One of my favorite things in the world is a real kiss.
You know the kind I'm talking about? The kind where the giver means it, wants nothing in return, and leaves you feeling truly loved.
When my sister and I discovered what the PIP button was for on the remote control, we capitalized on its value. "PIP" means, "picture in picture". The viewer simply pushes PIP, and a freeze frame is made and remains in the corner of the television, no matter what is playing on the rest of the screen.
We wasted no time. We put in our favorite movie ("The Princess Bride"), fast-forwarded to the good kiss (Buttercup and Wesley at sunset), and pressed that PIP button as hard as we could. It worked! There was the perfect kiss, frozen and immortalized forever, or until an unfeeling brother came and heartlessly deleted it.
We perfected the craft when we discovered that we could actually move that freeze frame around on the screen. After capturing the prince's kiss to his loving princess, we moved that frame where it belonged: smack dab in the middle of the screen. Who cared about the show that was playing in the now-background? We certainly didn't. And we ignored the disgusted comments from our cold-hearted, disgusted brothers.
They just didn't understand what Victor Hugo knew, "A kiss and all was said."
But we knew.
I guess this is an inherited trait because my daughter was watching The Sound of Music on my iPad the other day, and I later found the photo library filled with pictures of Maria and Captain von Trapp in the gazebo, singing to each other. I couldn't get after her, because that would be hypocritical, but I told my husband. He gave himself a loud, smacking face-palm.
I have this other daughter who has just turned two. She gives more kisses than anybody in the world. Her dad made her that way. When she was being weaned, her daddy would hold her until she would go to sleep, kissing her tears away, kissing her closed eyes, kissing her sweet cheeks. Now she passes out kisses like they're going out of style.
They're not.
At least not at my house.
At some point every day, and usually more than once, she puckers up those big lips and smooches whatever part of me is closest to her. Usually, this is my knee caps. When I'm lucky enough to be holding her, then I get kissed all over the face.
I've received every flavor of two-year-old kiss there is: oatmeal, booger, salty tears, spaghetti sauce, sticky candy, too much lip gloss, baby saliva--just every flavor.
And I'll admit something. I love them all. In fact, she can't kiss me enough.
Deep down, I know that someday, she'll stop kissing me. She won't always have a perpetual runny nose. (I hope.) She'll grow up.
Some prince will come along, kiss her, and take her from me. I just know it. And the truth is, I want that for her. Because my deepest healing and greatest earthly joy comes from the arms and love of my husband.
But I'll miss her booger kisses and all the words they mean: Thanks for the milk. I love being in your arms. I'm wrong, but I'm cute. Thanks for being my mama. I feel safe with you. I need a tissue. I love you.
Nothing required in return. Just an expression of her childlike love--which is love in its most pure and perfect form.
If only I could capture those kisses for always.
Hey, Sis. Where is the PIP button when you really need it?
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Changing Pants and an Adage
I have five children with one on the way. There was bound to be a post about poop sooner or later.
This is that post.
You don't have to read it. Consider yourself warned.
It never fails. Sometime during dinner, one of our littles excuses herself to use the restroom, and right when I'm about to enjoy my piping hot dinner, I get the call, "I'm all do-ooone!"
This means, "Mother, you're the best. Will you please come and wipe me? I know it's a lot to ask. I'll appreciate your sacrifice forever,"--only with fewer words. It's the economical way to tell me I'm awesome.
This call has awakened me from a deep sleep, seeping between the ceiling and floor that divides the basement and main level. I've also received this call right as the baby is drifting off, and it has penetrated at least three doors and double that many walls.
The unrelenting summons follows me. Hunts me. Finds me no matter where I am hidden. It cares not my circumstance or mood.
And when I am summoned, I must go--as surely as the person had to go in the first place.
Tonight at dinner, it happened.
We heard the cute little voice coming from the bathroom, announcing her completion.
I left my hot dinner to answer her call. Everything went as well as I could have hoped, and in a few minutes I went back to eating my now lukewarm dinner.
While I was away, the baby-in-potty-training-pants got down from the table and ran behind the couch. When we discovered her, I tapped my husband's shoulder once and said, "You're it."
