Month: May 2014 (Page 2 of 5)

I’m going to burn my bras. Join me, it’ll be a party.

I’ve never considered myself a bra-burning feminist, but that’s about to change. I’m going to be so presumptive as to throw myself a party – part celebration, part please-hold-me, I’m-feeling-all-the-feels-about-motherhood. Sounds like a riot, yes?

I’ve been wearing nothing but maternity clothes and nursing bras for 6 1/2 years. People wonder how I’m such a fashion train wreck, but let’s look at my options here. The lycra/cotton/spandex trio and myself have become BFF, but now we need some time apart.

So, I’m throwing myself a Nursing Bra Burning Party – in which all 5 of you, my closest reader friends, are invited. I’ll provide food, a pyrographic display, and 2 or 3 things from my Bottoms Up! pinboard. You simply need to bring something pretty (or sassy, or even practical but with support) in a size 34B.

It just so happens that the process of weening the baby coincides with our family making permanent (well, semi-permanent to people like Michael Scott) decisions about our family size. We’re not just moving through the end of this baby’s infantdom, we’re mourning/celebrating not experiencing night feedings and tiny cries ever again. The next few weeks are kind of a big deal. 

In many cultures, the beginning of womanhood is marked (and I’m secretly plotting a quinceanera party for my girls, but without too much frill). We celebrate the movement from one season of life to the next. In our mothering,  stages get looked over. I’ve been living the first, Baby Prison, marked with naptimes, diaper bags and nursing bras. With the upcoming 1st birthday of the baby, however, we’re slowly transitioning toward childhood.

This fills me with unfathomable glee while simultaneously making me want to cry ugly tears of “I can’t believe this time is over.”

ragged beauty

Photograph via CC – “363/365 – The 365 Toy Project” by Davidd.

My current patch, in its challenges, often has me saying, “Life will look different in 5 years.” Honestly, that “looks different” means I’m dropping children off at school, going to a yoga class, sipping coffee and getting to type lots of words into coherent and even brilliant sentences. So this motto gets me through the tough mornings of  urine scented car seats.

But in 5 years, nursing my littlest to sleep and baby cackles will only be memories, not realities. I won’t be able to pick that up and do it just for the sake of good times. This is it. I can’t bring back this season of life, this span of 6 years, and I need to mark it as significant and holy.

I know several moms who “remember this season of life” and they say that both fondly and with great appreciation that it’s over. Someday I’ll be sharing those words with others.

And when I do, I want to hand her a new bra. I want her to know that the raggedness she feels from Babyhood grows into something beautiful. I want her to know she’s not alone in feeling The Ache while at the same time itching to move toward the next great thing in her mothering.

I need you dear friends. I want to feel the fullness of the moment. I want to be sad with my aching husband and all levels of happiness that the eldest doesn’t need a nap to be human. I want to mark these years of tiny ones with a toast and greet the phase of backpacks and bike rides with a drink at the door – welcome, my friends!

I want to celebrate it all.

I want to wear the badge of well-lived stages of mothering on my chest. It’s called a new bra.

So, good friends, keep your calendar open. You do that for me already, yes? I’m thinking about next weekend, but you never can tell with all my whimsy. You can bring my husband a bag of frozen peas and me a little Secret from Victoria. We will laugh and cry and raise our glasses to the work of parenthood and the joys and pains of growing, or as in our case, deciding not to grow in number, only in love.

With little eyes watching

I draw distinct differences between my children and the general population of children. As in, I love mine, but I could give or take on the rest of them. I’m just not a “kid person.” My friend Jill is. She’s great with little people (good job choosing the kindergarten teacher profession, btw). But other people’s little ones just aren’t my bag.

(Related: I feel this way about dogs, too. I like mine. I don’t like dogs. I’m not a dog person, I’m just a my dog person. Surely other people have this trait?)

So when my friend A asked me to help out by watching her littlest boy for a few days so she could catch up on some CEUs, I was in a conundrum. There was that whole other-people’s-kids thing, but the bigger part of me likes to be helpful and this is what would help. So I spent two days with her little guy (who looks so remarkably similar to Lady C that it looked like I was even crazier than I normally look toting all 5 around. His age was right in the middle of my biggest gap. #amish?)

