Day Five: Attack of the Pinterest

It's been five days. Five days of snow, ice and freezing cold temperatures. And not just Tennessee-cold, legit cold. Yesterday's high was 16. All of this wintry-ness has us stuck inside the house. We started off strong - venturing out to play in the snow, baking cookies, building forts, watching a movie or two. By day three, all limitations on screen time were gone. Nathan watched an entire season of Gummi Bears. I broke out the baby jail (Pack n' Play) to contain an increasingly-mobile Ellie. I lowered my expectations and prayed for patience.

But by day five, the time had come. My defenses had been weakened; my resources exhausted. We were going to have to craft.

I am not a crafty person. I have no artistic skills to speak of, and I'm much better at making a mess than a masterpiece. Plus, Nathan has an incredibly short art attention span. I find the effort that goes into setting up/cleaning up for art projects is not worth it for the approximately seven minutes he will actual sit and participate in said activity.

But on day five, all bets are off. I couldn't take any more Dora and I was willing to try just about anything to keep my son occupied, even for a short time. So I Pinterested, because that's what we non-naturally crafty moms do, and I found a recipe for slime. Clear glue + liquid starch + food coloring.* Sounds simple, we have all the ingredients ... let's roll.

Now, it's entirely possible this is due to user error, because I AM NOT A CRAFTS PERSON. But we did not make slime. We made glue. Very bonding, very clingy, very colorful glue.

Seriously, this stuff was awful. It stuck to everything ... I mean, just look at Nathan's hands:

He just kept saying "it won't come off mom, it's all over me mom, help me mom!" with an increasing sense of panic. Problem was, the only way to clean it off was with running water. Paper towels, rags ... nothing was conquering the icky goo we'd created. So what did we do? Yep, we dumped two cups of glue down our garbage disposal. Fingers crossed.

So project No. 1 was a bust. But there was still project No. 2. This one required a little advanced prep - using food coloring, we mixed up some colored water in various size Tupperware containers yesterday, then put them outside to freeze last night. Phase one worked beautifully; even I can't mess up making ice:

Nathan was super excited about this one. He'd checked on his ice at 30 minute intervals until dark yesterday. When he woke up this morning, it was the first thing he asked about. He was amped. That is, until we brought the ice inside and he looked at these giant frozen hunks, then back at me and asked the obvious question, "Um, mom ... how do I play with ice?" I had no good answer for that. I'm not a crafts person, remember?

In no time though, he'd busted out his WonderPets and pretended to save a variety of animals stranded on blocks of ice. He had a blast; this project easily occupied him for 45 minutes. He probably would've kept going if he'd had any feeling left in his fingers.

The only downside to this project? Food coloring is highly transferable, and his hands (and clothes) have a bit of a tie-dye effect. But for 45 minutes of focused play on day five of being stuck inside the house? I'll take it!

*Update: It has been suggested that using Borax, rather than liquid starch, will result in the proper slime consistency. Godspeed, snowbound mamas.

The Rule of Three

I've read some really great blog posts lately, about life lessons to teach my son or my daughter. I find myself nodding along as I read through these lists of 25, 50, 101 things to teach my children. Such great ideas! But then, I remember the Rule of Three. What's the Rule of Three? It's something I learned early in one of my communications classes - the basic idea is that concepts or ideas presented in threes are inherently more interesting, more enjoyable and - most importantly - more memorable. Thomas Jefferson used it (life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, anyone?) Steve Jobs used it, too.

I worry about my children grasping what I'm trying so hard to teach, about those lessons sticking with them after they're grown and gone. There's so much they'll need to figure out on their own; I need to choose carefully the foundation I build for them.

Besides, let's be honest; I have trouble remembering to change from my slippers into real shoes before I take Nathan to preschool. There's no way I'll remember 101 lessons to teach. But three? Three I can do.

1. Be Kind. Be kind to everyone, all the time. Not just the ones who are like you or who are easy to be kind to. Not just when you're having a good day or at Christmastime. All the time.

Master this, little ones. Let kindness dictate your every thought and motivate your every action. This will be important in every stage of your life, but - if I may make a suggestion - try especially hard in middle school. You see, your dear old mom wasn't one of the cool kids. By high school, this didn't matter and I had a great group of fabulous friends. But in middle school, it was hard. I didn't always have someone to sit with at lunch, and I can remember my mom asking me if I wanted to have a friend over to spend the night, but I was too embarrassed to tell her I didn't have one to invite. But if you, my dear ones, can spread kindness, that's one less lonely kid in the lunchroom. When you're not certain of the next step or what to do, remember - err in the direction of kindness.

2. Always Try Your Best. In school, in sports, at work ... But especially in your relationships. Please note that I didn't say be the best. Failure will find you, as surely as it finds all of us. No one succeeds all the time at everything. But that's no excuse not to try. Study, practice, prepare. Perseverance builds character.

And never, ever give less than your best to those you love. This is harder than it sounds. It's easy to give the world our best and those closest to us what's left, knowing they will forgive us and love us anyway. But your relationships will be deeper, stronger, when you invest your best every day.

