The Memories We Keep

Do you ever wonder what moments from childhood your children will hang on to? Nathan is five, and although I remember a snippet or two of my life before that age, I feel like five is the beginning of my real memories. I can still recall the first day of kindergarten - what I wore (a red and white shirt with a blue jean skirt), and how stiff my new backpack (Roger Rabbit) felt on my shoulders. I don't remember telling my mom goodbye at the door to Mrs. Watson's classroom, but I remember my desk and being envious of the incredibly neat coloring skills of my seatmate, Jennie. It panics me a little bit, this memory-keeping phase of childhood that we're entering. You see, my guiding principle of parenting up until now has been to brush off any mistakes -- and there have been many -- with a reassuring, "he won't remember this, anyway." Except now, he will.

Sometimes I worry that his memories will be full of me prodding him to do my bidding. Will he remember how many times I scolded him to stop talking and eat his breakfast, so he wouldn't be late for school? Fussing at him to stay in his chair, quit teasing his sister and please stop making that god-awful racket. Barking instructions to put on his shoes and jacket, three or four or five times - my voice raising in volume and sharpness with each turn. Perhaps the version of me that will be the most real to him will be the one who ran short on patience, the one who made him feel small sometimes because I couldn't hide my frustrations like I should. If it is, I can only hope that it's tempered by the memory of me kneeling before him, early and often, to look him in his eyes and ask forgiveness when I fell short, once again, of being the mom he deserved.

Of course, if I could choose for him, I'd pick the moments that make me look good. Waking up to his favorite chocolate chip pumpkin bread for breakfast, that I stayed up late the night before to bake just for him. Sneaking him away from school for a day of fun, just the two of us. Snuggling in his bed and whispering about his favorite parts of the day. Singing "his song" for him as he closes his eyes and smiles, slipping closer to sleep than wakefulness. Reminding him every night, with the last words he hears before sleep claims him, that I love everything about him, and that I will always be proud he's my son.

The more I weigh the measure of it, the more I find myself praying that he remembers the full balance of his mom. I want him to know how very much I have loved him, from the very start. I want him to remember the things I've done to earn his smiles and his hugs. To know that watching his eyes light up with excitement at a favorite food or special surprise was the very best part of so many of my days.

But to know also that my love, however full and complete, has never been flawless. No love is, this side of heaven. I've always loved him perfectly, from the moment I knew he existed, but too many times my words and actions have failed to measure up. It's the thing that has kept me up the most at night and flavored most of my mom guilt over the years ... but he'll have never seen any of that. He might only have a vague recollection of being roused from sleep to find me in his doorway or brushing a kiss against his cheek. He won't know it's because I couldn't allow myself to go to bed until we'd had one right and peaceful moment to end the day with.

I pray for these things because, someday, his own frustrations will get the best of him and he'll say a word he doesn't mean. He'll watch a face fall and feel it - the pang of regret for hurting someone he loves. With any luck though, it'll spark one of many memories tucked away inside his mind. Moments when his mama, after losing her temper yet again, knelt down, held him close and offered a sincere "I'm sorry." He'll remember that we can't take it back, but we can make it right.

If repetition is the key to recall, then finding the grace to fail may be the enduring memory I'm able to sow. As I flounder and falter my way through raising him, I'm trusting that the underpinning of all the magic, fun and heartache he'll carry with him from these growing up years is that people aren't perfect, but we love them anyway.

A resilient love ... now that's a memory worth keeping.

Not That Kind of Mom

I have a friend who plans amazing, Pinterest-worthy birthday parties. She is crafty and clever and can carry out a theme like it's her life's mission. She will scour Etsy for the perfect cake topper and spend hours upon hours making beautiful tissue paper flowers, rustic banners and assembling invitations. The cake will be beautiful, the food delicious and the games will be a hit with every kid at the party. I am not that kind of mom.

I have another friend who is the outdoorsy-type. She takes her kids exploring in the woods and rock climbing and caving. She points out bugs skating on ponds and the worms that hide underneath rocks. Weekends with her family are spent camping, hiking and canoeing.

I am not that kind of mom.

I also have a friend who excels at sports. She teaches her kids how to play baseball, basketball and soccer, and they're always the best on their teams. She can execute a perfect flip on the trampoline, and her tricks off the diving board at the pool are most impressive.

I am not that kind of mom.

It's hard sometimes not to be envious. I wonder if my kids feel like they're missing out on something; if they notice that their birthday parties are less glamorous and their days are less adventurous. I watch all of these other women who seem to be mothering better than me, and I feel a little embarrassed. The embarrassment snowballs until before I know it, I'm irrationally upset with myself that my daughter's cupcakes will come from Publix instead of being hand-crafted by me. Then my irritation sets in. Crying over baked goods? I'm certainly not that kind of mom.

Comparison is the thief of joy, but I won't let it rob me. These fabulous friends of mine are just being themselves, after all. Pinterest Mom is at her best when she's being creative. Nature Mom lives for the outdoors. Sports Mom is exactly that athletic. They're not putting on a facade or pretending to be something they aren't. They're simply embracing what it is they love and sharing that passion with their children. And by doing so, they're loving their kids bigger, harder and more completely than they ever could otherwise.

What does my best love look like?  I'm the mom who can spend all afternoon reading book after book to the child tucked into the crook of my arm. I'll contentedly spend an hour side by side coloring pictures, using every single crayon in the box. A perfect rainy Saturday means a morning in the kitchen, baking up something yummy with  a "special helper" and covering every available surface with flour. There are usually giggles and there's always a hefty amount of cleanup. These are the moments of mothering that I store up in my heart, the ones where I feel like I shine instead of faltering like I so frequently do.

