Critters

I don’t like animals in the house. Not the kind that shed, have accidents, use furniture for scratching posts, or leave various presents around. I’m also not a big fan of wet noses on bare legs, and sniffing of... *ahem*... nether regions (seriously. Go’way, dog).  In some circles that makes me a very, very bad person, and I have learned to be okay with that. You pet lovers out there, I AM NOT JUDGING YOU! You do you, with or without the hair balls. You can love on your critters ALL DAY LONG. But I probably won’t. 

It’s not what you think.  Pets look at you longingly, desperately, wanting attention. NEEEEEEDING you.  My kids think I hate house pets, but it’s just that there are so many living creatures (the two legged kind) that need me, I can’t have an animal in my life that gives me that mournful, disappointed look.  Not one more living thing to worry about. I already spontaneously generate guilt over the tiniest of things in this life.  Can #6 plastic be recycled or will it just end up in the landfill anyway?  How much spring mix has turned to compost in my fridge this month? Are my porch lights disturbing the flight patterns of migratory water fowl?

Then, there’s the actual important stuff.  Did each kid get my individual attention today?   Have I shown my husband he’s important me?  HAVE I DONE ANY GOOD IN THE WORLD TODAY? (You want guilt, look up the lyrics to that one on a day you feel like litterbox fodder). 

In the past, we have had the “wag-my-tail, take-me-for-a-walk” kind of pets.  I fretted.  Is he sick?  Is he lonely if we leave him for several hours? And later, watching him die was unbearable.  Frankly, darlings, it was too much, what with all the small humans with stubbed toes and ear infections running about the place, demanding medical care and food and whatnot. 

I feel the emotional pain of others pretty strongly, and even feel physical pangs when people I care about are in pain.  When my boys got their wisdom teeth out, and when Ethan badly broke his collar bone, my chest hurt just to look at them. Shuddering, heartsick pain.  I feel it with friends, and sometimes even strangers. Pain for their pain. 

It can be the same with animals.  Just the other day, when we went to tend to a friend’s horses, one of the horses was lame and in a great deal of pain. I could feel it so strongly that the horse, who had on previous visits been very calm with me, began literally pushing me around with his head. He was confused by what he was feeling from me, and his owner had to step in and help me. 

Dude, I signed up for that when I had my babies. Six contracts for periodic-but-guaranteed heart wrenching grief.  Not for little things like skinned knees or bonked noggins (I have superglued my share of split chins and lanced a few boils in my tenure), but for the serious stuff, you bet your tintype, sister, I feeeeeeeel it. 

I just don’t need the ’tude of a stuck-up feline on top of all that.  This is what I can handle:

Lizards. And fish.  In big glass boxes.  Things that can’t just walk up to you and say, “Hey, lady, feed me,” or  “Snuggle me, woman. Now”.   None of that crazy-happy, frantic tail wagging, or apathetic “talk to the cat-butt” attitude, please and thank you.  And no more hamsters, people!  They are the dollar-store toy of the pet world. They don’t live long, but the pain for their heartbroken little owner lasts ages. Poor little Tessa grieved for months and months over a lost hamster. His tiny grave in a flowerpot came with us when we moved.  We just planted fresh pansies over him yesterday. 

No ma’am. Not for me. Give me fish and lizards and maybe a snake once in a while. A lot of moms would think having reptiles in their house would be horrifying, and I won’t pretend we haven’t had a few escapees.  But bearded dragons don’t lick you, and fish don’t need hugs. They have few demands, and I’ve never once lost a minute of sleep wondering how they were “feeeeeeling”, which frees my heart up for the critters who do.  

Jackie is always sweetly encouraging me to like furry critters.  She does voices for her dogs saying hello to me on video as they bask in a sunny window with half closed eyes.  And Ellie says that she thinks someday I will. She says when I’m an old lady with no more little ones to tend to, I’ll get myself a little dog to love on and fuss over. 

Never say never.

But I’ll still have Guy, and if the past 25 years have been any indication,  I’m sure he’ll be lots hairier by then. 

The Last Of Firsts

I’m all about finding the cloud on the outside of the silver lining. It’s what I do. Call me Eeyore. 

So I can’t help but notice when yet another “first” has blasted through my heart, scrambling my mama-emotions, and left me in a sad little sentimental heap, as it becomes a “last”. My baby, my last baby, my darling little girl, my little miracle child, is not my baby anymore.

I tried to deny it when she ditched diapers because, let’s face it, she still pees the bed, and pull ups ain’t cheap. I tried to brush it aside when those back molars came in and she begrudgingly accepted the fact that I had to call “closing time” on nursing (she was the only one I sincerely worried I would still be nursing on her spring-break visits from college). I diligently ignored her growing vocabulary, exploding creativity, and generally off-the-charts sassafras, because of her tiny size. I mean, after all, I’m still pulling size 3 clothes out of her drawers, and her butt could fit on a graham cracker.

But there’s no denying it now. Because babies don’t go to kindergarten. Nope, kinder is for big girls.