3. Know How Much You Are Loved. I have loved you since the moment I knew you existed. And when I first held you in my arms, I knew - I'd do anything for you. My love for you is deep, it's unwavering. It's unconditional. There is nothing you could say or do - NOTHING - that could make me stop loving you. When life is hard, when bad things happen, remember this - you are loved. Deeply, completely and unconditionally.

But as much as I love you, know that your Heavenly Father loves you infinitely more. Rest in that love, my children. Wrap it around you like a warm blanket. Let the knowledge that you are fully and irrevocably loved give you the boldness and confidence to become all you were meant to be.

So that's it; those are my three lessons. Kindness. Perseverance. Love. I will work feverishly and tirelessly to weave these words and promises into their hearts. Then it will be time for them to fly, and for me to rest.

But not yet.

The Cost of Motherhood

Kids are costly. And I don't just mean the diapers, clothes, toys and pediatrician co-pays. While all those tangible things can and do add up, what about the cost of everything else? Motherhood, it seems, comes with quite a price tag. We pay a physical price. First comes pregnancy. The nausea, the achy boobs, the expanding belly. Sometimes the baby will even set up camp right on your sciatic nerve for a month (cough, first child, cough, cough) or cause you to develop raging eczema (ahem, second child).  Then there's the birth and immediate aftermath - and whew, that's a post unto itself. Slowly your body morphs out of the pregnancy zone, but even if you do lose the baby weight, things are never quite the same. Everything is just a bit softer and rests a little lower.

We pay a mental price. That part of our brains once reserved for remembering important details and engaging in intelligent conversation is gone, it seems. Every available neuron is now occupied with keeping alive these little creatures who seem to have no sense of self preservation whatsoever.

We pay an emotional price. Our patience is tested and our sanity shaken to its very core. We idly wonder how many sleepless nights we can endure before we start to lose it. Our dignity is gone - the shreds that survived the experience of childbirth itself are thoroughly disposed of during the toddler years. When you're eating in a restaurant and your son is shouting for a fork, but his two year old lisp leaves out the all important "R," you feel the last of it slip away as you slide down in your seat.

We pay a price in our relationships. Having kids does not make marriages stronger; rather, it tests them in ways you never imagined. Your friendships are placed on the backburner - a 20 minute phone conversation with your best friend is an impossible luxury; you settle for texts that average a 1/2 day minimum response time.

We pay a price in our careers. For those who leave altogether to stay at home - whether for a season or permanently - there are lost wages and benefits, and sometimes a lost sense of self for awhile, too, as the adjustment is made to a new normal. For those who stay at their jobs, there's the price of competing priorities and the ever-present mom guilt.

When you tally it all up, it's staggering, really. With all that they take from you (and take ... and take), how can motherhood possibly be worth the cost?

The answer, I think, lies in the payments we receive - in toothless grins and sticky-handed bear hugs, in fistfuls of daffodils and after-bath snuggles, in overly-wet kisses and perfectly-lisped "I love yous." In eyes that light up when you walk in the room and sweet-smelling heads that nod off against your shoulder. It's when she says "mama" for the first time and when he promises, quite solemnly, "I'll never get too old to snuggle with you, Mom." These moments ... they're priceless, you see.

Suddenly, it doesn't matter what it's cost us. We'd pay it all again and then some, and still feel like we got the deal of a lifetime.

Rock-a-bye Baby

Confession: I rock my baby to sleep. Every night. And I rocked her brother to sleep, too. I know what the books and all the experts say. "Put your baby in her crib while she's drowsy, but still awake. This way she learns to fall asleep without you."

Well poppycock, I say. Because I'll tell you this - those moments when I'm holding her while she's fast asleep are my most redeeming part of motherhood.

We get to just be, she and I. I'm not needed for anything. There are no tears, no whining. No battle over trying to force feed her solids (baby food of all varieties is NOT going over well). I don't have to entertain her or play peek-a-boo for the millionth time, and she doesn't have to compete with her big brother for my attention. It's just me and the weight of her body, the smell of her skin and the softness of her breathing.

It's my reset button, especially on the hard days. The days when poop, spit up and pee have hit every non-moving surface - and all the ones that didn't move quickly enough, too. The days when nothing I do seems quite right, and she fusses constantly. The days when the days and nights before have been bad too, and I'm running on fumes. The days when I'm just keeping my eye on the finish line and waiting for it to be blessedly over.

But holding her close and rocking gently as she dreams erases all that. When it's a bad day, it's her at her best, and I finally get an opportunity - sometimes for the first time that day - to be at mine. I cradle her the way she likes and press a kiss to her smooth forehead, breathing in that perfect baby smell. Sometimes I take a few minutes to pray over her; that God will always keep her safe and that she'll always know she's loved. Sometimes I pray for me, too - asking for patience and gentleness as I look to starting anew tomorrow. This time each night is my reminder of why I ever wanted to be a mom in the first place.

And, as she grows and takes up more space in my arms, I need these few quiet moments to cherish her smallness. Usually, it's the only part of the day when I will agree with all the little old ladies who tell me how quickly this phase passes, and how much I'll long for it when it's gone.