These are also the moments that can get lost in the day to day grind of it all. I must remember, though, to make the time in the midst of the caring and tending and raising of these precious babes. Bit by bit, I will pass along little pieces of what I love most, and pray it blooms a passion in their lives, too. It won't necessarily be what Pins well or what looks good on Instagram. But it'll be the parts of me that they remember once they're grown, the lessons they learned and moments we shared that they couldn't have had with anyone else.

There will likely never be an elaborate birthday party in our house. You won't find anything in the  way of decorations that you can't find in the aisle of your local Party City. Despite many hours spent attempting to learn otherwise, I will probably always throw like a girl. And heaven knows you'll never catch me inside a cave on purpose. But when my children's eyes light up when the words on a page weave a story of magic and wonder, when I watch them beam with pride as they present their "artwork" to someone they love, when they scarf down dinner because they helped make it - it's a breathtaking thing, really. I've found a way to pass along a part of me to become a part of them. I've become more than  the cooker, cleaner, diaper-changer and tender of boo-boos.

I've become a mom.

Because of Me

"Do you wish you'd never had me?" My fork stops in mid-air. My eyes dart to my left to meet your dad's; his arched eyebrows confirm I haven't misheard.

You sit across the table from me. Your plate of food is mostly untouched, as usual. Your eyes aren't sparkling with a joke, though, and you're not preparing to launch into yet another silly story. Instead, you gaze downward, where your fingers twist together in your lap. Your voice fades with the question until it's barely more than a whisper, as though you regret asking it the moment it's left your lips.

"What? Nathan, baby, why would you ask that?" There's panic in my voice, and I wonder if you can hear it. There are tears pricking my eyes, and I wonder if you can see them. What are you thinking, sweet boy? What have I done?

Your thin shoulders shrug, and at last you raise your big brown eyes to meet mine. They are sheepish as you mumble, "Well, I do talk too much sometimes."

Oh, baby. You do, of course. You talk so much that your food gets cold, and I have to heat your plate up mid-meal almost every night. You've been going non-stop during this very dinner; it's the reason your pasta is still untouched while your sister is plowing through her second helping. Your chatter is the background noise of my life: getting ready in the morning, on the way to school, on the way back home. I'm convinced the reason that Ellie barely talks at 20 months old is because she can't get a word in edgewise. You tell me everything and nothing; I know the plot line of every show you watch and whose name was on the board for misbehaving in class. You narrate everything you see and make up songs about the silliest of things. And questions ... so many questions. Your days are filled with endless queries, about everything from why the moon is in the sky during the day to why girls can't pee standing up. On a trip once, your big cousins decide to keep track of the number of questions you asked in a day. They gave up when they reached 107 before the end of breakfast.

Clearly, you're correct in this moment of self-analysis. How do you even know you talk too much, though? What sort of five year old has that kind of self-awareness? There's only one answer, and it's breaking me right in two to acknowledge it. Because of me. Because I snap at you to eat your dinner. Because I cut you off mid-story and tell you to get your shoes on; we're running late again. Because there's an edge to my reply when, for the 10th time in five minutes, you say "Hey Mom, can I tell you something?" You've internalized my frustration. You've catalogued my rolled eyes, heavy sighs and exasperated tone and come to one conclusion: there's something wrong with you.

Yes, this is all my fault, and in more ways than one. The irony is not lost on me; you certainly didn't get your loquacious nature from your father, after all. You are your daddy in nearly every way, but your non-stop chatter, well, that gift comes from me. There's a pain settling like a boulder in my gut. You are sad, because of me. You feel like we regret you, because you're like me. Oh, Nathan. Nothing could be further from the truth. You're the best thing I've ever done. Watching you do you - it will be one of the simplest and greatest joys of my life. I must fix this. How do I fix this? 

I clear my throat, as though I expect that to dislodge the pit in my stomach. You're watching me, waiting for me to make it all better, but - for once - I'm at a loss for words. I hesitate, searching for an epiphany that doesn't come. At last, I decide on honesty, and a confession.

"Yes baby, you do talk too much sometimes. But do you want to know a secret?"

Your eyes light up. You love secrets.

"I do, too, buddy. I'm the reason you talk so much, you know - you got that from me. Just like you got those beautiful brown eyes from your dad. I talk more than I should, especially when I'm nervous. I probably wear people out with all my words.

That's why I could never regret you though, why dad could never regret you: you belong to us. You are part of us, and we are a part of you. You are perfect, just the way God made you. We love you, all of you, just the way God made you."

I watch you take in my words. I pray for them, as they find their way to your mind and your heart. Believe me, I breathe. Slowly, you smile.

"You talk a lot, too?"

"Alllllll the time, buddy," your dad chimes in, giving you a knowing glance. Your smile becomes a giggle, and my sweet and silly boy is back again. I feel the tension leave my body, though the guilt remains. I will do better, I silently resolve. Never again will you question your value because of me. Oblivious to my inner turmoil, you pick up your fork and, at last, begin to eat.

After dinner, I catch you before you rocket out of the kitchen. Setting aside the dishtowel, I sink to my knees to give you an extra long hug and a kiss and tell you how much I love you.

"I really love you too, Mom." Maybe it's because you know I need it, but you linger in my arms; your face presses into my neck. You let me hold you, as though my hug can make up for the hurt. There's forgiveness in your embrace, and I let it make me whole.