He was confused. I explained that the baby now needed to be changed. It was his turn. He looked bewildered.
I insisted.
He's a good one, that man. He dutifully, and even cheerfully, went to the rescue. I sighed in contentment, glad to have him on my team, and wondered again how single parents do it.
Not long into my second bite of dinner, I heard his distress signal. "Uh... Mama? Um...I'm not sure how to do this."
I didn't need to see what was happening. I knew what it would look like. You don't easily forget a hunk of gunk in those thick, potty-training panties. By your fifth child, the experience is cemented into your mind.
In my husband's defense, I have to admit, this was bad. So bad, in fact, that I had to laugh. Also, I had to set the baby in the tub and work from there. It was so, so, so bad. He stuck beside me, and I loved that, because the mess would have become much worse if I had to clean it on my own. Somehow it always spreads, like an air-borne illness on the subway, covering surfaces it shouldn't and waiting to further promulgate its nastiness. And it does so at lightning speed.
In the end, we cleaned everything and everyone up, we snarfed the cold grub, and the night went forward as it normally does.
But I think we should change that urban expression to: the poop hit the pants of a toddler during dinner time. It would be waaaaay more accurate.
And I'm betting I'd be able to use it tonight when dinner time comes.
This is that post.
You don't have to read it. Consider yourself warned.
It never fails. Sometime during dinner, one of our littles excuses herself to use the restroom, and right when I'm about to enjoy my piping hot dinner, I get the call, "I'm all do-ooone!"
This means, "Mother, you're the best. Will you please come and wipe me? I know it's a lot to ask. I'll appreciate your sacrifice forever,"--only with fewer words. It's the economical way to tell me I'm awesome.
This call has awakened me from a deep sleep, seeping between the ceiling and floor that divides the basement and main level. I've also received this call right as the baby is drifting off, and it has penetrated at least three doors and double that many walls.
The unrelenting summons follows me. Hunts me. Finds me no matter where I am hidden. It cares not my circumstance or mood.
And when I am summoned, I must go--as surely as the person had to go in the first place.
Tonight at dinner, it happened.
We heard the cute little voice coming from the bathroom, announcing her completion.
I left my hot dinner to answer her call. Everything went as well as I could have hoped, and in a few minutes I went back to eating my now lukewarm dinner.
While I was away, the baby-in-potty-training-pants got down from the table and ran behind the couch. When we discovered her, I tapped my husband's shoulder once and said, "You're it."
He was confused. I explained that the baby now needed to be changed. It was his turn. He looked bewildered.
I insisted.
He's a good one, that man. He dutifully, and even cheerfully, went to the rescue. I sighed in contentment, glad to have him on my team, and wondered again how single parents do it.
Not long into my second bite of dinner, I heard his distress signal. "Uh... Mama? Um...I'm not sure how to do this."
I didn't need to see what was happening. I knew what it would look like. You don't easily forget a hunk of gunk in those thick, potty-training panties. By your fifth child, the experience is cemented into your mind.
In my husband's defense, I have to admit, this was bad. So bad, in fact, that I had to laugh. Also, I had to set the baby in the tub and work from there. It was so, so, so bad. He stuck beside me, and I loved that, because the mess would have become much worse if I had to clean it on my own. Somehow it always spreads, like an air-borne illness on the subway, covering surfaces it shouldn't and waiting to further promulgate its nastiness. And it does so at lightning speed.
In the end, we cleaned everything and everyone up, we snarfed the cold grub, and the night went forward as it normally does.
But I think we should change that urban expression to: the poop hit the pants of a toddler during dinner time. It would be waaaaay more accurate.
And I'm betting I'd be able to use it tonight when dinner time comes.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Prenatal Pondering
I have been pregnant now for a few days over eight months. Lately, people have been staring at my belly, and when they finally peel their eyes off of the basketball shape under my shirt, they ask me how I'm doing.
Except for the man who works at Ace Hardware. That man asked me how much longer I had. When I told him a month, he asked if I was having more than one. You should never ask a pregnant woman that.