So, sorry, baby experts. I'll vaccinate on schedule and follow your carseat safety guidelines to a T. I'll breastfeed for a year and even try my hand at making my own baby food. But I have already had one sweet baby morph into a gangly whirlwind of a four year old right before my very eyes to remind me the smallness doesn't last. So I will hold my baby close, even once her tummy is full. I'll watch her eyes droop close and listen for the change in breathing and feel the relaxing of her muscles as she slips off to sleep. And then I'll relax, too. I'll enjoy a few minutes of being a mama, without the hard parts. Someday, she'll learn to fall asleep without me. But while I'm here and she still fits so perfectly against me, we rock.

Can't Never Did Anything

"How do you do it? I could never stay home with my kids all the time." Yes, you could. You could if you really believed it was the best choice for your family. You could cut the budget corners and squeeze in a part time job if you needed to. You could learn how to shop at Aldi and hit more than one grocery store to make sure you get the best deals, instead of just walking into Publix with your list and ignoring the prices. (Man I miss Publix.) You could do the research to find fun, free activities in your area so that your kids stay entertained (and you get out of the house) without breaking the bank. You could learn how to squeeze in some you time where you can and how to adjust your view of what you contribute to your family and your household.

Because, believe me, if I can do it, anyone can. I love my children and my husband, but June Cleaver I'm not. Some days, Daniel Tiger is as much (or more?) a parent as I am. Some days, I thank God that my mom is just a phone call away and a magician at wrangling kids and getting laundry done at the same time. Some days it's pancakes for supper. Some days I take off my pajamas for the first time when I shower at 10 p.m., just to put another pair on. I am not a Pinterest mom or the perfect wife. Five years ago, I would've never dreamed that I would be a stay at home mom. Even just last year, while pregnant with Ellie, I frequently uttered the phrase, "I just can't be a stay at home mom."

But then she was born, and I quickly recognized that my daughter is not as easygoing as my son is. A few weeks in, I immediately knew that daycare was not the right place for her. She would've been miserable, and thus so would I. So our plans changed, and what I thought I couldn't do, clearly I can. I may not be the best at it. But let's be honest, I'm sure there were better communications managers when I was working full time, too.

Besides, I want to raise children who don't see limits on what they can accomplish. I want them to be determined and tenacious and, when they've decided what they want, I want them to go after it with confidence and gusto. So these days, I'm not a big fan of can't. It's too limiting, while at the same time too freeing. Can't is a great excuse for things that seem tedious or difficult. It also stops you before you even get started.

The start of a new year is a great time to get rid of can't. Instead of can't, decide what it is you want. Then be honest, and look at what's getting in the way. What are the obstacles between you and your goal? What makes you say "I can't?" Then, you remove the ones you can and learn to surmount the ones that remain.

So, no more "I can't" quit the awful job/start my own business/take that amazing vacation. No more "I can't" make this work/forgive that person/ask for forgiveness.

You're way too strong for can't, my friend.

The Survival Years

I call them the "survival years" in a marriage. Because that's what we're doing right now, as we try to parent two small children - surviving. Despite their smallness, children take the lion's share of your time, energy, patience and kindness. When you're buried in the minutiae of this phase of life - covered in baby spitup and the dust of Goldfish crackers - it's easy, all too easy really, to start seeing your spouse as your relief pitcher rather than your lifemate. That's how it is at our house, anyway. When Jon walks in the door at night (5:15, if I've sent him an "I can't take it anymore" text that afternoon; between 5:30 and 6 the rest of the time), I visibly relax. Help is here. Nathan drags him off to play while I finish up supper, and, after a quick hug and peck, I hand him the baby, too. The evening unfolds and we continue our tag team efforts. Dividing and conquering as the kids are fed, bathed and bedded. Then it's time to pick up the house, wash dishes, shower. We blink, and suddenly it's 10 p.m., and we've said maybe five sentences total to each other all night long that didn't relate to one of our offspring. Our routine was different when I still worked full-time, but the net result was still the same: divide and conquer was our method, leaving us precious little time to really connect with each other.

It's hard, these wee-baby years. It's wonderful too, to be sure - watching your husband become a dad is nothing short of magical. But the sleeplessness and the worry and the sameness of it all can wear you down and change your priorities. You're not looking for romance or wooing anymore - you want stability and help and someone to switch off with when you're pacing the floor with a screaming, teething baby.

And it's hard because, if your husband is anything like mine, he still needs the woo. He needs a glimpse every now and then of the wife version of me - not the mom. But with little ones, you feel like you're constantly being needed, always in mom mode ... it can be hard to make the switch, even ever so briefly. And that's especially true when your role as a mom is new. You want so hard to get it right, and you're terrified that you're getting it wrong and your husband understands ... right?

But I think that's okay. I think it's okay that this phase is hard and exhausting - not just personally but also as a team - because it's just a phase. Those three little words are what I find myself muttering when, after finally slipping into bed and actually snuggling up next to Jon instead of  immediately falling asleep like usual, the baby cries. "It's just a phase." It's really long days that somehow melt away into crazy short years. We'll be on the other side soon enough, if we can just keep our heads down and push through.