At bedtime, Dad and I both snuggle in bed with you, a rare and special treat. You are lying between us, and you've pulled our hands to your chest and folded your own underneath them. I look at them sandwiched there: dad's, mine, yours. Your small hands, nearly hidden between ours, hold tight to each of us; the tie that binds. You are ours, sweet boy. You are us.

We could not love you more.

Season of Should

  Should. It’s such a shitty word. “Should” ignores accomplishments in favor of a towering to-do list of impossible tasks and unforgiving criticism. I should spend more time playing with the children. I should stop playing and get that proposal completed. I should shave my legs. I should call my mom. I should work on math with Nathan. I should read more books with Ellie. I should be able to pee alone. I should cook dinner. I should be a better wife.

I didn’t used to be such a should-er. There was a time, B.K. (before kids), when I moved confidently. I worked, I wifed and I friended, without giving much thought to the paths I wasn’t taking. Even when Jon and I made the decision to get pregnant, there wasn’t any waffling. But one quick (and fun!) month and a positive pregnancy test later, the season of should began.

Should I be worried about those three, okay four, beers I had at the cookout last Saturday before I knew I was pregnant? Should I scale back at work? Should we increase our life insurance policies? The first time I walked into Babies R Us, the shoulds hit me with such force that I nearly hyperventilated. When week 36 rolled around and we found out that Nathan had stopped growing, requiring a c-section for his safety and mine, the shoulds were shouting.

I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve drunk less coffee. I shouldn’t have eaten that piece of sushi.

Five pounds of dark-headed perfection couldn’t shake the should monster. He was fine; I was fine – and yet the shoulds still haunted me. It’s as though I failed at my first task of being a mother, at bringing him safely into the world. He made it, but it should’ve been better.

Here I sit, five years and another child later, and the shoulds still linger. But on a good day, I can feel the tease of a shift in seasons close by.

It started 15 months ago, when I was down to my last few days of maternity leave following the birth of our daughter. Instead of going back to work, I quit a job I didn’t enjoy, the one I dreaded returning to. This also meant that we cut our income nearly in half. I fully expected panic and self-doubt to set in, but the shoulds were surprisingly silent. We scrimped and penny-pinched and ate way more spaghetti than I cared for, but within months I’d lined up a part-time job that let me work from home as much (or as little) as I could manage.

The dynamic in our marriage shifted dramatically; no longer were we equals in the workforce and on the home front. Suddenly, Jon was the breadwinner, and I was doing the lion’s share of the cooking, cleaning, laundry and childrearing. For someone as fiercely independent as me, that should have chafed. It should’ve led to arguments and resentments, but instead it just felt … right. While it’s not always an easy choice and some days are downright awful, there’s still an overriding peace that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be at this moment of my life.

In this role, I’m realizing my own strength battling the shoulds when it comes to my children. Take my daughter, Ellie, for example. She should be able to fall asleep on her own every night. We probably ought to bite the bullet and cry it out or ferberize or babywise or some such. But when I hold her close and rock her gently, she falls asleep within minutes. The whirlwind toddler is gone and my baby is back in my arms for a few brief moments. For once, I’m not telling her no and redirecting; I’m giving her exactly what she wants, and gladly. On the heels of the hard days, she and I both need those minutes to fall in love with each other again.

As for Nathan, I learned the other day that he should be able to draw a recognizable stick figure – head, body, limbs, facial features. What he draws most closely resembles a potato with toothpicks jutting out of it (he’s mostly his daddy, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take credit for his art skills, or lack thereof). While he may be lousy at drawing them though, he sees people more clearly than anyone I know. Our conversations at bedtime frequently turn to who was alone on the playground that day at school and why and always end with Nathan’s resolve to invite that child to be his friend the next day. His gentle heart can’t bear another’s loneliness. Being empathetic and kind is effortless to him, and my heart comes near to bursting when I see how well he loves others. A perfectly-rendered stick man could never bring that joy.

That’s the thing about children, though– milestones and shoulds and checklists don’t mean much to them. They revel in what is, without a thought to what could be. They’re perfectly content with who they are. For all that I’m trying to teach them, about letters, numbers and how to treat others, my children are handing out lessons of their own in the school of motherhood.

Perhaps that’s the reason for my newfound confidence, for my release of how things should be and my embrace of how things are. When you spend your days with two little people who are constantly saying new words and learning new skills, you realize how quickly it’s all slipping by. There’s not enough time to both celebrate what is and mourn what isn’t. You’re forced to make a choice … although there was really never a choice at all.

These days are too brief and filled with too much joy, too much love and far too much grace to be held captive to the shoulds. I’ll embrace today and pray for tomorrow, but as for yesterday – I’ll hold tight to the good and let the rest fall away.

When your heart is filled with the light of what is, there’s no room for the darkness of should.

Hidden in the Hard

I spent the first year of motherhood muttering the same phrase to myself, over and over: Why didn't anyone warn me?! How did I walk into a c-section, into exclusive pumping, into a baby who didn't sleep through the night for 10 whole months ... knowing nothing? And I'm sure I'm not the only one who felt that way; I think we all feel like we picked up this mantle called motherhood without knowing the true weight of it. And so we feel compelled to share the knowledge we've gleaned with others, so that the next mama to come along won't walk in our shoes and grumble about how no one warned her that newborns can shoot poo clear across the room if you're not fast enough with the diaper or how that three month growth spurt is perfectly timed with the week you start back to work at the end of your maternity leave.

But some days, I think perhaps we've overshot our noble goal a bit. Because as important as it is to feel like we're sharing the same struggles and as comforting it is to know that someone else, too, has stayed up all night worrying about the same thing you are, it's also a little ... scary. I remember reading a mom blog or two back when I was pregnant with my first, and I was more than a little terrified. My God this sounds awful, I thought. What have I done?

