Drip Drip Drip

After years of steady patience, the so small drip of water makes a dent in the sturdy, durable rock. Drip drip drip the water falls, each small drip doing its part to leave an indelible smooth dimple on the rock. The water cannot see its effect, it is only with time that the magnitude of the water’s movement can be seen and felt on the rock’s surface.

I am the drip of water. My daughter is the rock. Since her life began, I’ve been dripping away at
her. Please be gentle. Drip. Please say thank you. Drip. Please don’t bite. Drip. Please pick up your toys. Drip. Please don’t whine. Drip. Drip. Please use your words to tell me why you are upset. Drip. Drip. Drip. Many weeks and months pass and I keep dripping. Sometimes I plop and others I rage like a white capped river. Sometimes the rock seems to defiantly throw my little drip back up into the air. At other times the rock is steadfast, not changing, no matter how many times I drip.

In my nascent parenting years, I thought raising children was a bit like molding clay. A pliable, malleable young life in my hands and my charge was to mold him or her into the right form. I now know that this thought was delightful yet naïve. Children are beautiful, natural, exquisite miracles. Jagged, hard miracles.

My children are delightful. They are well-mannered and sweet. They also do very good sturdy rock impersonations. As the (mostly) patient drip of water, I’ve been witness to the most amazing thing. I can actually see the dimple of my efforts on one of my sweet little rocks, Abby. After years of working with her on good and appropriate ways to manage her moods and emotions, she has folded all of the advice, tips and drips into her repertoire. They are a part of her. The last two weeks I’ve watched my sweet daughter have a wave of whininess descend upon her and instead of me dripping advice onto her, and instead of her whining and crying at me, she’s taken quiet time. (!) And then come to talk to me rationally and politely about what she’s feeling and what she’d like to see happen. (!!!) It is tremendous, refreshing and heart-warming. All my days of guiding, moments of frustration and drip, drip, dripping have sculpted a tough rock into a smooth little girl who is striding further and longer with confident, sturdy steps.

I know I will always drip. It is the maternal way. I will always probably remind my children to write thank you notes and to R.S.V.P. in a timely manner. They will probably say, “Moooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmm, I know! Will you stop?” And I’ll try. But like any good water drop, I’ll continue dripping diligently remembering that long after I’ve stopped, the paths and ways of my children will always be paved, indelibly etched, with my advice, guidance and love.


Post script: I just realized I’m resting my feet on Henry's dump truck which has somehow found a home underneath my desk. “Oh Henry,” drip, “come on over and let’s put this truck away.” Drip. Drip. Drip.

Changes

Abby and I sit on the back porch steps looking out into the cool, gray afternoon. The event is normal, ordinary and calm. But my thoughts start to ricochet between the calm bliss of this moment and the anticipated arrival of her kindergarten debut.

Her sweet, rosy and round cheek glows in the late afternoon light. Her inquisitive and thoughtful eyes survey the barren trees and seem to reach thirstily for the future. I am awash with hope, pride and bittersweets. I see both my baby and the woman she will become, standing somewhere in the first few feet of the brick path of her life. The path being paved by her, by me, by her Daddy, and soon her kindergarten teachers, one slab of brick and mortar at a time.

I try to imagine what her eyes see, what her mind dreams. In this moment, she is an independent, formidable force, seeking, searching, seeing. Eyes and soul wide open.

How does her future path look? Is it curvy and detoured or straight and direct? I don’t know the fifteen year route but I know tonight, tomorrow and even Tuesday’s plans: play, sleep, questions, answers. Hurt, joy, anger, happiness. As much as it will all change in her distant young woman’s world, it will all be similar, familiar as different events garner the same emotions.

So I equip her with tools, big and small, subtle and strong. This is necessary as she is a complex person wondering in one moment how the sun knows how to set and in the next why her baby brother got his milk first. Not too surprisingly, the workings of my four-year-old’s mind are not too varied from my own:
Why can’t our country find a sustainable solution to poverty?
Why don’t I ever seem to have anything to wear?

This poignant back porch moment is significant because soon, for the first time in my first baby’s life, she will spend more time with other adults than with me. And maybe even more prominent is my guttural knowledge that these steps to elementary school are just the beginning of her path. A fresh, bright journey.

At this moment, her path leads us to the back porch. And so we sit, symbiotic in our journey together, as one and alone. Connected so firmly and deeply neither of our earthly, human minds can navigate the intricacies of our association. We sit, looking out, looking in, at each other and back out again.