So how do you survive this phase? I'm smack in the middle of it myself, so I'm afraid I don't have many words of wisdom ... or what I do have should be taken with a grain of salt. But for me, I try really, really hard to be kind. (It looks like I'm in good company, by the way. If you have the time, read this excellent article in The Atlantic about the roles kindness and generosity play in sustaining a marriage).

Kindness is not my default state, you see - especially not when I'm tired and stressed. Being snarky and critical is much more my wheelhouse. But I'm not overstating it when I say that will kill a marriage. And so I fight to be kind. I fight to take a minute and do something small for Jon, just to show him in the midst of the madness I'm thinking about him. I fight to give him my attention and to really and truly listen when he talks to me about his day. I fight to stay something more than just "mom." I do it not just for Jon, but for myself, too.

What about you? What do you do to make it through the survival years?

Contentment

I will not waste my life on envy.

It's easy to fall into, being envious. Facebook makes it easy to see who's taking vacations, who's having a child, who's gotten a promotion, who's lost the baby weight. Pinterest makes it easy to build the perfect life - dream house, dream wardrobe, dream body, dream spouse.

But when that's how I spend my time, what I have doesn't look so good anymore. My house is too small, my wardrobe too outdated, my bank account too puny.

They say the grass is always greener on the other side, but the truth is, it's greener where you water it. If I spend all my time and energy focused on a life I don't have, I'm watering someone else's grass. My life becomes dry and desolate because of my inattention to it.

Other people's lives take them down different paths. Some of them end up with bigger homes or better bodies. And that's okay. What they have does not have to diminish what I have, unless I let it.

Maybe it's a sign that I'm getting old, but I better understand now how fragile and temporary this life is. I don't know how much time I get here, so I refuse to spend one second envying the logo on someone else's flip flops. Or lusting after their granite countertops ... or their granite abs.

I will not spend my days wondering "what if" and thinking "if only." Not when I'm lucky enough to be married to the love of my life, a man who embraces my flaws and encourages me daily. And not when I have two healthy children, who are still young enough to think I'm the best.

I will nurture my marriage and my children. I will embrace all 1,600 square feet of my home and make it a warm and inviting refuge. I will accept that my body post-kids will always be a little softer.

I want my days filled up with what I have, not emptied by what I don't.

When Does It Get Easier?

My good friend Erin and I had our babies just three weeks apart - it was her first, my second. We texted frequently in those early weeks, commiserating about our lack of sleep and sharing pictures of our adorable babies. We texted on good days and not-good days, knowing we always had someone who would appreciate what we were going through. She asked me new-mom questions, and I tried to offer encouragement and reassurance whenever I could. Until one day, when she texted me the question that every new parent has asked: "When does it get easier?" I don't know if this makes me a good friend or a bad one, but rather than reassure her that at three months/when she sleeps through the night/fill-in-the-milestone it would get easier, I told her the truth: it doesn't.

It doesn't get easier. Honestly, there is no phase easier than the newborn one. You have one task: keep your baby alive. We make that task more complicated than it needs to be, of course, with debates over bottles vs. breast, cloth vs. disposable diapers, co-sleeping vs. crib sleeping. But really, it's quite simple. Feed your baby something appropriate; diaper your baby with something that contains the pee and poo (mostly, anyway); clothe your baby in something comfortable; put your baby to sleep in something safe. Cuddle her, snuggle her. Keep her safe and make sure she knows she's loved. It may not be easy, but it's pretty simple.

But then, she grows up some. And you realize that keeping her alive is a lot more challenging once she can climb stairs. And jump off things. And run out into streets. And when she won't eat anything except goldfish crackers for days on end (the pediatrician says she won't starve herself, but you Google, just to be sure).

Then she grows up a little more, and you realize that merely keeping her alive isn't enough anymore. You also have to actually parent her. You have to teach her not to hit when she's angry. You have to teach her to be kind to others and share her toys.

And, when this phase happens, it dawns on you. You cannot teach her anything without demonstrating it first. Kids are sponges, and she's soaking you up all day long, every single day. If you want her to be kind, you must be kind. If you want her to be generous, you must be generous. If you want her to control her temper, you must control your temper. Parenting isn't just about shaping her character - it's about shaping yours. And so you curb your language, and you drive a little slower and more courteously, because you know she's listening and watching. And you make sure to adopt a child who's about her age from the Angel Tree at Christmas, so she can help you shop and learn about sharing love and kindness with everyone, even those who come from very different backgrounds.

Then she grows up a little more, and you're trying to help with math homework that you don't understand. And the girls at school are mean to her and make her cry, and you are shocked at how much you want to hurt them for hurting her. Then there are first loves and first heartbreaks and learning to drive and going to college ... and letting go.

So no, it doesn't get easier than those first few weeks. It gets so much harder, in fact. But it does get better.