Not ever.
The honest answer to this heartfelt inquiry is a complicated one. It's long. It's involved--too long and involved for a quick reply to the quick question. So normally, I reply, "Great!" Because that's true.
People don't always buy that, so sometimes I say, "I'm hanging in there." Because that's true, too.
I won't stay this way forever, and I know I'll miss it when it's gone, so I wanted to record some of what I feel, even though the answer is long and involved.
Here's a piece of my heart. I feel:
Excited. This is a lame adjective, but other moms out there will relate. How do you properly label the feeling of anticipating this person you love so much but have yet to meet? I have no idea what she looks like. She hid her face and her profile during the ultrasound. I'm assuming she'll look like a sibling, but still, I have no idea. But I know her spirit intimately. I feel her with me. I feel her excitement, too, and it keeps me pressing forward.
Tired. I probably feel this more than any other emotion. I can fall asleep anytime, anywhere. And I do. I can tell I am a full decade older than when I was pregnant with my first. My husband is patient with the way I pass out on the couch, the floor, the kids' beds, the passenger's seat... But I'm sure he misses the party girl he married. Truthfully, I miss her, too. And I have this sneaky premonition that she's gone for good.
Happy. Sad. Angry... I'm pretty sure I feel every emotion on the entire emotion continuum throughout the course of a day. This is weird for me. Not pregnant, I'm a pretty even-tempered, no-fuss, steady girl. Emotionally challenged might be a better adjective here.
Scatter-brained. Today I was making cookies, and I forgot to set the timer. But when I realized this, I noticed the timer was set and had seventeen minutes left. I asked my husband if I had set that. He confirmed that it was me, and that I had set it for twenty minutes. I had absolutely no recollection of that. It's a good thing I'm good at basic math, because I could fix the predicament by taking the cookies out when the timer had eleven minutes left. But really? Maybe I'm getting alzheimer's already.
Certain. When I went to one of my OB appointments, my doctor asked me a series of questions about my intentions to see this pregnancy to conclusion and the possible scenarios that would persuade me to abort. I looked him in the eyes and told him this baby was no accident. I wanted it. I meant to conceive. I was finishing the race, even if I crossed the finish line on my hands and knees. He must have sensed my fierce resolution because he defensively responded, "Okay, okay. I have to ask. I understand." There is nothing I want more in all of forever than my family. And I am certain this baby is meant to be part of our family.
Swollen. My feet, my hands, my legs, my arms, my face--I don't feel like myself any more. The girl in the mirror is a bloated stranger, wearing my eyes and my smile. I've learned that swollen feet hurt to stand on all day. More than once I have been limping by the time I serve dinner. And then when I sit down, my feet throb. My hands are numb in the morning, and they take a long time to "wake up". Some days, they never do. I haven't been wearing my wedding ring for about sixteen weeks now. I have to wonder, "Will it ever fit again?" I'm not convinced it will.
Thankful. I've tried to make good choices in my life. I feel God's bounteous blessings. But this--I've never done anything that good to receive this. I've felt this way with every baby. I'm convinced that if I had one hundred babies, I would never get over the immense gratitude I feel to work in partnership with Heaven for the creation of life.
Scared out of my mind. Can I really do it? Will I be a good mom this time around? Am I going to fail my baby? I don't want to fail! Will she know how much I love her? Will I be able to give her all that she needs? How can I balance the demands of a new baby with my long list of duties I already have?
I was feeling quite worried the other day, and expressed my fears to my husband. He pointed out that at least I don't do crack. So, there's always that. My home is, by virtue of my drug-free existence, better than other homes a baby could go to, I guess.
Eternally aware. What I mean is, I have been given a perspective that extends before birth and beyond the grave. I feel the truth that we are God's literal spirit children. I know we lived before this life, and that we will live after it. I am sure that life on this earth is sacred and imperative, though short in comparison to the length of eternity. Life matters. Our choices matter. Our progression matters.