It's been said that misery loves company, so it's always easy to find a grumble group that fits your parenting struggles. Moms of tantruming two year olds over here, moms of colicky newborns over there. And the especially traumatized souls who fall in both groups ... well, they're tucked over there in the corner receiving emergency transfusions of wine, high-quality chocolate and prayers.

Yes, parenting is hard. Bone-crushingly hard sometimes, with fatigue and worry that you never knew possible. But there's good stuff, too. Things like holding a fresh-from-the-bath, sleepy toddler who takes a break from her normal chaotic activities and rests her head against your neck, giving you a few precious moments to breathe in that heady, clean scent and snuggle her close. Thing like teaching your son how to do a backflip on the trampoline and that the big couch cushions make the best forts. Things like the smiles that light up their whole faces when you arrive to pick them up from preschool and the enthusiastic way they wrap their arms around your neck when they give you a hug.

There are the bigger, deeper things too that are still just as good. Like learning to love the things you once liked least about yourself, because God is clever. He knew that you'd find those knobbly knees you've always hidden under pants and long skirts downright adorable when sported by your son. And He knew that as you dig deep each day to find the grace needed for their mistakes, you'd find enough there to cover your own mistakes, too.

I've never worried more or slept less than I have since I became a mother. But oh, friend, I've never known such joy, either. Every single day has a hidden gem or two of perfection in it. Sometimes it's hiding between too many episodes of Paw Patrol and pancakes for supper (the unfailing sign in the Batchelor house that Mom has given up for the day), but it's there.

We all know that this work is hard, and that the particular brand of hard varies from family to family. But celebrating the good that's hidden in the hard is my new goal, I think. Sometimes babies don't sleep and toddlers won't eat and preschoolers won't wear clothes. But sometimes, too, babies laugh a deep belly laugh that nearly knocks them over. And toddlers surprise you with a big wet kiss right on the mouth. And preschoolers bring home a picture they drew just for you.

And there's nothing better than that.

A Good Year

I am not a New Year's resolutioner. New Year's Eve is actually my least favorite holiday by a mile (hordes of people with the expectation of lots of midnight hugs and kisses is basically as bad as it gets for a tried and true introvert like myself). No, the start of a new year doesn't foster in me a need to commit to planning for bigger, better, greater things ... but shouldn't it? Shouldn't I list out five goals on a sheet of paper, so I can say that I, too, have big plans for 2016? I could vow less screen time for our household, but since Nathan already watched an episode or two of Wild Kratts this morning while I thumbed through my Instagram and Facebook feeds ... and my daughter is parked in front of the iPad as I type this, that one is already busted. I could strive to eat better or workout more, but then I'd feel guilty about the cheeseburger I had for lunch and probably the pajama pants that I'm still wearing well past noon, too. I could promise to write every day or return texts more quickly or travel more.

But I'm nothing if not honest, and I don't like to make promises that won't be kept. Being a better me is a lofty goal ... maybe too lofty, for where I'm at right now. I think, for this year, I'll settle for being MORE me. For embracing myself, with all my flaws. For making peace with my post-kids, post-3o body. For marveling at what I can still do and letting go of what I'll never do (or wear) again. I think I'll own my personality too, rather than wishing I was more outgoing, more gentle, more patient. I do quiet and serious quite well, and like to be a safe place for friends who need to talk and confide. My impatience ensures that the slower-moving members of my family aren't too terribly late when it counts. And I may never be truly gentle and kind, but there's no better teacher than tender hearts and minds.

The other day I was making pancakes, and Nathan came up and wrapped his arms around my legs and said in all seriousness, "You're the best Mom I've ever had." I chuckled and reminded him that I was also the only Mom he's ever had ... so didn't that also make me the worst? But he just shook his head and said, "Nope ... just the best."

I'm under no illusions that I'll ever be the best mom. I lose my temper and hide in the bathroom sneaking chocolates far too often for that. But maybe this is the year I own being THEIR best mom. Accepting that God gave them to me - and I to them - with a plan and a purpose in mind.

So no, 2016 won't see a better me. There will be no new and improved; no list of goals to check my way through. But it will, God-willing, see me be myself. I'll love my people and let myself be loved by them.

It will be a good year.

Beauty in the Balance

For as long as I can remember, I've had a terrible sense of balance.

When I was five, I can remember many trips up and down the driveway on my bike, my dad trotting along behind me with his hand on my back. He would let go, and I would wobble and crash. Again and again, I couldn't seem to stay the course once he removed his steadying hand. I was frustrated, but he refused to let me quit trying. Finally, he sent me off on my own once again, and this time, I wobbled but remained upright. I exulted for a few glorious moments, the wind blowing my hair ... before remembering I didn't know how to stop and crashing once more.

It didn't get much better as I've gotten older, either. I regularly trip up stairs, down stairs and across flat surfaces. I couldn't figure out waterskiing, stilettos are terrifying and I'm a nightmare in a canoe.

The balancing act of motherhood is no exception. Trying to maintain happy and healthy kids, happy and healthy husband, happy and healthy career and happy and healthy self brings the same wobbles, crashes and flat-on-my-face moments as the rest of my life, only the stakes are much higher this time. My own happiness, and the happiness of those I hold most dear, suffers for my clumsiness. My lack of balance is my Achilles heel, the piece of motherhood that brings me to my knees over and over again as I trip over myself, crushed by the weight of all I carry.