It gets better, because you get better. Each phase of parenting feels overwhelming at first. You think "how am I going to do this?" on good days, and "why did I want kids?" on bad days. But then, little by little, you find your groove or a trick that works. You learn how she likes to be soothed, that she likes her sandwiches in triangles instead of rectangles, that she'll open up and tell you what's on her mind in the 15 minutes before bedtime every night.

And it gets better, because you realize you're not alone in your struggles. Every mom who's gone before you, is coming behind you and is standing next to you has felt what you feel. We are all bone tired; even the ones who look so put together. We are all terrified of getting it wrong; even the ones who make getting it right look effortless. And once you realize this, it gets better because a burden shared is a burden lightened.

There is no part of parenting that is easy. It starts at overwhelmingly difficult, and only ratchets up from there. But you learn that "hard" is not synonymous with "bad." And you learn to embrace the paradox of a job that gets harder the better you are at it.

It's probably not the most comforting thing to hear when you're just starting out on this journey of parenting (sorry, Erin!). But while it may not get any easier, trust me - it's going to keep getting better.

A Snail's Pace

One of the hardest things about having kids is getting smacked in the face daily by your own flaws and shortcomings. I am full of flaws (my family would be happy to provide a list for your perusal, I'm sure), but the one that I hate the most as a mom is my impatience. I've never been a patient person. I drive fast, I talk fast, I eat fast. I'm a terrible listener and, despite years of trying to self-correct the habit, I will frequently interrupt people I consider to be "slow talkers" to try and help them get to their point faster. Ew, right?

Because God thinks he's hilarious, I fell in love with and married a man who moves at a slow and methodical pace. FOR EVERYTHING. Jon eats slowly, walks slowly, talks slowly. Incidentally, he is also a fantastic listener. Honestly, between my messiness and my impatience, you should wonder what he sees in me.

It's too soon to tell with the little one, but my son has inherited Jon's "thoroughness," as Jon calls it. (I call it slowness.) Nathan cannot be rushed for anything. So you can imagine what my days with the kids look like. The words "come on, Nathan" and "hurry up, Nathan" must be said at least 50 times. After telling him for five minutes to put on his shoes, only to watch him slowly attempt it for the next two minutes, I find myself grabbing his shoes and putting them on his feet myself, grumbling about him taking so long. He spends another three minutes selecting a toy to take in the car. By now, there's steam coming out my ears. "Just get in the car, Nathan!" I snap. And then those big, beautiful brown eyes, with the impossibly long eyelashes (also inherited from his dad), meet mine. And they look so sad. And he ducks his head and says "sorry, Mom."

And then it comes. Guilt, strong and powerful, washing over me. There's no reason for my rushing him. We're just going to the library, and there's no specific time we need to be there. The only reason for my shortness is my impatience. We all learn to swallow the doses of mom guilt early and often, but none taste quite as bitter as when my shortcomings hurt my son for no good reason. He may take forever to accomplish the smallest tasks, but he is also gentle, empathetic, kind and generous. He's who I want to be, when I'm finally done growing up.

Maybe it's because I get so much practice, but I do have at least one redeeming quality - I'm quick with an apology. Swiftly, I kneel down in front of him, lift his chin and look deeply into his solemn little face.

"I'm sorry, buddy. I shouldn't have been impatient. Go ahead and pick your toy." And because a three year old's capacity for forgiveness is unrivaled, I get a beaming smile and all is forgotten ... On his part, anyway.

As for me, I'm reminded again to stop rushing, slow down and be patient with my sweet little snail. These years are flying by fast enough.

Keeping it Real

One of the most pervasive complaints about social media is that it's not authentic. We present the best version of ourselves and hide what's unflattering. Pictures get cropped and tinted and only our accomplishments are touted. I'm as guilty as the next person. Case in point, here's the picture I posted on Facebook the other day:

This is my family at our best. Wearing real clothes, looking all lovey and joy-filled. The cynical ones among you are rolling your eyes and yelling, "that's not what it's really like!!" And 95 percent of the time, you're right. So, in the interest of keeping it real, here's what's happening right now:

I am lying on the couch, watching my son on the video monitor as he pulls the stuffing out of a hole in one of his stuffed animals and drops it behind his bed. I'm not going to stop him, because there's an hour left of nap time and this is the 40-bajillionth day in a row that it's rained. We are out of fun rainy day activities. Survival mode is in full effect. My son knows to stay in bed until the 3 is the first number on the clock in his room. So unless he finds matches and starts setting that stuffing on fire, he can do whatever he wants. My hair is unbrushed and my face is makeup-free. My clothes are not exactly clean, but my daughter is finally asleep after an epic battle. She is draped across me like a victory flag, so I won't be moving a muscle to seek out fresh clothes anytime soon. I knocked over a glass of tea on the rug, but rather than clean it up, I just threw a towel over it because the baby is finally asleep and you do not disturb the baby. We will be having breakfast for supper, because even at 2 in the afternoon, I know I won't feel like cooking dinner. Plus, I will likely bribe my son by promising pancakes for dinner at some point this afternoon as I count the minutes until Jon walks in the door.

