empty.

The kids rarely understand the depth of my sacrifices and work. They are busy learning and growing and becoming people. They don't reciprocate the 100% mental and emotional investment I make in them each day. They keep fighting and making messes and doing things that I have repeatedly told them not to do, with little concern for my sanity. So yes, at the end of the day I'm exhausted and empty. But I'm not hollow. I'm satisfied and happy (even on those not-so-occasional days where I all I can do is ruminate over my parental shortcomings). My love for them is not dependent upon reciprocity. It is unconditional. Impenetrable. Self-sustaining.

Now that I am three weeks postpartum and slowly taking back possession of my own body, I am acutely aware of another way in which being a parent is like being the Giving Tree. Bringing three children into the world does not leave a body unscathed. And as I look into the mirror I see the stretch marks, extra skin, and softness around my waist. I can feel the separation of my abdominal muscles. I see the dark line that still runs down the middle of my belly. I see the wide incision scar that rests below my bikini line and feel the rough edges of the scar tissue lying below the surface. And when I stop nursing, my chest will transform back into two fleshy pockets of stretched-out skin.

After three kids, I struggle to find my body beautiful. But the Giving Tree reminds me of a different kind of beauty. A beauty not of physical appearance but of the heart. At the end of the book, the tree is nothing more than a stump. To any stranger, the tree might not be beautiful. It would be deformed and easily passed over. But to the boy (and the reader), who is familiar with the gifts and the sacrifice of the tree, the tree is beautiful. Not for what it looks like, but for what it has done, what it has given, and how deeply it has loved.

My body has given and nurtured life, three times over. Each time, giving up a little more of what it once was. My postpartum body may never make the cover of a magazine. My stretch marks and extra skin  and incision scars may never be objectively beautiful by society's standards. But maybe it can still be beautiful and loved by those who know the extent of its sacrifice: the children to whom it has given life, and the man who it has made a father. Even if it is not beautiful for its appearance, may my body be beautiful for all it has done and for what it has given.

I see no better metaphor for a mother than as demonstrated by the Giving Tree.

And, back to the negative reflections on the book....maybe a person who loves without any thought or expectations of reciprocity is the perfect role model for the next generation (a generation of instant gratification). No child (not even the most grateful and giving child) can ever fully reciprocate a mother's love and sacrifices. And perhaps, this makes a mother's love even more pure.

Monday, November 10, 2014

"Everything Is Awesome"

Jon is 3 weeks old today. Last week, it felt like his time had flown by. When the reminder for his two week check-up popped up on my phone, I wanted to strangle my brain in disbelief. It felt like he was JUST born. Maybe the five day hospital stay had some kind of time warp affect on my brain. But now, it feels like he's been with us forever.

The newborn sleep-all-the-time phase has evaporated and left behind a less pleasant cry-all-the-time-unless-you-hold-me phase. This kid does NOT like to be a cooperative sleeper. It will take take five hours and two feedings for me to get him to sleep soundly somewhere other than my arms. But of course, the second I desperately need to feed him (rock boobs) or run an errand, he's so sound asleep that no amount of prodding or jostling will rouse him. ("rouse" - is that a word? If not, it should be).


And that nice Pack 'n Play I so painstakingly set up and cleaned as his bassinet? Used once. He does not like to sleep alone. And because he is my third and last baby, I don't have the energy or the willpower to force the issue. The little heart-stealer stows away in our bed every night. Bonus: sleep feeding. I don't even know how many times he wakes to eat anymore because I literally roll over and get him to latch in my sleep. I often wake up with a puddle of milk or spit-up (perhaps I'll never know which) seeping toward my (tiny) little sliver of the bed.

The three. They are mine. This makes me smile.


Also, I'm pretty sure he is constantly constipated. All night long he emits the most prolonged, disturbing pooping sounds I have ever heard. It's like the dude has eaten his weight in cheese and bananas. For someone who consumes and shits solely in liquid form, he is sure dramatic about his defecation. It's really hard to sleep with a 9 pound chipmunk-guinea pig hollering five inches from your ear.

Jon took his first bath! And left a present in the water.


There are many, many times that I find myself missing being in the hospital. It's really hard to go back to real life after you spend five days in a hospital bed where people bring you meals (of your choice!) at any hour of the day, change your baby's diaper, check in every three hours just to ask how you are doing, clean and groom you, deliver graham crackers and water and Vicodin to your bedside (even at 3am!), and (my personal favorite) where you don't even have to lift a finger to pee (oh catheter, how I love thee!).

But as much as I miss the special doting and attention that I received in the hospital, it is a million times better to be a normal human again, or as close to normal as you can be when you have to be on call to let another human suck your boob every couple hours. Now that I'm no longer pregnant and my incision is pretty much healed, I can do so many things that I so took for granted all my non-pregnant life. Like sleep on my tummy! The first time I slept on my tummy after Jon was born I swear I heard angels sing!

Also, I can wear ANYTHING in my closet! I'm not limited to clothes with a belly panel or stretchy waist band. I can wear any shirt I want to. It's so freeing. It also feels like I just scored a major shopping spree. I haven't worn my normal clothes in so long, I forgot that I even had them.

Oh and I can put on shoes and socks BY MYSELF! I can bend over to take off my boots! Wait. I can BEND OVER PERIOD. I still shed a tear of joy every single time I squat down to pick up a dirty diaper off the floor because: belly gone! Incision healed! I can physically move my body without discomfort or pain! I swear that for the rest of my life I will never take bending over for granted.

So basically, as the Lego Movie has taught us, everything is awesome (if you don't understand that reference, BLESS YOU, and be forever grateful). Because even when Jon is being difficult and insists on being held....hullo, baby holding is awesome. Although it does make some things more difficult such as making dinner, driving a car, eating, peeing, folding laundry, and putting on pants. But if holding a baby is the worst part of this whole new baby deal, I think I'll survive. It has helped me get a lot of reading done. In the past two weeks, I've read approximately 1,300 pages of the addictive Outlander series while Jon has slept soundly in my arms.

Finally, I would be remiss to end this post without mentioning one thing: baby heads smell AMAZING. If only I could collect them.