Natalie’s first day of school was, according to her (and flippantly matter-of-factly, I might add), “Great!”.  She did her chores, worked on her ABCs (because her sister was determined she should be very schooly), and compared feathers we found in the yard to our bird identification book. She was read to, drew pictures of the beach, watched a program about flying fish, had lovely snacks, and jumped on the trampoline for PE.

Frankly, it was no different from any other day in this house. But in her world, it was the first day of kindergarten, and she’ll remember it forever.

And so will her mother. Because it was MY very last First Day of School.

The Last Cradle

A friend gave us this cradle when her last babe was done with it, so it wasn't even one that I used for all of my babies.

First, for Ethan, there was a bassinet; a garage sale find.

Next was a crib; a hand-me-down from folks at church.

By the time Adam was a few months old I'd gotten rid of it because we had taken to co-sleeping, and the crib was just a place to pile blankets.

But when Ellie was on her way I found a little swinging Jenny Lind cradle at a second hand store and brought it home.  After losing the baby before her, it was my way of affirming that it would be okay to plan for the happy arrival of this little one.

It lasted through Tessa, and then was decommissioned.  A little too rickety.

But then Jonah made his way into the world, and this cradle, this last cradle, made it's way into our house, well loved and used by my friend Nicole for her littles turned bigs.

And at our home, the cradle was again well used.  Jumbo Jonah insisted on catching his zzz's in it till he had to bend his knees to fit. And then tiny Natalie, who I tended to place into it more often for the sake of all of our sleep (because of her ability to place her left foot in my spleen while her right occupied Guy's armpit), used it until not so long ago.

A few months ago the big girls got a bunk bed with a twin on top and a full sized mattress on the bottom, and Ellie began stealing Natalie away at bedtime to share her lower bunk, apparently undaunted by Natalie's nighttime calisthenics.

******

I don't know when the last night slipped by that my last baby had her last dream in the little wooden cradle.  It just happened one day.  One morning I simply realized that the cradle hadn't been used in... days? weeks? I wasn't sure.

I sat on the floor by my bed, folding the jumble of baby blankets it held into a tidy, still pile. The kind of pile that is waiting for a cupboard or a box, and not a chubby little person.  I cried a little, and pressed the cloth into my face trying to catch a hint, a whiff, of my babies there.

But I couldn't.

I left the cradle, with it's pile of carefully folded blankets, there for a few weeks, a month, or maybe two, telling myself there was no place in the garage for it.  And then one day Guy suggested we move it out.

"Don't rush me." I said.

I'm not ready to say goodbye to this last little cradle. I thought.

*****

Then one day a few weeks ago I finally moved it out of our room.  Natalie is 3 after all.  But I firmly informed Guy not to get any fancy notions of sending it off to Goodwill, that my grandbabies WOULD be sleeping in it, and that until that time, it would be waiting.

Waiting to hold babies again.

There is something so impossibly hard about saying goodbye to baby days.  I have been rocking babies for nearly 20 years.  It's who I am now.  It's my identity.  I'm a mommy.  Not just a mom, but a mommy.  A nose wiping, back stroking, booty patting, weep comforting, sleep coaxing mommy.

And cradle or not, I always will be.

Natalie on her new toddler bed.

Mother's Day

It's been a while since I've done a foodie post!
My Honny made me an awesome Mother's Day dinner and we ate it outside, which is my favorite!  

The breeze was breezy and the sun was only blaring in our eyes for the first hour or so.  Guy made stuffed chicken breasts with a bacon cream sauce and rosemary roasted yams, with a yummy cheesecake topped in chocolate ganche and raspberry sauce for dessert.

It was all amazing.  

The breeze created a windchime symphony, and my kids did not fight once!  It's the second time this week.  Somebody pinch me, please.  No!  Wait!  Don't do that.  I'll wake up and they'll start fighting again.  

The Littles brought me flowers one at a time throughout the night, and I received about 12 glittery handmade cards and pictures.

My day was already going great because I got to take a nap.  

(No, the boys are not reading the bible.  I have a phone ban at the table, but this was before dinner, so they feel like it's okay to be anti-social.)

I was gifted with bird feeders and clay, but my favorite came from Guy: Fourth of July Banners like the ones they hang at City Hall in The Music Man.  They are so cool.

Also, he found a Donkey Tail succulent plant for me.  It is a throwback from my childhood.  When we were kids, my dad had several of them, and we evil children would rip off the plump little leaves and throw them at each other by the handful.

When I told my kids my evil-children story, they gasped!  "That's terrible!!!" they all agreed.  I have done a lot of things wrong in my parenting, but I know that at least in the plant department, I have raised my children right.  They respect botanicals.

I am blessed.  Six kids is a lot.  Overwhelming at times, like today at the library.  Not recommended.  But I am blessed to share my life with these small and not so small humans.  Motherhood is so hard.  Most of the time I feel like I'm making this up as I go along, but when I am smart, I seek answers through prayer instead.  On my best day I couldn't come close to God's Plan for my family.

Who better to learn from than a loving Parent.    