Update: he fell asleep at 2:52, and I felt like I won the lottery. I enjoyed 10 minutes of both-kids-asleep-at-the-same-time bliss before the little one woke up with an explosive poop. As a result, we are now both wearing clean clothes though, so we will call it a net win.

That's my real life for today, anyway.

Finding Time

It’s early. Still-dark-outside early. I closed my eyes (finally) at midnight last night, but left my warm bed a mere five hours later. Why? To enjoy sitting in silence and sipping my coffee. As a wife, a mom and a newly-minted freelancer, there are very few moments in the day that someone isn’t asking for something from me.  I don’t even get to go to the bathroom in peace. (It’s like a sixth sense, really. Hearing that bathroom door close is my son’s cue to stop doing whatever he’s doing, no matter how engrossed or engaged with it he was, and come ask a million questions or need something urgently.)

There are no minutes during normal-people hours to steal for myself. Each of those minutes is claimed by someone else – my husband, my son, my daughter, a client. There are meals to cook, errands to run, a baby to nurse, emails to answer, laundry to do. So. Much. Laundry.

If the days are a marathon, the evening is a mad sprint for the finish line. Getting dinner made, mouths fed, bodies washed and kids in bed, while racing against the unraveling of everyone’s patience and good humor. Once little eyes are finally closed, it’s time to find out how my husband’s day was. Or maybe do some work for a client. I’ve never been a night owl, but I find myself becoming one just because I need more hours in the day. Finally, I let the fatigue win and crawl into bed. But even my sleep feels furious and purposeful, as I try to take advantage of every minute before the littlest one wakes, hungry. Needing me.

And so I find myself rising from my bed after my daughter’s first feeding of the day, stealing time from the only place it’s available: sleeptime. I sit, soaking in the peace of a still-sleeping household, curled up on the couch under a warm throw blanket. I fight the urge to straighten up the bonus room or fold that basket of clean clothes sitting on top of the dryer. The TV stays off. The stillness will be broken soon enough. The minutes aren’t many, but they’re the only ones I have the luxury of calling my own.

The Worst of Kid TV

In the last post, I shared my favorite preschool TV shows. Keeping in mind that there’s far more bad kid TV than good, below is the list of shows that make my ears bleed and have me questioning my will to live before the opening song ends.

1. Caillou (PBS). Hating Caillou is practically a group sport for parents at this point. There’s even an expletive-laden Facebook group dedicated to his demise. What is it about Caillou that every parent hates so much? How much time do you have? The theme song, the inexplicable baldness at the age of 4, the whining. My God, the whining. It is unceasing, but what’s worse is it WORKS. Caillou’s parents always cave to the whining, which is not something I want reinforced for 22 minutes on a regular basis. After two episodes, I flat-out banned Caillou. Now, whenever my son catches a glimpse of him in passing, he always says, “That’s Caillou, Mom. We don’t watch him.” I consider this my greatest parenting success to date.
2. Wonder Pets (Nickelodeon). My son loves these little animals, but I groan every time he asks to watch the show. There’s nothing outright “wrong” with it; it’s just annoying. Ming-Ming is too full of herself; Tuck is always whining about needing a hug. The theme of the show is teamwork, but let’s be honest – there’s no way anything is happening without Linny. She’s clearly the brains of the outfit. Plus, they blew through all the normal animals in the first season, so latter seasons feature the Wonder Pets saving things like stinkbugs. Really, Wonder Pets? I’m pretty sure the world will be okay with one less stinkbug.
3. Martha Speaks (PBS). So, the premise of the show is that a family’s dog ate some alphabet soup one day, and instead of it going to her stomach, it went to her brain and now she can talk. That’s it. Seriously. And it comes with the most annoying theme song of all time. Yep, worse than Caillou's, and I thought nothing could be worse than that.
4. Most of what we watched as kids. I’m not anal about it, but I do prefer if whatever kid shows we tune into try to impart some sort of worthwhile lesson. With that in mind, have you ever noticed how murder is an overriding theme in pretty much every old cartoon? Tom trying to kill Jerry, Coyote trying to kill Road Runner, Elmer Fudd trying to kill Bugs Bunny. There’s no way that stuff would fly on a new cartoon these days. Except maybe on Caillou. If they switched the plot so that every episode featured Rosie attempting to off Caillou in increasingly elaborate schemes, THAT would have parents on board. Think on it, PBS.

Batchelor-Approved Kid TV Shows

I know, I know, we’re not really supposed to give our kids screen time these days. We should be cultivating little Einsteins with an insatiable curiosity about life. Free time should be dedicated to learning letters and numbers and Pinterested science projects. But sometimes, a mama needs a minute (or 22) to get things done (take a shower. Start dinner. Pound Sip a glass or two of wine.) We cut the cable cord awhile back, so all of our kid TV viewing is done through either the PBS Kids app or free streaming from Amazon Instant Video (we have a Prime membership. Worth every cent.).

So yes, I will willingly park my three year old in front of the TV when I need a break. I’m not a total deadbeat – I always watch an episode or two of any new series he wants to check out. What I’ve found is that most kid TV shows are barely tolerable (and a few are downright awful – but we’ll hit on those next time), but there’s a handful that we’ve come to love.