Loved. I feel God's love every day, in small, significant, personal ways. One day last week, I was beyond exhausted. I still had a lot to do to serve dinner and lull my babies to sleep. It was especially daunting because they were beyond tired and my husband wouldn't be home until after bedtime. I knew I couldn't go on without divine help. I bowed my head and uttered a fervent, silent prayer, pleading for Heaven to aid me. I was immediately aware of God's sustaining love, and miracle of miracles, I made it through the night before I collapsed in a tired, satisfied, fulfilled heap.
Impatient. Knowing how important it is for baby to cook the full nine months, I don't want this baby early. But, I've done this before, so I know for myself that there is nothing more hopeful, joyful, or full of love than a new baby, fresh from heaven. God extends a piece of Himself to our home, and we are the better for it.
It's always the last month that's the longest. Maybe I'll just sleep it out...
Except for the man who works at Ace Hardware. That man asked me how much longer I had. When I told him a month, he asked if I was having more than one. You should never ask a pregnant woman that.
Not ever.
The honest answer to this heartfelt inquiry is a complicated one. It's long. It's involved--too long and involved for a quick reply to the quick question. So normally, I reply, "Great!" Because that's true.
People don't always buy that, so sometimes I say, "I'm hanging in there." Because that's true, too.
I won't stay this way forever, and I know I'll miss it when it's gone, so I wanted to record some of what I feel, even though the answer is long and involved.
Here's a piece of my heart. I feel:
Excited. This is a lame adjective, but other moms out there will relate. How do you properly label the feeling of anticipating this person you love so much but have yet to meet? I have no idea what she looks like. She hid her face and her profile during the ultrasound. I'm assuming she'll look like a sibling, but still, I have no idea. But I know her spirit intimately. I feel her with me. I feel her excitement, too, and it keeps me pressing forward.
Tired. I probably feel this more than any other emotion. I can fall asleep anytime, anywhere. And I do. I can tell I am a full decade older than when I was pregnant with my first. My husband is patient with the way I pass out on the couch, the floor, the kids' beds, the passenger's seat... But I'm sure he misses the party girl he married. Truthfully, I miss her, too. And I have this sneaky premonition that she's gone for good.
Happy. Sad. Angry... I'm pretty sure I feel every emotion on the entire emotion continuum throughout the course of a day. This is weird for me. Not pregnant, I'm a pretty even-tempered, no-fuss, steady girl. Emotionally challenged might be a better adjective here.
Scatter-brained. Today I was making cookies, and I forgot to set the timer. But when I realized this, I noticed the timer was set and had seventeen minutes left. I asked my husband if I had set that. He confirmed that it was me, and that I had set it for twenty minutes. I had absolutely no recollection of that. It's a good thing I'm good at basic math, because I could fix the predicament by taking the cookies out when the timer had eleven minutes left. But really? Maybe I'm getting alzheimer's already.
Certain. When I went to one of my OB appointments, my doctor asked me a series of questions about my intentions to see this pregnancy to conclusion and the possible scenarios that would persuade me to abort. I looked him in the eyes and told him this baby was no accident. I wanted it. I meant to conceive. I was finishing the race, even if I crossed the finish line on my hands and knees. He must have sensed my fierce resolution because he defensively responded, "Okay, okay. I have to ask. I understand." There is nothing I want more in all of forever than my family. And I am certain this baby is meant to be part of our family.
Swollen. My feet, my hands, my legs, my arms, my face--I don't feel like myself any more. The girl in the mirror is a bloated stranger, wearing my eyes and my smile. I've learned that swollen feet hurt to stand on all day. More than once I have been limping by the time I serve dinner. And then when I sit down, my feet throb. My hands are numb in the morning, and they take a long time to "wake up". Some days, they never do. I haven't been wearing my wedding ring for about sixteen weeks now. I have to wonder, "Will it ever fit again?" I'm not convinced it will.
Thankful. I've tried to make good choices in my life. I feel God's bounteous blessings. But this--I've never done anything that good to receive this. I've felt this way with every baby. I'm convinced that if I had one hundred babies, I would never get over the immense gratitude I feel to work in partnership with Heaven for the creation of life.