I'm pretty good at maintaining one area. I can forgo everything else and throw myself into my children. I can be patient and attentive, creative and fun. But then I'm so drained that by 8 p.m., I'm ready to crawl into bed. Work will have to wait, as will Jon and that book I've been wanting to read. Or I can throw myself into work, but since I work from home that means I have children climbing the walls (and the couches and bookcases) and a still-neglected husband.

But, just as I've learned to stick to wedges instead of heels and that I belong on the shore and decidedly not on that tiny seat in that deathtrap they call a canoe, I'm learning my motherhood limits as well. I'm learning, slowly and painfully, but learning all the same, how much of myself I can pour into one area before the others suffer. I'm learning how to portion out myself to everything that lays claim to me, and yet still have something left that's just mine, too.

I don't always get it right. If you've known me for any length of time, you've born witness to my clumsiness - falling, tripping, stumbling. If you've been loved by me for any length of time, you've seen my clumsiness there, too. Texts unanswered, date nights postponed, ragamuffin kids.

But the beauty is in the balance, or so I'm learning. Fumbling my way, trying my best and allowing grace to cover the rest.

Dating and Daughters

Last night, my brother posted a link to this blog post, about interviewing your daughter's dates. He asked what everyone thought ... and my mind raced so fast I had to write it all out. I know all of us with daughters like to crack jokes about not letting them date until they're 30, cleaning the shotgun when the first boy comes to pick her up and that sort of thing. But the truth is, I feel very strongly about equipping both of my children, Ellie especially, with the confidence and wisdom they need to navigate the dating world on their own.

Yep, on their own. As my friend Jacqueline wrote the other day, "my job as a parent is to teach them to live without me." I'm not doing my job if Ellie can't say yes or no to going to a movie with a boy until Jon puts him through his paces.

I understand the inclination and the argument behind the interview process. The author says he does it because he loves and values his daughters. He says it's a "first line of defense" and allows him to "play the heavy" and say no for her if she doesn't want to accept the date.

I love and value my daughter too, but I want to teach her how to be her own first line of defense. In fact, I'm not sure there's a lesson more vital than teaching Ellie she can say no confidently and without embarrassment to anything she doesn't want to do - ESPECIALLY with a boy. Allowing her daddy to say no for her sounds sweet, but really it's weakening. She needs to learn to trust her own instincts, and she'll only do that by trying them out. I will be here for support, encouragement and advice whenever she needs it. I'm sure to have my preferences about who she dates and what she does/doesn't do with them, and I won't hesitate to make those known. But I have to respect that the decisions ultimately belong to her. She's not my puppet, she's my daughter.

Equipping my children with the independence and decision-making skills they need to be successful, kind, competent adults is what parenting is all about, in my opinion. Taking that decision-making out of their hands - especially when it comes to their relationships - is one of the least empowering things I could do. What if, God forbid, something happens to Jon or me? Do I want to leave a daughter who doesn't know how to say no when she doesn't want to go on a date or how to determine if he's worth saying "yes" to? Absolutely not. We will start sowing the seeds early and often about choosing friends and confidently saying no to things we don't want to do. Our job will always be to love and support her, but we won't do for her what she needs to be able to do herself.

Navigating relationships, especially the romantic kind, seems like adult business - and I understand the inclination to keep those decisions in adult hands. The drive to protect our children is the most powerful force I've ever experienced, but it's also a dangerous one. If we're not careful, we use the excuse of keeping them safe to keep them from making mistakes or having their own experiences. Eventually they grow up and leave us, after all. So I can either spend 18 years shielding, protecting and ruling over my children, and launch adults who are woefully unprepared to navigate life on their own ... or I can spend 18 years carefully guiding and teaching, while simultaneously peeling back the limits and giving them the room to make their own choices and practice living with the consequences, so that I, prayerfully, launch adults who understand how to make a good decision and the consequences of a bad one.

When Ellie meets a boy she likes someday, we will expect to meet him, of course. Not as part of a multi-step vetting process, but because we'll expect to meet and know everyone she and Nathan care about and choose to spend time with. She'll know that if at anytime she feels uncomfortable or in over her head, she can call us (or text us or hologram us, or whatever it is we're doing those days to communicate) and we'll come running. We will support, encourage and, I'm sure, occasionally disagree with the decisions she makes. But we're parents, not guards. Letting go without loving less is the most painful part of the raising children process, but we can't shield ourselves from the pain at the expense of their independence. As they grow up, we must learn to love and value them not just as our children, but as individuals.

So no, we won't be interviewing our daughter's dates someday (or our son's). We'll offer a guiding hand, and I feel confident we'll veto more than one date night outfit. But we won't take decisions out of their hands that need to belong to them. And we won't say no for them, when learning to say no for themselves is so terrifyingly necessary.

I can't say for sure that we're doing this right. All parenting choices come with their own side of guilt and questioning and series of "what ifs." But we feel strongly about instilling kindness, empathy, faith and confidence in our children and then letting them blaze their own trails.

Maybe there will be a "part two" to this post in 20 years or so to let you know how it all went.

8 Rules for Dining Out with Toddlers

Let's be honest: eating in restaurants with children under five is awful. But you know what else is awful? Cooking dinner after you've had a terrible day at work/wrangling the kids/ life in general. It's always a choice between the lesser of two evils, but really isn't that basically all parenting is? Some days the dinner out is the winner (loser?). How do you ensure survival? The odds are already in your favor if, like in our family, dinner time is 5:15 p.m., sharp. The only people in restaurants at that hour are old people who can't hear and will think your children are adorable. Mainly because they can't hear. Beyond the normal absurdly early dinner hour, here are 8 tips, straight from the trenches, to help stack the deck in your favor:

1. Don't go anywhere that takes longer than an hour. That's start to finish and includes waiting time. I promise, even an extraordinarily well-behaved child can't be still and quiet longer than an hour. Don't set yourself up for failure before you get started.