Here are our favorites:

1. Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood (PBS). From the creators of Mister Rogers Neighborhood, this is everything a kid’s show should be. Informative, entertaining, non-grating. From trying new foods to potty-training, Daniel is basically the third parent in the Batchelor household. And just when I thought I couldn’t love him any more, he got a baby sister this summer. Now we have shows about making time for the baby and sharing with the baby and the timing just couldn’t be more perfect. Seriously, Daniel, I love you.
2. Curious George (PBS). I’ve been a fan of Curious George since I was a kid. This latest iteration is a little less mischievous and a lot smarter than I remember from back in the olden days. But he cracks my son up, and that giggle is one of my favorite sounds.
3. Backyardigans (Nickelodeon). I don’t think new episodes air anymore, but we log time with Austin, Tyrone, Uniqua, Pablo and Tasha through the power of the interwebs. The shows are chock full of songs, dances and imaginative play, and my son definitely expresses a boost in creativity after a little Backyardigans time. These also run pretty long for a kid’s show, allowing mama to maximize her toddler-captivated time (translation: you have time to shower AND shave your legs).
4. Sid the Science Kid (PBS). Sid earns points for keeping it real. The shows take place at both his home and preschool every day, because both of his parents work. He’s also a curious fellow who wants to know how the world works and asks about a million questions (sound familiar?). But the show covers some pretty advanced topics (like how friction works) in a way that’s understandable.

So those are our household favorites. What’s tops on your TV?

The Messy One

Confession time: in my marriage, I’m the messy one. You see, I never close drawers all the way. Ever. It's not that I mean to leave them all hanging open, I just don't notice it. I grab a pair of underwear out and give a half-hearted shove of the drawer. What's that? There are two pair hanging out, preventing the drawer from closing completely? Huh, never noticed. Jon, on the other hand, is fastidious about the closing of drawers. And folding, but that's a whole other post. Sounds like a recipe for disaster, right? He's neat; I'm messy - surely there's plenty of fodder for regular arguments. But there’s one thing my husband chose to do early on that had a profound effect on our relationship. Do you know what Jon does when he sees an open drawer? He closes it. No nagging. No exasperation. No "leaving it open so maybe I'll learn to close it myself someday" (i.e., hoping that I'll change something fundamental about myself). He just takes the two seconds to close the drawer fully and moves on. Once, I asked him why he doesn't nag. His response:

"It doesn't bother me anymore. It used to; I thought you were just being lazy. But then I realized that you really don't see it or notice it. I do, so I do it for you."

This could've become a daily source of frustration for Jon. "Jennifer, you left your drawers open AGAIN." It could've been a daily source of guilt/sense of failure for me. "I don't mean to, seriously. I just don't see it!" But my sweet husband, in his infinite wisdom, freed us from that exhausting cycle. And he sent me a very clear message - he accepts me as I am. He lets me be me, drawers ajar and all. As the spouse with the more annoying habit(s), let me vouch for what this will do for your relationship. Without the nagging, I don’t feel like a disappointment. In turn, I try hard to contain my messiness out of respect for Jon. This tiny little mutual kindness has paid dividends over the years.

This is not to say we have a perfect marriage and never have fights or get on each others' nerves. Far from it. You can't make every single life decision as a twosome without a disagreement, and you can't live with someone for years and years on end without getting at least a little annoyed now and then. Did I mention I also am terrible at completely screwing the tops back on things? (Toothpaste, salad dressing, medicine. It can get messy. My mom actually thanks Jon on a regular basis for putting up with me.)

But we do our best to eliminate the temptation for daily nagging. We don't get everything right (maybe even most things), but I'm pretty sure we nailed that one.

What little thing do you strive to get right every day in your relationships?

Opting Out

This week was supposed to be my first week back at work from maternity leave. Instead, I quit last Thursday and, for the moment anyway, am living the life of a stay at home mom. For the record, this was never my plan. I liked the sense of accomplishment and independence that came with holding down a job and earning a paycheck. I liked having something tangible to reflect my hard work.

But things change. I changed. You see, I have a 12 week old daughter who likes to take her naps lying on my chest.  And I have a 3 year old son who likes to make up stories so that I can write them down and help draw the pictures to go with it. And to be honest, I’m tired of missing these things. Not just during the hours at work, but because I wasn’t my best when I came home from work either. Other people were getting the best of my attention, my creativity, my patience. My husband and my kids got what was left. And maybe that’s on me, for not balancing things better. For not having anything left in my tank when I came home at night. But in the end, something had to give, and it ended up being my career.

It’s not an easy choice, mind you. And it's not just the immediate challenges of learning to live on one income and changing my mindset, either. I've read all the articles and studies about the damage that “off-ramping” does to your career and long-term earning potential. I’ve heard the calls to “lean in” and how important it is for women to pursue leadership roles in the workplace. I understand that I may be torpedoing my career with my choice. That’s a tough pill to swallow sometimes, when it’s just me and my thoughts.