To All the Tired Mamas

Photo by Ellie Holman, age 10

A while back I was chatting with my dear college roommate, Jackie, or Princess Gorkel, Daughter of Terri-lou Punk Frog of the Kingdom of the North, as she is known to me.  She was telling me how much she enjoys reading my blog when she is feeling down.  I told her that I sometimes picture myself writing to all the tired mamas at the end of the day, and what they might need to hear.  Now, I know that not ALL the tired mamas read my blog.  Certainly one or two go straight to bed.  But I bet all the mamas who DO read it ARE tired, because, well, duh... they're mamas.  It's tough work.  So this, my weary women, my tired-to-the-bone can't-fold-another-load friends, is for you.  And most of all, it is to Jackie.

To all the tired mamas at the end of the day,

I see you.

I see you up way too late, knowing that your day will be starting way too early again in the morning. I see you as you empty dishwashers and dryers and load them back up for a second, then a third run. I see you folding tired old towels with shredded ends, and breathing a sad sigh as you pull a little shirt from the basket to put in the donation bag, surprised at how fast it was outgrown by a not-so-little child.  I see your fury flare as you step on a lego, only to be extinguished by a sweet, sleeping mess-maker.  I see you turning out lights and locking doors, always the last one to bed.

I see you in the morning as you make your bed, though you'd rather climb back into it. Making lunches, planning meals, watching for sales to make the money stretch impossibly further. I see you clean a room over and over, only to come back through and find it destroyed. I see you welcome your children home, putting on a smile just for them, sometimes felt, sometimes not, but you smile anyway because you don't want them to think that what is troubling you is them. I see you batting the to-do lists out of the forefront of your mind as you listen to the chatter of a small one, telling you the plot to their favorite show. Again.

I see you.

I see the way you wrestle with how strict to be about a rule broken; the balancing act between justice and mercy. I see you fretting as you look into brooding eyes, worried because you aren't quite sure if there is more to the story than you are getting.  I see you trying to find teaching moments- to know when to leave it alone and when to speak up.  I see you wishing a hug and a kiss could take it all away like it did when they were small, and knowing sometimes the only thing you can do is pray for them.

I see you cooking and cleaning and helping with homework.  I see you rocking a feverish child, cleaning up what came-up, and offering comfort through a blur of sleeplessness.  I see you helping a friend, bringing a meal to someone in need, and giving your lose change to the woman at the corner, all the while feeling that you are not quite enough; wise enough, thin enough, organized enough -charitable, loving, kind- enough.  

I see you.

I see your heart of gold under your spit-up stained t-shirt, your beautiful face beneath a few lines of time and a few streaks of grey. I see your strength as you power through days and months and years of the sameness of tasks, and then take on tomorrow as well.

I see your eyes well with tears over ones you have lost, or never got to have at all (which is a loss all the same, is it not?); ones that were never born, or never grew older, or were never free of their own demons. I see you protecting your children from the world when you can, and comforting them when you can't, and carrying their pain as your own either way.

I see you.

And I know you.

And I am grateful, because when I see you, I learn.  I am inspired.  I am encouraged. 

When I see you,

I am free to make mistakes, because I see your grace as you try again. 

I am free from judgement, because I see your forgiveness and I can forgive myself.

I am free to follow that voice inside that whispers to me how to mother, because I see you follow yours.

I see you, Tired Mama.  You are doing a great job.  Now go to bed and try to rest.  It all starts again tomorrow.

Raindrops on Roses....

The glorious unification of dubious DNA,
 captured by talented friend and photographer Robin Leach
 (check out her blog and hire her here!)

 

 Oh! I forgot how fun this is!!! 

There is so much about having a newborn that is so fleeting.  I wish I could bottle it.  And, though a 7+ pounder is a respectable arm-load, you may recall that my last babe in arms was toddler-sized at birth.  Being a seasoned (read here "Old") mama, I know enough to not be frantic when we have a fussy day and to be able to sit back and see the humor in being soaked in vomit or staying up half the night with a fuss-bucket.

So, as we are well overdue for a list (knowing as you do, my propensity for list making), here goes:

1.  Tai chi moves, jazz hands and flared toes

2.  A booty so tiny you can change the diaper on your lap.

3.  Projectile poop (rather a bummer when combined with #2)

4.  Crossed eyes and Oooooooo lips

5.  Shadow boxing

6.  Saggy-Baggy Elephant skin.

7.  Fuzzy shoulders and itty bitty buns.

8.  Looking down to find her staring into my eyes (like right now).

9.  Staring back endlessly, like when you first fell in love.

10.  Poo that smells like buttered popcorn.

11.  Two AM, and not having to wait till morning to see her again.

12.  4AM... 6AM...

13.  Counting life in days and ounces.

14.  Slings, and having a buffer between unwashed hands and her delicate immune system.

15.  Bright, warm smiles from women in their 50's

16.  .Bath time in the sink.

17.  Saying "thank you" when people say she's soooo cute,
as if we had any control over it.

18.  Clothes so small you could use them as mittens... or sock puppets.

19.  An excuse to not pay attention to anyone or anything else for 6 solid weeks.

20.   Figuring out who she looks like.

21.  Making milk, and not even knowing the recipe

22.  Having a whole person fit right under my chin.

23.  Seeing my sweetheart in love with someone else,
and being totally okay with it.

24.  Being grateful every minute from now till forever. 
(Okay, that one I get to enjoy a lot longer than 6 weeks.)

Story Time (or) How to Get Thrown Out of a Thrift Store

Come away with me, boys and girls to a magical place called DI, which is short for Deseret Industries, and also for Downright Insanity, depending.  DI is a thrift store on steroids, quite like a Super Walmart, but cleaner and with less swearing.