2. Do not go anywhere that you have to wait more than 10 minutes for a table. See above. You have one hour. Do not waste more than 10% waiting. This rule can be fudged a little if it's early and you can wait outside. But still, don't stretch it more than 20 minutes.

3. Bring snacks. Preferably non-messy ones. Do not worry about ruining your child's appetite. Worry about keeping him quiet and agreeable. One dinner made up entirely of yogurt melts and goldfish crackers won't ruin him forever. This is especially important for those rare occasions when you cannot adhere to rules one and two.

4. Order your kid's food with the drinks. Especially if he's super hungry, it's later than normal dinner time or you have a slow eater.

5. Be prepared to get your meal to go. Sometimes disaster strikes. An epic meltdown, an obstinate, refuses-to-listen child ... these things happen. Toddlers have bad days, just like everyone else. If it happens at home, you can ignore it and let them tire themselves out. If it happens in a restaurant, you ask for your food to go and the check. You get out of there as quickly as possible.

6. Do not allow your child to run around, play with the blinds, jump, yell, climb on the booth or otherwise bother other people. Even at family restaurants. If your child starts doing this, ask him to stop. If you can't get him to stop, see number 5.

7. Tip well. Especially if your kids make a mess, you have to concoct a special order for a picky palate or your server goes out of his/her way to be accommodating. Note: 20 percent should be your baseline. Tipping "well" is 25% and up, in this instance.

8. Be considerate. This sums up all the previous rules. Be considerate of your child, and don't ask him to wait 45 minutes to eat an hour later than usual while waiting quietly with no snacks or distractions. That's a recipe for disaster.

But also be considerate of your fellow diners. Yes, some people in this world are just looking to be offended by something; they're not your concern. But if the whole restaurant is giving you side eye, maybe things aren't going as well as you thought and you need to redirect or pack it in. I know how I can tune out annoying behaviors to the point where they are background noise. This is a necessary survival skill for parenting, but your fellow patrons are likely lacking it. Bear that in mind.

And if all else fails, go for Mexican food. It's almost always lightning fast, there are free chips and salsa and margaritas make everyone a little more forgiving. Happy dining!

Motherhood is More

This wasn't what I expected. I expected to feel tired. Really, really tired. But only for the first few months until the baby started sleeping through the night (bless me). I did not anticipate the bone deep exhaustion capable of stretching on for years and a sleep deficit so great I fear I'll never truly feel rested again. I didn't know about sleep regressions or consider all the lost nights to teething, sickness, big boy bed transitions, trips away from home and things that go bump in the night. Multiplied by each additional child.

I expected my body to change. I braced myself for softer, lower, stretched. And all of that came, plus eczema and new moles and different hair texture. I wasn't expecting to feel strong, but hefting babies then toddlers then preschoolers does have that small perk. On a related note, I wasn't expecting the back pain.

I expected to know what I was doing after the first child. I forgot that babies are people, each with a personality and likes, dislikes and preferences. I didn't remember that most siblings share very little in common, aside from a gene pool. I wasn't expecting having a second child to be so hard. I wasn't prepared for my tried-and-true soothing methods to fall flat, for my schedule to be useless. I forgot that we would still need to introduce ourselves to one another and find our own rhythm together. I didn't know how hard it would be to learn how to weave those two relationships - the one I had already established with my son and this fresh new one with my daughter - together.

I expected to have good days and bad ones. I had no idea that the good ones would be so good. Little pieces of brightness and heaven beyond anything I knew possible. I had no way of anticipating the darkness of the bad days. The wracking sobs of a mother who feels like she's failing. The bubbling anger and resentment when the patience runs out and the exhaustion overwhelms. The fear when your baby is sick or hurt.

I expected camaraderie. I wasn't the first in my group of friends to have a baby, nor the last. I thought it would be a lovefest of swapped advice and playdates. I didn't expect to feel lonely. Despite a husband who is my partner in every sense of the word and a network of supportive family and friends, motherhood feels like an island sometimes.

I expected the love, although the depth, breadth and ferocity of it still takes my breath away. But it's the drive to protect them, a compulsion stronger even than the love, that I wasn't prepared for. It's the piece of motherhood that terrifies me the most, to be honest. Loosening my grip and letting go a little bit at a time, so they get to live their own lives instead of in the shadows of mine. Understanding that they'll push against my love and protection every step of the way, carving out their own paths. Anticipating how much that will hurt me, to have them bristle at my touch and roll their eyes at my loving words. Knowing that I'll spend the rest of my life hovering on the sidelines, stopping myself from intervening every time I see a risk they don't.

I expected the love, I just didn't know how much it could hurt or what it would cost me. It is brutal, exquisite and bankrupting, this mother's love.

This isn't what I expected. It's more difficult, more exhausting, more beautiful. Simply put, motherhood is more.

"Mom, Why Do You Wear Makeup?"

"Mom, why do you wear makeup?" I glanced over in the midst of applying concealer to some very dark undereye circles to find Nathan watching me intently. His question gave me pause. Why do I wear makeup? Well, the honest answer is because I feel prettier when I wear it. But I couldn't say that. Not when I spend all day every day trying, very intentionally, to teach my children that they are enough, just as they are. That everyone is enough, just as they are. That lesson gets shot to hell if I admit that I don't feel "enough" over something as silly as missing mascara.