But then my son asks, “Mom, can we snuggle?” Or my daughter looks right in my eyes and gives me the biggest grin. And I know that it’s this that I want to lean into. Memorizing the smell of the top of my daughter’s head. The weight of my son’s hand as it clasps mine. It’s not big stuff around here. Some days, it’s mind-numbingly little stuff.  But it’s fleeting, ephemeral - the good and the bad stuff. And for me, in this season of life, I just want to be here for the stuff.

Absence Explained

My intention was never to be a "one blog and done" type person. It certainly wasn't to necessarily be a daily or weekly person either, but nearly three months between posts seems a tad long. However, I have a good reason. Some might say, the best reason ever. A couple of weeks after my first post, my husband and I got a bit of news. It was the kind of news that makes it impossible to think about anything else, but it's also the kind of news you don't put on a blog right away. So, I was stuck in a position where there was only one thing I could possibly think to write about, but I could not write about that one thing ... until now.

So here's "the thing" - I'm going to have a baby. I realize that statement should be typed in all caps, with perhaps a huge font and some extra exclamation points tacked onto the end for good measure to accurately portray the emotions I'm feeling. However, I despise all of those things in type so I'm holding myself back. A lot.

Today I am 14 weeks pregnant, which puts me officially in my second trimester. Food is finally tasting good again and my husband takes exceedingly good care of me, so there's not much to complain about.  However, people are already touching my belly, which is awkward on several levels. First, I'm not really all that noticeably pregnant yet, so it's kind of like touching someone's stomach after a big lunch. There's no movement to feel (yet), so I'm not sure what they're going for anyway. Second, I'm not really the touchy-feely type. I'm pretty big on personal space, and yes I consider my belly to still be my personal space, even though there's currently another little person sharing those digs for now.

I'm equal parts excited and terrified about the impending arrival of Baby Batchelor. Mostly I think I'm still in a state of shock, where none of this feels real until I take another look at the ultrasound picture. And then, it's very, very real.

By the way, he/she totally has Jon's nose.

A Fresh Perspective

Last week, I stopped being mad at God. You see, a year ago my husband and I were looking to buy a house. I prayed and prayed that God would lead us to the right house, the one he wanted us to have. When we found our house, I knew in an instant that this one was “it.” Sure, it was a 20-year-old ranch style instead of the new construction we thought we wanted and it needed some updates. We wondered if the previous owners were colorblind, because the paint colors in every room were atrocious. But the neighborhood was perfect and we loved the open layout. Thinking we were just signing on for a few cosmetic changes, we bought the house. A month to the day after we closed and moved in, our basement flooded for the first time. And it has continued to flood, again and again. To date, we’ve spent thousands of dollars and more hours than I can count trying to keep the water out and repair the damage it has done. My husband and I have argued over how to fix it and learned to dread the sight of rain clouds. And for a long time, I’ve been mad at God. I was angry that I had prayed so diligently to be given the right house, only to end up with this hellhole instead. I wondered if God was even more sarcastic than I am. Honestly, there were times when I wondered if He was there at all – because to me, if He was really there and really listening, there was no way He would have given us this house. I stopped praying for things, because I no longer trusted Him.

But through our arguments, my husband and I learned how to compromise and communicate better. We’re much closer and stronger now than we were a year ago. We’ve learned how to face adversity as a team instead of individually – which is not nearly as easy as it seems. Over the past year, we’ve developed skills that will see us through a lifetime of challenges. Slowly, I began accepting that perhaps this really WAS the house God wanted us to have, so that we could learn the lessons we needed to in life. I was able to let go of some of my anger, but I still didn’t trust God. I still didn’t pray for things, because I’d had enough “lessons” for now, thank you.

And then it started raining on May 1, 2010. It did not stop for two days and 17 inches. With a basement that floods after a mere inch or two of heavy rain, this should have been its death knell. But the French drain in the backyard directed the water around our house. And the sump pump in our crawl space kept pace with the rain. The 4,000 lbs worth of sandbags lined our back wall. Because it had happened before, we were vigilant and stayed in our basement throughout the storm. We used our 12 gallon shop vac to quickly vacuum up any water that permeated the perimeter. We ran the clothes dryer all night and day, drying out the towels pressed against our back wall and rotating them continuously. When the rain stopped Sunday night, we were exhausted ... but our house was dry.

After seeing – first on TV and then in person – all of the devastation around us, I no longer think God gave us this house merely to teach us a few painful lessons. He answered my prayer that He would lead us to “the house we were supposed to have” by giving us this house to keep us safe. Had we bought any other house, we might not have had the tools we needed to stop the water. Had we bought any other house, we might not have been able to offer family a place to stay when their house flooded. Had we bought any other house, we might have needed the help of others last week, instead of being able to go out and help our friends and family.

This morning on my way to work, I started praying again – really praying. Because now that I understand why God answers prayers the way He does, I want to be talking to Him about everything. I thanked Him for my friends and my family and for keeping everyone safe. I thanked Him for my city, which has me bursting at the seams with pride at its love and generosity for its citizens. I asked Him to be with those who had lost so much, to wrap them in His comfort and His peace.

But I started with thanking Him for my house.