Our mission: To get clothing for Ellie.  She was once the tiniest of our children for her particular age, but she has since "outgrown" that illustrious distinction, and lately she has been outgrowing everything else.  The fountain of hand-me-downs that once kept her from going naked has dried up, and so, in a moment of deluded over-self-estimation, I thought, "Hey!  Let's go to DI!  Just Ellie, Tessa, Jonah and me!"

(This, boys and girls, is where the music gets all foreboding, and you shake your head, knowing that only bad things can happen if our characters continue on their chosen path).

We had been in the store about 15 minutes, and had collected a pile of "try-it-ons" that was draped over the mini-shopping cart seat and handle, leaving the cart empty for Jonah.  In a flash - a literal flash of cloth and hangers - I witnessed the shopping cart fly up into the air and completely invert itself, Jonah inside, over the top of Tessa, who had just mounted the front end.  The cart landed on Tessa and thankfully, so did Jonah.  Nothing breaks the fall of a child like another child, that's what I always say.  The chorus of wails that burst from those two small humans was detected by seismographs at NASA three states over.

You know, there is nothing that calls the attention of store employees quite like a good old-fashioned cart flipping.  In a pair of seconds we were surrounded by extremely concerned onlookers, who chose to speak all at once offering assistance and asking what we might need.  Silence, I thought, a few ice packs, a couple of gags and a bag to put over my head, that's what.  Some chocolate might be nice, too.  Thank you.

I sat on the floor with a mostly-startled Jonah and a hurt Tessa both huddled impossibly in my one lap.  Ellie, for once, made herself quite useful picking up the clothing explosion that lay around us like the aftermath of a party at a nude beach.  I probed Tessa's ankle for a possible broken bone, and quickly assessed that she was bruised, embarrassed and otherwise fine.  I had arnica on hand (someday I will write an entire post on arnica.  You will run out and buy many tubes for you and your loved ones, I promise), so we globed some on, picked our selves off the floor and tried to act natural.  Nothing to see here folks.  Move along, move along.  

A moment later a worker materialized beside me and handed my kids stuffed bears.  Used, scary looking stuffed bears.  We all smiled and I assured him the kids were fine.

Now, I know you were thinking that this was my story.  But noooo, boys and girls, because now we get to cram a cranky toddler, a wounded-but-still-lively ballerina, a clothing diva and a half-spent mama into a handicapped fitting room stall for 45 minutes.  You see, Ellie has to bow, shake her booty, kick up her heal and spin in every stinkin' outfit.  Apparently, that is the proper way to try on clothing.  Jonah lasted about 10 minutes before he discovered the 12" gap under the stall door. 

You could almost hear his little brain say "Woo-hoo!  I'm free!"  Every time he got halfway out of the stall, I grabbed his heals and dragged him back under.  It was super fun for him for about 10 pulls, because about 1 in 5 tries he was successful.  By now Tessa had decided that she too, needed to try on clothing, so each time he escaped I would have to open the door to run him down while -not one, but two- girls squealed that I was "showing the world their bums".  Meanwhile Jonah giggled hysterically and dodged in and out of clothing racks like a rabbit with me in hot pursuit.

We did this about 5 times, till I got smart (well, let's say less-stupid) and sat on the floor in front of the door.

(Begin the screaming-toddler soundtrack here.  Continue on a loop, increasing the volume every 4 minutes). 

At a certain point, one of the store's many Oh-so-helpful employees called to me from outside the door, "Is everything alright in there?"

Are you kidding me?  No, everything is not alright in here!  I am at war with Attilla-the-Baby while battling with Miss Ballet who would like for me to buy her 5 skirts-she-doesn't-need, please, and Miss Can-I-skip-ages-10-through-12-and-go-straight-to-obnoxious-teenager?... I have burst a vein in my left eye, I am developing a bruise from a recent unintentional toddler head-butt, and we still have 8 more things to try on... NO...DECIDEDLY NOT ALRIGHT!

I wanted to say all that, but a little voice inside my head (the one that belongs to the mom who discourages me from dolling out pieces of my mind all willy-nilly to telemarketers) tapped the freaky-mom-voice on the shoulder and suggested that maybe we would not like to have Child Protective Services called on us today, especially when we are so close to being done.

"Oh, he's just really, really tired."  I call from my sumo-match on the dirty blue indoor-outdoor carpet in the stall.  Really, he has all the energy in the world, it's me who's really, really tired.  There is no answer.  Good, I think, I don't need another audience.  Was he really thinking he would somehow help?  Did he plan to offer to hold Jonah while I helped with zippers and buttons?  Perhaps he would like to give me a foot massage as well!  Yes, Sir, please.  I'd love your help.  And when you are done here, will you follow me home and clean up my disastrous house while I nap?