So I hedged and fumbled and ultimately redirected by asking Nathan what books he was excited about getting at the library. Sufficiently distracted, he began analyzing the merits of Nate the Great versus Clifford the Big Red Dog, and I was free to finish getting ready without further self-evaluation.

Or so I thought. I've revisited the question in my mind several times since, and I've still yet to come up with an answer I'm not embarrassed to admit to anyone other than myself. I don't like to admit my dependence on makeup. I rationalize it, because it's not an expensive hobby - you won't find anything in my makeup bag that can't be found in the aisles at Target (that statement is true for more than my makeup bag, but I digress). I justify it with my speed - if I can apply a full face of makeup, eyeliner included, in less than five minutes, I can't be that high maintenance, right?

But the truth is, it's carefully constructed daily armor. If I can hide my insecurities along with the signs of a sleepless night, maybe I'll be more likeable. It's a buffer between me and everyone else; another way to hide the real me and keep the version with the prettier packaging on display.

It's not a truth I'm proud of. It's another disconnect between the lesson I want to impart to my children and the example I'm providing. Maybe at 32 it's time I settle more comfortably into my own, pale skin. Let the contents of my makeup bag be more about adding a little polish and a little fun, and less about being what I need to face the world each day.

I'm not there yet, but I'm working on it. In a couple of years, when Ellie asks, hopefully I'll be ready.

A Peak Inside New Mama Minds

I have such a soft spot for new mamas. I love nothing more than dropping off food, loaning baby items, answering texts and trying to build up these bewildered, tired women. I remember well how hard those first weeks are and how grateful I was for anyone who offered a helping hand or word of encouragement. And especially those beautiful souls who also brought me delicious food. I try to pay it forward whenever I can, and  - since it seems like every time I turn around, there's a new baby in some corner of my life - I get lots of opportunities. In all my conversations with the new mamas in my life, five things come up over (and over) once we get past the surface level #blessed stuff. These are the kind of scary, isolating thoughts that make you feel like a bad mom or different from everyone else you know. I'm not breaking any confidences here - because I've also had each one of these thoughts following the birth of one (or both!) of my children. So read on, mama, and feel less alone:

1. "What have I done?" This one will hit you out of the blue. If you're lucky, it doesn't arrive until at least a couple of weeks in ... but sometimes it's a matter of days. Maybe the baby is screaming and you can't figure out how to get her to stop. Maybe breastfeeding brings you to tears. Whatever the circumstance, you're starting to wish you could backtrack 9 months (and some change) and definitely not get pregnant. It's okay - this does not make you a bad mom. You just endured some wicked physical trauma, completely upended your life and you have a tiny human who is now dependent on you for survival. Frankly, I'd judge you a little if you didn't freak out at least once. It's okay to have a little terror mixed in with your joy. You'll soon learn, that's the basic recipe of parenthood - two parts joy to one part terror. The balance is important.

2. "When will I get my body back?" Ehhhh, this is a tough one. The truth is, you probably won't. I know that smarts a little, but YOU MADE A PERSON. That's bound to leave a mark or two, when you think about it. The good news is that the doughy, Jabba the Hut-ness of your midsection is (probably) not a permanent feature, and you won't always leak fluids from seemingly every orifice. The best advice I got was to consider the first three months after birth as the fourth trimester - for both you and baby. Focus on survival, and getting to know each other. Let your body heal on its own (and it will!) before you start Pinteresting ab workouts. Regardless of what you do, things are likely going to be softer, lower and a little ... different from now on. Make peace with this. Remember that strong is better than skinny - and after lugging around that infant carrier for a few months, you will definitely be strong.

3. I'm so tired. Yes. Yeeeeessssss. All of the yeses. You would be hard pressed to find a mama who's not tired, regardless of how old her kids are - but that newborn haze of exhaustion is a special kind of hell. People will tell you to "sleep when the baby sleeps," but that's crap, because you've got to brush your teeth sometime. And do that mountain of laundry that's taking over your hallway. And eat something. The sleep-when-the-baby-sleeps people aren't helpful. Here's what worked for me: if you can, pick one nap per day to take with your baby. Snuggle him or her on your chest, close your eyes and drift off to dreamland. You might be surprised how well you both sleep. And besides, those newborn snuggles are kinda the best part. Don't miss them.

4. "Is ______ normal?" You thought pregnancy was weird, but it can't hold a candle to the postpartum phase. It's absolutely terrifying, to be perfectly honest. Plus, you've got all that crazy newborn stuff to worry about, so there's DOUBLE the weirdness. Normal has a pretty wide spectrum, I've found, and there's a lot of really gross stuff that no one tells you about. If everyone is eating, peeing and pooping on a regular basis, you probably don't have anything major to worry about. But that's what nurse lines were made for - call, leave a message and let someone with special training ease your fears. A close second is calling any fellow mom with 2 or more children. Why 2 or more? Because it's a different kind of weird every time you have a child  - the more she's had, the broader her point of reference. Just don't Google. There's such a thing as too broad of a point of reference, and the whole craziness of the Internet is the definition of it.

5. I can't do this. This one likes to sneak up on you at 3 a.m. when it's the fifth time you've been up that night and, for whatever reason, your baby has decided she hates nursing/the swing/swaddling/all methods of comfort available. And all you can think is, WOW this mama stuff sucks, and you're not sure you can handle it. But you can. You really, really can. I can't promise that it gets easier, but it does get less all-consuming. In the beginning, learning to be a mama takes over and it feels like there's no room for the rest of your life. In time, you'll find a way to reclaim some of what makes you, you. Just keep pressing on, and you'll find your balance, your rhythm, your stride. You've got this, I promise.