The little guy was a delight. Such a sweetheart, so easy to get along with. I’m nearly rethinking my other-people’s-kids thing. He didn’t much appreciate my pack ‘n play for napping, but adored the car seat and my living room floor, so we got along splendidly. And my kids loved having him around – it was like having a new baby, but without pregnancy and labor and breastfeeding or getting up in the middle of the night!

I also noticed a change in my mothering. I became more patient. My voice lost its shrillness even when I was frustrated. We even hurried less. I expected to get less done but still cranked out some work-tasks during naptime.

With our little guest I had become more aware of how I dealt with conflict and my expectations realigned. I subconsciously didn’t want yelling or tension to be a part of his experience, so I refrained. He can’t even talk yet, so it really wasn’t self-preservation (though I’d be ashamed if he could go home and tell mom “all she did was yell.”)

After I realized the positive changes thanks to a guest, I had to wonder: why will I try so hard to create a positive environment for other people’s kids, yet put less effort into it for only my own? Why do other kids get the Best Mom I can offer?

It’s a strange reversal. Imagine if we loved all kids with the fierceness that we love our own children. If communities truly lived as if we belong to one another, then children wouldn’t grow up doubting people’s goodness like they do. We save our best love for the few under our roof.

The reverse is also true. Imagine if we treated our own children with the care and awareness as we do other’s children. If we asked kindly instead of shouted, if we believed this little one’s mother was watching over our shoulder to see how we treated them with respect and kindness instead of following our frustrated or time-crunched emotions. We save our best behavior for the masses going home to other families.

So often this is true beyond child-discipline issues. We’re kind to the people at work and give our best efforts yet when we walk in the door we simply want to sit in a dark room and be alone. We walk into the church ready to bask in the light of God and get huffy with our spouse on the way home. We emotionally spend on those outside and leave nothing for those who ask us to refill their cups and turn off the light each night.

How I wish it wasn’t so for me.

Some of it is the nature of our jobs. Working with people is hard. Helping professionals (teachers, social service, churches and the like) pour and pour, realizing the danger of coming home dry.  SAHM’s work and work at trying to do it well and when their spouse walks in we have no kisses left.

The ones we love most see it the least.

The goal shouldn’t be to take our love and energies away from others. Perhaps it’s not redirecting love or behavior, but rather growing it. Controlling the monster within who believes I can be mean without repercussion because they’re family.

I live by the philosophy that they’re not really mine, simply on loan for a while, and combined with this experience, I had better see some changes in behavior. I need time appreciating them and these precious days left (as the eldest will run of to school much too quickly in the future). I must lower my productivity expectations and raise the bar for being fully present with them at times through the day. (The whole day? No way. Kids grow into well adjusted adults by venturing off and playing together – but my hours are limited to have them to myself, so perhaps I could choose them over Facebook or Zulily or the pile of resumes on my work desk).

Thanks, little man, for joining our family circle for a few days. You made me a better mom.

 

Blessed is She

From the 2010 Archives. I don’t often venture into poetry, but this was one of my favorites. Just for you, #tbt.

Blessed is she who has a husband like mine
She enjoys their days at home
She gets to enjoy a work out or writing or the things that bring her life
For he is quick to offer to put the babies to bed.

Blessed is she who has a husband like mine
Their dwelling increases in value
In the heat of the day, all summer long he paints and tends
Complaints never escape from his mouth.

Blessed is she who has a husband like mine
Their table fills to the brim with friends
So many love spending time with him
A generous host, he makes them feel at home.

Blessed is she who has a husband like mine
Her children cackle and shriek with laughter
He sings funny songs and tickles their tummies
Doubt of his love can find no room to grow in their hearts.

Blessed is she who has a husband like mine
Ice cream is never out of reach
He knows that simple pleasures make a rich life
And celebrating another day becomes reason enough to enjoy.

Blessed is she who has a husband like mine
A smile never leaves her face
Her days fill with moments that bring her heart peace
And she knows that she is truly blessed.

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