We spent $32.  That bought 3 pairs of pants, 2 dresses, 5 tops, a skirt, and a claw toy.  We also staggered for the exit with two very ugly bears and a headache, all free.

As we stepped through the giant sliding glass doors, I heard a sound quite like an enormous sigh.  It could have just been the whoosh of air as the doors slid closed behind us, but I swear it sounded like a store full of people breathing a sigh of relief.

OK, so we didn't get thrown out, but I don't imagine we'll be going back any time soon, either.

WHAT?!?!?

 You postponed my birthday!?!?!

ARE YOU CRAZY!?!?!

You wanna see why they call it 

Terrible Twos, lady?  

Huh?  Do ya?!?!?

Yes, Fems and Gentry, that is a giant bread knife in my toddler's hands.  

Look no further.  I'm the mother of the year.

Actually, he was helping me with his birthday cake by chopping the trimmings into unrecognizable confectionery crumble.  He was well supervised, and I promise that after the photo was taken I did swap his machete out for non-amputating cutlery.
You can take CPS off your speed-dial now.

***

We ended up postponing the b-day-ing till today, two days late.  

There was no way that we were going to pull it off yesterday, what with a dropping-off of teens to the river, a dinner made for a grieving friend, present shopping, cake baking, and the regular rumblings of daily duty.

So today, after exercise, building a pond with Kathy, and babysitting, I hit the road. 

 The fondant and food coloring road. 

 I built the cake yesterday, but all the sugar-bling went on today.

About 3/4ths of the way through the seventeenth shrub,
I began to question my own sanity.

Why do I work so hard on these cakes for the kids?

I started to wonder if my efforts would be better spent... um... well, see, that's the problem.  I could tell myself that maybe I should do something else more lasting and more important, but it seems that nothing in my life is... not lasting at least.  

Is there such a thing a temporary and important?

I think of the things that I spend most of my time doing;

laundry

dishes

cooking

cleaning

shaving

(ok, so that doesn't take all that much time, but honestly, 

is there anything more temporary than a well shaved pair of legs?)

- all things that will be undone inside of a day, or more often, an hour.

What, in these rice-paper days, that melt away one after the other, 

can I do that will matter?

***

At the end of the night, the cake demolished, wrapping paper shreds adorning the floor, 

I turned to face the catastrophe that was my kitchen.  

I wanted to leave it.  I dared not.  

Tomorrow is another full day, and the ants in my neighborhood send scouts to my kitchen nightly.  

One misplaced cheerio and it's a regular

block party in there.

So, I reluctantly began.  Before I knew it, tears were falling into the dishwater.  

Am I the only mom that cries into my sink-o-dirty-dishes?

I was just so tired, and that sad little song from Toy Story Two, where the girl abandons her cherished doll because she grew up, looped in my head like a ridiculous soundtrack to the end of my day.

My baby is growing up, 

my children are changing but I don't even see it until 

I look at a photo from not-so-very long ago,

and I hate that I spend so much of their lives

washing dirty underwear and scraping congealed mac-n-cheese 

out of tired old pots.

I guess I make their cakes because, even though all of my work will be undone in one fell swoop of the only good knife in the house, they will always know I did it for them.  All of the dishes and the food and the laundry is for them too,
but they will never see it.

What is the old saying?

Let them eat cake.

Who Says...?

Who says he's not 

my baby anymore?

Today I stayed home from church with a sick little Tessa.  

A cold, and tummy trouble too.  I haven't been home on a Sunday maybe since just after Jonah boy was born.  After I read to Tessa on the Hammock, she went inside, and Jonah climbed up beside me and nursed.

Some people are shocked, I am sure, that I would still be nursing my 22 month old.  I could give you all of the statistics for why extended breast feeding is so good for children.  It boosts their immunity, it provides the exact long-chain fatty acids that form the myelin sheathing on the nerves in their brains which are still forming at age two, and it has been shown to even produce a larger vocabulary at an earlier age, from mamas that talk more to their babes during that great face-time.
 The list is longer than my stretch marks.

I suppose I do it for all of those reasons.  But there are other reasons that are not in some study somewhere, and will not make the headlines in Newsweek.  A busy toddler hasn't got much interest in hanging out with the mom-lady.  There are bugs to poke, dog-dishes to splash in, foreign objects to masticate (the sweet granny ladies at church have regular heart attacks when they see him head for a paper-wad on the floor).  There are toilet paper rolls to unwind, beds to bounce on, and entire stacks of laundry to unfold.  It's a busy life.  

So nowa-days, he comes to me for one of a few, too few, reasons:

To wash his hands... 

go figure, he cherishes marinating in his poopie diaper 

("Dop!" he yells at me to stop when I go for the clean dipe), 

but the dude's got to have clean hands. 

To kiss an owie.  He's a klutz so we're good for a 10-a-day minimum.

For "WaWa"  (any liquid) and "EAT!"

And to nurse.

Let me tell you how this goes down.  He looks at me as he is bumbling through the room on his next conquest.  Suddenly he hits the breaks, and sidles up next to me.  He leans on my knee, and tips his head to one side, looking up at me through those long lashes of his.  A sly little grin pulls his pink lips up into a shinny smile, and in a soft, cooing voice, he ever so tenderly mews,

"peas?" 

and signs "milk please".