Scared out of my mind. Can I really do it? Will I be a good mom this time around? Am I going to fail my baby? I don't want to fail! Will she know how much I love her? Will I be able to give her all that she needs? How can I balance the demands of a new baby with my long list of duties I already have?
I was feeling quite worried the other day, and expressed my fears to my husband. He pointed out that at least I don't do crack. So, there's always that. My home is, by virtue of my drug-free existence, better than other homes a baby could go to, I guess.
Eternally aware. What I mean is, I have been given a perspective that extends before birth and beyond the grave. I feel the truth that we are God's literal spirit children. I know we lived before this life, and that we will live after it. I am sure that life on this earth is sacred and imperative, though short in comparison to the length of eternity. Life matters. Our choices matter. Our progression matters.
Loved. I feel God's love every day, in small, significant, personal ways. One day last week, I was beyond exhausted. I still had a lot to do to serve dinner and lull my babies to sleep. It was especially daunting because they were beyond tired and my husband wouldn't be home until after bedtime. I knew I couldn't go on without divine help. I bowed my head and uttered a fervent, silent prayer, pleading for Heaven to aid me. I was immediately aware of God's sustaining love, and miracle of miracles, I made it through the night before I collapsed in a tired, satisfied, fulfilled heap.
Impatient. Knowing how important it is for baby to cook the full nine months, I don't want this baby early. But, I've done this before, so I know for myself that there is nothing more hopeful, joyful, or full of love than a new baby, fresh from heaven. God extends a piece of Himself to our home, and we are the better for it.
It's always the last month that's the longest. Maybe I'll just sleep it out...
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Coming Clean
Confession:
This afternoon finds me trying to muster up enough courage to clean the things in my home that need to be cleaned. So far on the list: the stove, the outside freezer, the dogs and their crates, the guest bathroom, a load of dirty whites waiting in the laundry cue, my toddler, my bathroom, my closet, and...well, me, of course.
See why I have to gather my courage?
Luckily, for today, I have a clear picture as to what I need to do to clean each of the dirty things screaming for my attention. That is not always the case.
Being the germophobe that I am, I regularly find myself in situations where I am sure that the dirty deed is so great, it cannot possibly be undone. Not even with all the Lysol in the world.
Such a time happened last Tuesday. Our family was at the Blue and Gold Banquet for our beloved cub scout. The theme was Star Wars, and everyone dressed up--except me, because I was sewing a Jedi robe up until the very last minute. If asked about my lack of spirit, I had planned to tell people I was Jabba the Hut, obviously. Strangely, no one asked. I guess they knew that without my explanation.
We took three Jedi masters, Princess Leia, Yoda (who quickly shed her costume and looked more like Orphan Annie), and Captain Hook, a.k.a., I Do NOT Want To Be Darth Vader. With those impressive characters in the cast, I thought that we would be prepared for what the night might bring. The force was strong with us, and dinner was made for us. Nothing could go too wrong.
Or so I thought.
A little while after dinner, my three-year-old was missing. I wasn't too concerned; I just had my eyes on her, and she was happily playing hide-and-seek. The friend she was playing with was also missing.
After a few minutes, the friend's mother (my friend) came to me to report that she had just found our girls.
Are you sitting down?
They were coming out of the Boys' Bathroom, to the tune of a flushing toilet in the background.
When I heard the news, my mouth went dry and my stomach turned. I was envisioning all the breaches of public bathroom protocol that had undoubtedly occurred without my vigilant watch: no toilet seat liner, no toilet paper to hold onto handles, no washing of hands, no paper towels to open the door.
Have you ever been in a boys' bathroom? Have you cleaned up after boys who use the bathroom? If so, I offer my deepest condolences and ask a my profoundest questions. How do they miss so completely? Why does it smell that bad? Did something die in here, like, last month? How long has the toilet paper been gone? When was the soap last used? Why was the flusher so entirely ignored? The wall??? Really? How many "gentlemen" have used this space in its present condition? How many perpetrators decided washing was optional?
Some things I will never understand.
I tried to remain calm. I pulled my daughter close and started interrogating her.
"Did you go into the boys' bathroom?" My voice quivered.