Teeter Totter

The day started at 5:20 am. We all went downstairs and I fed the children breakfast. Folded two loads and started another load of laundry while they ate. Henry choked and threw up. Abby almost threw up because Henry threw up. Clean it all up. Got them their rounds of food. Got them cleaned up. Cleaned up the kitchen. Made Abby's lunch. The kids started playing in the playroom and I decided I’d eat my breakfast in front of the national news, on the couch. “I”, I thought to myself, “have already done quite a bit and it’s only 7:08 am. An interview was on that I really want to see.” My tired and already accomplished buns hit the couch and the “mom-is-doing-something-for-herself-and-no-one-else” alarm sounded.

In come the brigades. Abby enters into family room (from the playroom on the other side of the kitchen) riding the plastic toy bike for which she is two years too big. She’s singing the Baby Bumble Bee song. REALLY LOUDLY. Henry comes in with a drool-covered belly (pajamas have already been removed because of the aforementioned vomit) and poop-filled diaper. He sees that I’m eating and immediately starts his “give me food” grunt that persists until he gets some. But I’m eating a peanut butter sandwich and he can’t eat peanut butter yet. So he stands there, escalating. More drool. Lovely, I think, I can’t even sit and eat my breakfast in peace.

So I move into the kitchen, with my dear, sweet, LOUD children three steps behind. I think maybe if I stand in the kitchen, looking like I’m doing something productive, the parade of noise and smell will stop and I can watch the Today Show Exclusive interview from the kitchen counter.

Henry is now in a full-fledged bawl, assuring me with the drip of each crocodile tear that he will whittle away to nothing if I don’t immediately feed him. (Did I mention that I JUST finished feeding him? And that’s he’s 16 months old and weighs almost 30 pounds?) Abby's Bumble Bee song has reached a crescendo that I didn’t know existed and at this point, Matt Lauer and Larry Craig could be singing the Bumble Bee song, too, as I cannot hear a word that either man speaks about Larry’s Minneapolis bathroom debacle. I can’t do one small thing for myself without interruption. But I can only blame myself for this frustration.

As a mother of small children, I teeter on the edge of forgetting and remembering. Forgetting that it isn’t about me and remembering that it IS all about them. Forgetting about and loosing myself and remembering that I cannot be a good mommy if I’m not a grounded, fulfilled woman. Remembering that 7:08 am on a weekday is not the right time to carve out me-time. Forgetting my frustrations and remembering the joys of my Abby and Henry.

Playing, singing, squealing, eating, pooping, eating and having fun. A quite joyful morning (except for the vomit).

I know I will continue to teeter through motherhood, balancing myself on the totter of emotions and the joy of my children. It is this experience through which I grow, carrying each lesson with me hoping that I remember more than I forget.

Homecoming

So sweet. Ahhhhh. My husband is home. A blissful feeling after two weeks apart. I was gone, he left before I returned and was gone for a week and a half. Then he got stuck in Atlanta en route from Seoul.

A great day of him being home, on a Thursday (!). To lunch together. Him getting some much needed self time and me getting a breather (to the store by myself!), too. Watching Henry master the art of walking. Seeing Abby kick our respective butts in games of Disney Princess Concentration and Go Fish.

He’s here, he’s home, he's jet lagged and he’s crashed in our bed.

Our kids are exhausted and asleep in their respectful rooms, snoozing away their colds.

The only light in the house is the light of this computer screen on which I type, allowing me an outlet, the solace of reflection and joy in the completeness of this picture.

I am totally calm. I am relaxed. And extremely sleepy myself. I think I’ll treat myself to a nice bowl of Breyer’s vanilla ice cream (with bean specks of course) and Hershey’s chocolate syrup drizzled on top. To celebrate all of the pieces of my puzzle being snugly in their place. To celebrate the ability of the pieces to jet around the town, country and world, solo, together and in different combinations and to do so gracefully, adventurously and with spirit. And to celebrate, once again, the desire, draw and peace of a very, very warm homecoming.

Fun Gus

My husband is in Germany and I’m celebrating mother’s day solo, with my two beautiful children. They’re beautiful but sick. It’s been this way for four days. Henry has a horrible, seal cough and throws up every time he eats. I think he’s lost some of his robust 26.5 lbs. Abby is severely constipated and her stomach hurts most of the day. So I’ve spent my days leading up to mother’s day administering Milk of Magnesia, monitoring poop frequency and consistency and sitting on the floor while the pooping happens. I’ve also been cleaning up vomit during each meal. Appetizing.

After an early morning, special run to the drive-thru Starbucks, Abby wanted to go see something in the front yard. I looked out on her, still in her jammies, golden hair glowing in the morning sun. She was picking something in the yard—“oh,” I think, “how sweet. She’s picking me some small wild flowers. A mother’s day bouquet.” I sneak inside so I won’t spoil her surprise.