When I smile back, which I can't help but do, he giggles and moves his feet in a quickstep.  He knows a smile is yes.  And if it's not a yes, he knows I can be persuaded by another, higher pitched and even sweeter

"peeeeas???"

I scoop him up and his busy agenda dissipates.  He cuddles into my arms that were shaped by four nurslings before him, and nuzzles while I sing to him or just talk and play with his toes.  Sometimes he pulls fuzz off my shirt, or stops to jabber at me.  He stares into my eyes, pokes the mole on my nose, and plays with my necklace.  He sometimes drifts off to sleep, and I love on him unabashedly, sniffing his skin and caressing his chubby fingers one by one.  But not so much lately.  When he is done, he pops up with a smile and a giggle that to me says, "Thanks, Mom, that was your best milk yet".

To which I croon, "Was it yummy?  I made it just for you!" 

And then he's off.

Off to his busy little world once more, increasingly within which, I play less and less of a roll.

I promise, I will not nurse him until he is four (even though that is the average age of weaning world-wide because the rest of the world doesn't think breasts belong to men).  Two and a half is about when my kiddos and I have mutually agreed to retire the nursing bra (though truth be told, I haven't owned a regular bra since the last century).  And I will be both ready and terribly sad when that day comes.

As I drifted into a rare nap on the hammock today with Jonah at my side, I felt so grateful that my Father in Heaven has given me this body to do this important work.   I have, in partnership with him, created tiny humans, and my body's job didn't stop there.  I have the continued blessing and honor of holding my babes in my arms a scant time longer to nourish and comfort them. 

Yes, he's still my baby.

This is what happens when you have sisters.  But because you also have brothers, it only lasts about 60 seconds.

Pieces of Me

I met my dad and sister at the gallery yesterday to share my art with them.  When I walked in, the gallery owner sat casually in shorts and bare feet, painting at a table just under my paintings.

"Oh, I'm glad you're here." he said, "A couple was here earlier and they are interested in buying your whole set."

"Ha... wouldn't that be nice." I said, going along with the joke.

"No, seriously.  They want to buy all of your paintings."

If you had told me a week ago that it was possible for me to sell even five or six, I would have been over the moon.  I frankly didn't have my heart set on even selling one.  Now this!  All of them?

You would think that my first reaction would be one of utter delight, but I felt a sinking disappointment swallow my heart.  Those are my babies, figuratively and literally.  I had imagined bringing home those paintings and grouping the ones of my five children together, and mooning over them from time to time the way mamas do.  The notion of loosing all of the paintings at once... the shoes, the children, the road to my mother's grave..., it is all very complex.

You see, when some wants to bring home a painting I have made, it's like they are saying, "You and I understand this thing, together.  We are connected somehow by it.  By wanting this painting, I understand the part of your heart that made it come into being."  The thing is, that the paintings in that gallery were born out of many places in my heart.  By wanting them all, it is like these strangers are saying they know all of the parts of my heart that these paintings came from.  They want to take home pieces of me. 

Or worse, that they don't, and I am sending my babies off to be orphans, unloved and misunderstood by a glutton!  I mean, how is it possible that someone could want ALL of them?  What if they sit in a closet somewhere?  Or a box?  What if their new family doesn't feed them or take care of them?

Okay, now it just got weird.  Sigh.

So, lessons I have learned so far:

Paint from the heart, but don't give your heart away.

Never make a threat you don't intend to follow through with,

 and never put a painting up for sale that you know you can't part with.

More landscapes (because who doesn't like a landscape? 

Plus, they take like, one tenth the time to paint).

Don't take 11 children to a gallery, it freaks people out. 

(this one can be applied to many settings)

I guess I have also learned that if it hadn't been for this show, those paintings wouldn't exist at all.  And since they came from my heart, they can never leave it.  If I really love the images that I created, there is nothing to stop me from painting some of those images again, just for me.

The folks who want the paintings also wanted a discount for buying all of them.  That had to be approved of before the sale could be made.  In the mean time, the gallery assistant lost the phone number for the couple.  It is entirely possible that they will change their minds in the time that it takes to get the whole thing sorted out.

I kind of hope they do, but I will have to be okay with it if they don't.  Who would have thought that I would be disappointed to sell my art?

Four of my masterpieces, and 6 of my sister's.

My heart pounded as we drove to the gallery. I was nervous about the whole thing; talking to strangers about my art, looking (or not) "like an artist", even where my art would be hung.  I was probably hung in the hall, I’d told myself as though I were litterally being hung there instead of my paintings.  It was a long, narrow hallway, darkly painted and dimly lit.  I was just happy to have my work up in any gallery, and I knew that if I could be happy having my work hung in that dark little hallway, I could have a good night.  

As I walked into the gallery, I immediately saw something familiar.  My paintings, those little bits of my life I had slaved, even cried over, were hung in the main gallery, right beside the paintings of the gallery owner.  There they all were in tidy little rows,  21 of my 8-by-8 inch acrylic babies.  They looked so beautiful up there.  Far more impressive than they had spread out on the floor of the studio, my children and the dog hop-scotching between them and the toys spread around the room.  Here, they looked almost (dare I say it?), professional.