"Yes."
"Oh, Honey! Why?"
"I had to go potty."
"Well, I'm glad you went potty. Did you wash your hands?"
"No."
"Oh, Honey! Why ever not?"
"There wasn't a stool."
"Let's have Daddy wash your hands."
I started wondering how I could make her clean. I quickly concluded, There's just no amount of Lysol in this world!
When we got home, she soaked in the tub for a long time, and I scrubbed her until she was red. But I'm still not convinced she'll ever be completely clean again. In fact, I'm sure she's tainted for life. She seems unaffected though. So I try to distract myself from the thoughts of multiplying microbes with the one thought that gives me courage in my battle to make the world sanitary.
If only my finger dispensed an unlimited amount of Lysol spray. Perhaps with all the Lysol in the universe...
This afternoon finds me trying to muster up enough courage to clean the things in my home that need to be cleaned. So far on the list: the stove, the outside freezer, the dogs and their crates, the guest bathroom, a load of dirty whites waiting in the laundry cue, my toddler, my bathroom, my closet, and...well, me, of course.
See why I have to gather my courage?
Luckily, for today, I have a clear picture as to what I need to do to clean each of the dirty things screaming for my attention. That is not always the case.
Being the germophobe that I am, I regularly find myself in situations where I am sure that the dirty deed is so great, it cannot possibly be undone. Not even with all the Lysol in the world.
Such a time happened last Tuesday. Our family was at the Blue and Gold Banquet for our beloved cub scout. The theme was Star Wars, and everyone dressed up--except me, because I was sewing a Jedi robe up until the very last minute. If asked about my lack of spirit, I had planned to tell people I was Jabba the Hut, obviously. Strangely, no one asked. I guess they knew that without my explanation.
We took three Jedi masters, Princess Leia, Yoda (who quickly shed her costume and looked more like Orphan Annie), and Captain Hook, a.k.a., I Do NOT Want To Be Darth Vader. With those impressive characters in the cast, I thought that we would be prepared for what the night might bring. The force was strong with us, and dinner was made for us. Nothing could go too wrong.
Or so I thought.
A little while after dinner, my three-year-old was missing. I wasn't too concerned; I just had my eyes on her, and she was happily playing hide-and-seek. The friend she was playing with was also missing.
After a few minutes, the friend's mother (my friend) came to me to report that she had just found our girls.
Are you sitting down?
They were coming out of the Boys' Bathroom, to the tune of a flushing toilet in the background.
When I heard the news, my mouth went dry and my stomach turned. I was envisioning all the breaches of public bathroom protocol that had undoubtedly occurred without my vigilant watch: no toilet seat liner, no toilet paper to hold onto handles, no washing of hands, no paper towels to open the door.
Have you ever been in a boys' bathroom? Have you cleaned up after boys who use the bathroom? If so, I offer my deepest condolences and ask a my profoundest questions. How do they miss so completely? Why does it smell that bad? Did something die in here, like, last month? How long has the toilet paper been gone? When was the soap last used? Why was the flusher so entirely ignored? The wall??? Really? How many "gentlemen" have used this space in its present condition? How many perpetrators decided washing was optional?
Some things I will never understand.
I tried to remain calm. I pulled my daughter close and started interrogating her.
"Did you go into the boys' bathroom?" My voice quivered.
"Yes."
"Oh, Honey! Why?"
"I had to go potty."
"Well, I'm glad you went potty. Did you wash your hands?"
"No."
"Oh, Honey! Why ever not?"
"There wasn't a stool."
"Let's have Daddy wash your hands."
I started wondering how I could make her clean. I quickly concluded, There's just no amount of Lysol in this world!
When we got home, she soaked in the tub for a long time, and I scrubbed her until she was red. But I'm still not convinced she'll ever be completely clean again. In fact, I'm sure she's tainted for life. She seems unaffected though. So I try to distract myself from the thoughts of multiplying microbes with the one thought that gives me courage in my battle to make the world sanitary.
If only my finger dispensed an unlimited amount of Lysol spray. Perhaps with all the Lysol in the universe...
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