She walks in and says, “Mommy, look!”

I do.

She’s holding a bouquet of nasty, disgusting fungus. Mushrooms harvested from our own front yard. I hate mushrooms. Despise them. They make me gag and creep me out.

She holds out the offensive offering and wants a vase for them. Luckily, I had to put Henry down for his nap so had to delay this next step. They’re now patiently waiting on the back patio for a place of honor, until Abby remembers they’re there (or forgets that they’re there…)

Ultimately, it’s fitting that I’m spending mother’s day being a mother, in the truest, rawest form. Taking care of the two loves that grant me the opportunity to be a Mom, Mommy, MammmmmmMa. A dream that wouldn’t yet be realized if Abby and Henry weren’t here.

A big nod to my parents and grandparents and Brian’s parents and grandparents, and all of their parents before them. If it weren’t for each of our families, neither he nor I would be here. Neither would Abby or Henry. It’s a sobering thought. How many mothers have come before me, making our journey possible? Cherishing the uncherishable, even fungus bouquets.

11 Months Old

I watch my sweet son, Henry. I see him drawn to every thing that isn’t safe and is a potential hazard. So, I spend a lot of time attempting to redirect his attention. From Abby's bouncing, curly hair to a soft stuffed animal. From the electric cord to the Leap Frog table. From the remote control to a fake phone. From dog poop to a bottle of Clorox.

Sometimes he goes with the flow. Most times he screams and tears plummet down his chubby cheeks (not sure how the tears get out of his eyes when they’re clenched shut). Many times I am amazed at how angry he gets. But tonight, I had a moment of clarity. I imagined I was an 11-month-old Henry.

I sit on the floor, drooling happily, playing with and exploring a great new thing I found. I crawled 100 feet to get to this amazing thing and even though my knees are well padded, they’re sore from the trip. Anyway, I’m chewing on it, staring at it, crinkling it and having a grand time. Then, I see the long legs and hear the voice of Mommy. Based on the look she gives me, she’s about to take away my discovery. So, I do what every smart baby in my place would do. Sprint (i.e. crawl really, really fast).

Alas, she is faster than me (did I mention the long legs?) and she takes away my fabulous thing. I am pissed. Since I haven’t mastered my vocabulary yet, I scream. That’ll get her attention. GIVE IT BACK!!!!!!!!!!!! What did I do to her?

Can you imagine how ticked you’d be if someone came along and took your recently-aquired fun activity away? Imagine sitting on the back deck, reading a book. Cool breeze. Just as the second page sucks you in, your spouse/friend/partner/significant other/neighbor rips the book from you and replaces it with an astronomy book, written in Arabic.

So. Since moments of clarity are not as forthcoming as I’d like, I’m going to embrace my epiphany and try to see the world through my sweet Henry's eyes more often. (And I’m also going to remember that he really does spend a lot of time looking at, hanging onto and crawling up and over my legs. I should probably shave them a little more often.)

Nirvana on the Front Porch Swing

It was a grueling day of mediation, tempering and negotiation. With my three year old daughter. It was a trying day of intervention, redirection and comforting. With my eleven month old son.

Every task brought a challenge. For every challenge there was a rechallenge. I came close to boiling a few times but managed to stay fairly calm even in the midst of:

“Mommy, don’t feed Henry all the black olives.”
“Abby, relax, I have another can.”
“Mommy, he’s going to eat them all!”
“Sweetie, I have another can. Relax. Finish your movie.”
“Can you pause my movie?”
“Abby, I promise you I have more black olives. No worries.”

(Three minutes pass.)

“Ok Abby, here are your black olives.”

“I don’t like them.

“I don’t like black olives any more. I want cheese. I want cheese. (Crescendo) I want cheese!!!! WAAAAAAAAAAAA! I WANT CHEESE!”

For the first time I realized that windows may have been invented to silence and keep IN the embarrassing screams of one’s children rather than my initial understanding of keeping the bugs, mayhem, pollution and dirt OUT.

I rationally explained (hindsight proved this was my obvious first mistake) that after she finished what she had requested, begged and pleaded for, she could have cheese.

I’ll spare you the rest of the tantrum’s dialogue.

Meanwhile in Henry-land…

“Da da da da.”
TV volume goes to MAX.
“Henry, let’s play with something else.”
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Wipe the constant stream of bodily fluids from nose and mouth.
Repeat four times.