Bring on the Fun

It started with sprinklers. When I picked Nathan up from preschool today, the sprinklers were on just outside the entrance. I didn't think much of it; I assumed the timer had gotten messed up somehow, and I dodged the spray as I darted through the door, shielding Ellie from the mist.

Of course, as soon as he saw them, Nathan was mesmerized. "Mom, look!" he said excitedly. "Sprinklers!! There's water everywhere mom, this is so cool." I continued to the car without comment until Nathan pulled me to a stop. "Can I go play in them, Mom?"

"No, baby," was my immediate response. He would get soaked, I had no way to dry him off, the car would get all wet ... I had a laundry list of reasons. Nathan didn't argue, surprisingly, and I buckled the kids into their carseats. When I climbed into the driver's seat, the sprinklers were directly across from me and what I saw made me pause. Parents and children continued to spill out of the door, and without fail every single child was drawn to the sprinklers. I couldn't hear the words, but over and over I watched each child ask some variation of the question, "Can I play?" Some moms and dads gave the same response I did - a quick no, and a tug of the hand toward the waiting car. I saw the children cast a wistful glance toward the water before falling in step. But some parents said yes. And I watched the yes children smile, and take off with a shriek and a giggle through the water. I watched them dance and twirl and dart in and out of the spray. I watched their moms and dads, and I saw the smiles on their faces and the humor in their eyes.

As I shifted the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot, I felt disappointed with myself ... and a little silly about my disappointment, to be honest. It was a little, nothing moment really; Nathan wasn't even upset about missing out and had already moved on to chattering about his day. But I dwelt on my quick no, and why, in this situation and others like it, I see the mess and hassle rather than the fun. I suppose it's just my personality - I've never been the life of the party; I'm always the one engaged in semi-serious conversation with someone off to the side. Fun - especially impromptu, messy, unplanned fun - is not my element.

But it is my kids' element. Heck, it's every kid's element. And their childhood is so brief - I have them for what feels like the duration of a breath before I will release them into this great big world. And I don't get to choose the moments that become memories; their minds will do that for them. All I can do is be more deliberate in my efforts to build more fun, more joy, more love into our days. Today, I had a chance to make my son smile with delight, and I missed it. But tomorrow, I'll be ready. Bring on the fun.

I Can't Breathe

Right after my daughter was born, the nurse asked if I'd like to do skin-to-skin. I was surprised - when my son was born by c-section three years earlier, I hadn't been able to hold him until my surgery was completed. Jon's arms had welcomed him first; I had to content myself with stroking his soft cheek and letting his hand curl around my finger for the 20 minutes or so until I could hold him close. So when they asked me this time, I said yes immediately, thrilled that I would be the first to hold my baby after nine long months of waiting. They snuggled her on my chest, and Jon and I gazed at her in wonder. But as the haze of those first few moments began to clear, I realized how uncomfortable I was. More than uncomfortable, really - my blood pressure had bottomed out right after the spinal, causing intense nausea and dizziness. They had lowered my head to position it below my body to help some with the dizziness, but I still felt lightheaded. As I lay there, struggling to stay focused on the miracle of the moment, Ellie's weight began to feel as though it was crushing my chest. I closed my eyes and focused on trying to breathe, silently willing the surgeons to work faster. It seemed to be taking forever, and I was struggling to catch my breath. I knew that if I just spoke up, someone would help me - Jon or a nurse would lift Ellie off of me, and I'd be able to breathe freely again. But I didn't want that. I wanted her there, on me. Sure, she was suffocating me, but I'm a mom - HER mom. I could deal.

Until I couldn't, and I blurted out, "I can't breathe!"

No one took her away. The anesthesiologist positioned next to my head simply reached down and ever so slightly adjusted the way she was positioned, shifting her weight so the burden felt lighter. "Better?" he asked. "Much, thank you," I said gratefully, breathing in deeply once more.

A few weeks later, it was a Friday morning. Ellie wanted to nurse every 45 minutes and was refusing all my attempts to get her to sleep. Nathan was desperate for my attention, asking for me to sit with him, play with him, color with him. My anxiety levels were rising, the tears started falling. Is this what it was going to be like, life with two kids? I couldn't do it, couldn't manage it.  I can't breathe, I thought, casting my eyes around wildly for something, anything that would help me.

And then I caught sight of my keys. I buckled the kids into their carseats, gave Nathan the iPad and his headphones and drove. I drove and drove, until Ellie was sleeping soundly. I parked in a lot overlooking the lake and studied my children in the rearview mirror. Nathan, intent on watching the WonderPets, oblivious to my tears. Ellie, fast asleep, her fists curled against her cheeks. I stared out across the water in silence and felt the weight of the morning dissipate into the muggy August air. Just then, Nathan's head lifted; he caught my eye and smiled. "This is fun Mom, thanks!" My sweet, oblivious, forgiving boy. And just like that, I could breathe again.

Tonight, it was nothing and it was everything. It was a grouchy, teething baby; a wound-up chatterbox of a four year old; a frustrating work experience; family drama. Nothing overwhelming on its own ... or even in combination on a good day. But today was a bad one; today I was vulnerable. By the time my husband got home, he knew with one look into my eyes; I can't breathe, they said.

"Why don't you get out and go somewhere for awhile?" he suggested. And once one kid was in bed, I did just that. And before I even left the driveway, I could feel it. Shoulders loosening, relaxing.

I won't stay away long. A cup of coffee, a visit with an old friend. Just long enough to catch my breath.