I toured around the gallery looking at the other artists work, then snuggled up in my corner next to my little paintings.  I’d been told by the owner I should try to sell my work; talk to folks about it, about my process and my inspiration.  But I was so out of my element.  I’m just a little mama.  I’ll talk about runny noses and poopie little bottoms with just about anyone who holds still in a grocery store line, but I don’t talk much about art.  

I suddenly felt like a cipher, a bit of an outcast amongst my peers who so easily chattered with the smiling, wine-toting gallery-goers.  But soon I noticed that the people who lingered longest at my paintings were the women.  I found it easy to walk up to them and, smiling, say “Thank you for looking at my paintings.  Those are my children.”  Because, although several of the paintings were of landscapes and still-lifes, the rest were of my rugrats.  We would begin to talk about children and motherhood.  It was the thing that connected of us.  Perhaps these women couldn’t paint, but they knew all too well what it feels like when a chubby baby rests a droopy head on your shoulder.  Before long, we were doing what women do best; sharing our stories of the joys and tears of motherhood.

My favorite moment of the night sort of sneeked up on me. Guy had come with the children, and after they browsed the gallery I found myself surrounded suddenly by these five human beings my body had created. There I stood, Jonah in my arms, and Ethan surprisingly close, his eyes level with mine.   Adam stood just behind me with a hand on my shoulder. The girls, in their pretty skirts leaned against my belly touching me on my arms. They all seemed a little lost, and I felt like a watchful hen with her chicks gathered close. I was their safe place in this unfamiliar terrain. I got a sort of thrill out of it all, them snuggled up close to me.  Glancing up from their clean, lovely faces I noticed a woman watching us and smiling. Our eyes met and she did not look away.  She seemed to be enjoying the moment as much as I was, and I smiled back at her. 

I didn’t sell any paintings that night, but I didn’t particularly care. That had never been my point. I wanted to paint. I wanted to paint what I love to paint, without the constraints of dreary commissions. I wanted to be pushed, and oh! was I pushed. But I did what I had doubted I could do, though sweet Guy said he always knew I could.

I think I would almost be sad to let go of any one of them.

Smiling lady, bottom right corner. 

Protecting the Memory

 

 Anyone who knows me 

 knows that I love motherhood.  I love it from the moment that lucky little sperm chances upon that hopeful egg.  No, before that, even.  When I was a girl I knew two things, I wanted to be an artist, and I wanted to be a mom.  In high school it didn't take me long to decided that the notion of being a musician would conflict with my maternal instincts, because nobody wants to go to a musical at 10AM.  Theater performances are generally smack-dab in the middle of the story and the bed-time shuffle.  So Fine Art it would be, but always knowing that "art" would be in the backseat once kids came along.  The stinky, noisy, Cheerio filled backseat.

I have been pregnant nine times.  If I took all the months of "trying" and plunked them end-to-end, it would come to to about 30 months of temperature taking, cervical-mucus-checking and scheduled romance.  Now, I'm certainly not complaining.  I know 30 months ain't so long in the grand scheme of the fertility-challenged.  I'm just saying, it takes more than holding hands in this house to put a bun in this oven.

And while we are doing math, I want to just tally up a few other digits for you.  86 hours of labor.  No joke.  And that is if you DON'T include July through mid August of 2010, when I was contracting 100 times a day.  I laugh now when I think of how we worried that Jonah pop out early.  WHATEVER.  Oh, and we are currently at 12 years, two months total on the breastfeeding gig... and counting.  I figure "the girls" are good to go another 9 months before their illustrious retirement.  Then it will be time to invest in a very small but very supportive bra, and to only change my clothes in the dark.

But honestly, those numbers only say one thing about me;  I wanted to be a mother so much, that I was, and am, willing to try as hard as I can to do the best that I can.  If breastfeeding were all it took to do a good job, any Jersey cow could do it.  I want so badly to raise emotionally healthy and spiritually strong young men and women.  And it is so hard, and sometimes I really botch things up so entirely that I may as well just start a savings for my kid's future therapy bills.  But every night I go to bed resolving to be better the next day, and (almost) every day I try my best to do it.
 
In my work with laboring mamas I have a unique charge: I am there to protect her memories.  In many ways, besides all of the other milliondy-billion things that I (and you, and we all...) do as mothers, it is the one thing that helps me to decide how to handle life's little moments with my children.  Because, you see, I don't get to choose which memories they hold onto forever.  I don't really think that they even do.  Sure I remember some of the great stuff from my childhood, but some of my childhood memories are so random, so not-memorable memories.  Sadly, though, some are there for reasons they shouldn't be.  Some are there because I felt afraid or embarrassed or humiliated, and some times that couldn't have been avoided, but other times it definitely could have.

Maybe the day I loose my temper while de-tangling the hair of a screaming six year old will end up being the day that is emblazoned in her grey matter (I swear that child sleeps in maple syrup).

I hope it is not.