When I’d truly had my fill of havoc, noise and complete insanity, I called my husband so he could reinforce that I chosen the right path on the latest installment of dinner-time theater. I had to leave both screaming children in the house and make the call from the front porch swing so I could think and breathe. And I remembered. What is rational to a three-year-old is not rational to a thirty-four year old. My rational is not her rational. I went back inside to mayhem land.

Once all the tears, drool and snot stopped flowing, I suggested a ride on the front porch swing. A cool, Arkansas Spring evening greeted us. Henry on my lap. Abby to my left. And we rocked. To and fro. Interesting dialogue resumed. My sweet, inquisitive, rationale and intelligent daughter returned. Henry cooed. I breathed. In. Out. Back. Forth. We’d found our own little oasis of nirvana. On the front porch swing.

Abby & Ruby

My daughter Abby (three and half) has an above average fascination with body fluids and all things that exit the body.

Today, just as we were finally sitting down to a glorious lunch of Cheerios, applesauce and peanut butter sandwiches, Ruby, our 135 pound Rhodesian Ridgeback, came down stairs and vomited. Abby yelled, “THROW UP! Ruby throwed up!” I explained that we were going to finish eating and then I’d clean the mess up. (From the silver-lining department, she did it on the hardwood floor instead of the carpet. Here’s a big shout-out to Ruby!!)

But Abby decided she wasn’t hungry. This had nothing to do with being sick to her stomach and everything to do with wanting to get over to the throw up and check it out. Gross? Yes. True? Yes.

So, as I’m stomaching my peanut butter sandwich, I hear,
“Henwy, Ruby throwed up.” (“Henwy”, a.k.a. Henry, is her seven month old brother.)
“Mommy, is Ruby sick?”

“Ruby throwed up a lot.”

“Mommy, why did Ruby throw up?”

“Do you want to heawr the throw up song?”

“Throw up throw up throw up.”

I asked her if she would stop saying throw up while I was eating. She said she’d try.

Then, after finishing my food and feeding the ever-hungry Henwy, (who also throwed up on me,) I announced that I was finally going to clean up the fascinating throw up.

Did I mention that our dog weighs 135 pounds?

I put on a disposable latex glove, grabbed the cleaner and paper towels and got to it. As I cleaned, I heard,

“Throw up throw up
Throw up throw up…” (Sung to the tune of Where is Thumbkin)

“Mommy, are you done yet?”

“Why is dis taking forever?”

“Can Ruby come back inside yet?” (Me, “No.”)

“Whyyyyyyyyyyyy??????” (She really wants me to say it, doesn’t she? Me, “Because Ruby threw up.”)

“Oh.”

“Why is dere so much throw up? When I throwed up, it doesn’t take this long to clean up.”

“Ruby weally wants to come back inside.” pause. “Are you done?”

Yes, I’m finally done. And I haven’t even heard the word, or seen the stuff, for a full five minutes. Ahhhh.

Heart Crack

My son is four months, almost four and a half months, old. Tonight is the first night he is sleeping in his very own room.

People have laughed, kidded and probably scoffed at my (definitely not our) decision to keep Henry in our room as long as we did. At first, he was in his sweet bassinet. The same one I slept in 34 years ago, almost to the day. But Henry kept growing and growing (imagine that). My husband would call from work and say, “Woman, Henry is TOO big for that bassinet!” I’d just shrug (can you do that over the phone?). When the babysitter mentioned that she put him to sleep in the bassinet but that maybe he was too big for it, I knew it was time for a change.

My husband cheered.

Slow down, sweetheart.

Thanks to a genius suggestion from my mother-in-law, I moved Henry out of the bassinet and into the pack-n-play…in our room. I wanted, needed, craved having my sweet baby boy sleep in the same room with me. I wanted to hear all of his sounds, grunts, thwaps (he’s a thrasher already. Sorry to the future Mrs. Or Mr. Henry). I wanted to hear them real time and not over the crackly monitor. I wanted to inhale, his sweet, sweet smell. So he stayed. And I was in heaven.

Both my best friend and my sister-in-law suggested that maybe I wanted the baby in our room since my husband travels a lot. Nope.

It’s because in my mommy gut, I knew I wanted and needed him right there. So there he stayed.

Until tonight. That little baby boy, just four months and change out of my womb, is sleeping in his own room. And falling asleep rather gracefully. A first of many firsts and partings. Small at first and then gaping. The chasm will grow and grow until he’s an adult living his very own life. But I’m getting ahead of myself—for now, I’ll cherish the short 12 foot trip, down the hall, to his room. I just took the trip and found him sleeping peacefully. I traveled back with a tear in my eye.

My heart broke a little bit with this big move, but luckily Henry will fill that break with a smile and coo.