I hope it is today, after gymnastics when we had yogurt.  Or maybe last week when I braided her hair as she laid her head in my lap in church.  Or story time.  Or when I give her pink sprinkles to dip her banana in.  Yeah, one of those.  Anything but the hair.

Oh, and about that hair.  I apologized. 

If she keeps a memory about that day, I hope that is the memory she keeps.

Mother's Day Memories I will keep:

 Stuffed Chicken Breasts with feta, bacon,spinach and caramelized onion,
mashed savory sweet potatoes with apples, and yummy chocolate cream pie
(and two boys getting along).

 Spinach salad with mango and sesame chips and raspberry vinaigrette.

My sweeties.

Um, yeah, that would be Ethan.  Jumping on the trampoline.  In a sleeping bag.

And the rarest sight of all.  

A smile.

Something to be grateful for

I had been contracting 100 times a day for 5 weeks when I finally went into labor with Jonah.  I started labor already totally fatigued.  About 15 hours into active labor, there came a moment - an eternal, agonizing moment - when I felt like there was no way I could go on.   I knew that the more I focused on my pain, the more consumed I became, until (as almost every woman feels who has ever labored naturally) there came a moment when it seemed I might actually die from the pain.  

In that moment I realized that I must look for something, 

somewhere in my body where the pain was not reaching.  

I found it.  

It was my earlobe.  

For a whole contraction, I thought only about my earlobe.  I kept chanting in my head, "My earlobe doesn't hurt, my earlobe doesn't hurt!".  That got me through one whole contraction, but by the next surge, just thinking about it wasn't enough.  I began to rub my earlobe between my finger and thumb, and as though I was discovering it for the first time each moment I thought of it, each little moment that I rubbed it, I realized that there was that one tiny place on my body that did not hurt.  I began to pull on my earlobe so hard that it was actually a little uncomfortable.  But even that new sensation was comforting in it's own way, because I could REALLY feel my earlobe, then, and that made it easier to focus on it.

***

It has been hard for me lately.  I am struggling with so many things.  Things that may or may not be too private to share, but that I am too tired to even think about again in this particular moment.

The other day I found that the toothpaste had been left out and open, and a second tube had been crunched beyond function or recognition.  I was irked.  I was tired, no,  I was... (deep breath, looooong sigh)

weary.

So I had to find something about that moment that didn't call up for me all my failures (have I not taught them well enough?), all my disappointment (how many times have I told them?) all my angry self pity (I swear, no body cares about all the work I do around here!).

I had to find an earlobe to pull on.

And I did.

And here it is:

Somebody brushed their teeth without having to be told.

Then, in that moment, a tiny angel sang a song in my head, that turned into a teensy angel chorus.  Itty bitty beams of sunlight broke through my cloudy sky,

just for a moment.

And just for a moment, I found something in my toothpaste smeared world

 to be grateful for.

Last night...

 

...I had a dream.

I was in a car with one of my children.  We were driving along a highway that had water on both sides of the road.  It was dark and raining, and the water was rising.  It spilled over the sides of the road, and the white line in the road faded away under the rising flood.  The car began to slide off of the road and plunge into the water.  Our car was swallowed by the black, murky water.  I wanted to protect my child.  I leaned over him to try to shield him, when the front window imploded.  Shards of glass and cold, dark, muddy water poured in onto us.

I screamed and woke up.

Dreams are so symbolic.

I hope it was only a dream.

Post-poning

 I used to post a lot.  I really liked it, too.  I liked having my life recorded, because being as forgetful as I am, I seriously can't remember yesterday.  

I think it was Tuesday.  

Seriously, was it?

So it turns out that I can't keep up.  

Hence, I can no longer wait until there is time to write.  

In fact, now is the perfect time not to write 

because it is 1AM and I am so tired there is a buzzing sound in my head.

*

I am trying to get into an art show.  If I make the cut, I will have to paint 25, 8"x8" paintings before the end of May.  The application painting is due in a little more than two weeks.  

I got an early start because I wanted to have plenty of time.

Jonah had the same idea.

He found the painting, pulled the plastic wrap off the palette and personalized my art work with his own distinctive style.  I will have to start over.

It's not the first time one of my toddlers has ruined one of my paintings, though hopefully it will be the last.  And it isn't the first painting that bit the dust this week, either.  A commission painting that I have been putting off for an embarrasingly long time sat for too long with the latex masking medium on it, and the latex turned to something that resembles chewing gum in a parking lot on a hot day.  I will have to start that one over, too.

*Sigh.*

Adam is not entirely happy with homeschool.  He misses his old friends.  I am having to rethink how I approach all of this for him.  Um, you know, sort of start over.

*Sigh. Whimper.*

Ethan has crossed over into that land where: all adults are an embarrassment, all assignments are pointless, all rules are to be broken and all that I say is to be argued with or ignored.  I'm not sure where to even start with him.

*Sigh.  Whimper.  Sniff.*

I guess I haven't written much, partly because there hasn't been much that is nice to write about.  And you know what Thumper's mom used to say; "If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say anything at all."

Fine for her.  Her kid was done with adolescence in like, six weeks.  I will have SOMEONE being a teenager in this house for the next - count them - 16 and one half years.

*Waaa-haaa-haaaaaaaa!*