Have I told you how much I love you, November? You don't recall? Well, then, I'll tell you again: I heart November. It's my fav.
I love the crisp feel of the air. I love that the excitement of the holidays is in the air, but the hustle and bustle of it all is not yet upon us. I love that it is the month I became a mother. I love that November boasts highs in the seventies and often cloudless skies of wide open sunshine. I love that it is the month of Thanksgiving. I love that sweet potatoes, pumpkin breads, pears and apples abound. I love that November seems to provide the opportunity to really sit down and give undying thanks for the life that has become mine. To have two healthy children that fill our home with their voices means more to me than I could ever write. It's all I've ever wanted: a family. I am eternally grateful for this, for my girls, for this month of cooler weather, celebration and thanks for the Grace that has found us.
Happy November.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Cute as a bug
Seriously, 3 months old doesn't get much cuter than 4 pound cheeks on a ladybug. Evie rocks out the ladybug dress.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Dear Sisters,
Someday you may look at each other and see more of your opposite than your reflection.
You may compete against each other for something like the basketball team, or the lead in a one act play or, God forbid, a boyfriend.
Or perhaps you will steal each other's best designer jeans or lipstick or favorite earrings.
Maybe sometime in the near future you might tell on your sister for not sharing or pulling your hair or for giving you the stink eye and calling you "smelly."
Innevitably, you will fight in catty ways that only sisters fight.
And when you do, I will show you this:
And tell you that in your beginning you were just two girls, side by side
And that in an entire room of open space
there wasn't an inch between you
And though you may not know it now, rest assured knowing that for the rest of your lives, each of your best friends will be less best
next to your sister.
You may compete against each other for something like the basketball team, or the lead in a one act play or, God forbid, a boyfriend.
Or perhaps you will steal each other's best designer jeans or lipstick or favorite earrings.
Maybe sometime in the near future you might tell on your sister for not sharing or pulling your hair or for giving you the stink eye and calling you "smelly."
Innevitably, you will fight in catty ways that only sisters fight.
And when you do, I will show you this:
And tell you that in your beginning you were just two girls, side by side
And that in an entire room of open space
And though you may not know it now, rest assured knowing that for the rest of your lives, each of your best friends will be less best
next to your sister.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Flip Side
Despite the distress I relayed in my earlier post, I do very much love having two girls so close in age. I love that I gave up the career I never thought I'd quit for a job that is a promotion indeed, though the currency of my paycheck is in tiny hugs and baby laughter. I love holding both girls at the same time so that my arms are spilling over with my small quiver and there's hardly enough of me to go around. I love having such light in my heart when they smile at me or better yet, each other.
The truth is, I love it even when I don't.
By the grace of God, the gummy grins and cupcake smeared smiles carry more weight than the pull-my-hair-out mommy moments. They tip the scales considerably, these smiling girls of mine.
The truth is, I love it even when I don't.
By the grace of God, the gummy grins and cupcake smeared smiles carry more weight than the pull-my-hair-out mommy moments. They tip the scales considerably, these smiling girls of mine.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
This Too
I usually post smiley pictures of our girls, and write about how the days are happy and fulfilling and delightful because for the most part, that is exactly what prevails.
But today is not one of those days.
And this is not one of those posts.
know what I mean?
I suppose the reasoning stems from the fact that I have an infant and a not yet two year old. New babies cry and two year olds do too only louder and with flailing extremeties. I'm okay with that. It doesn't get under my skin like it might for others, but today I had a short fuse. Lately Emery has been incredibly "spirited." She wants me to hold her every waking moment and denial of anything (like a kitchen knife or the toilet plunger), and/or unknown variables of all kinds send her into a whine fest or a crumpled blonde mess on the floor. Usually, I have an incredible tolerance for the endless whining or 2 children crying at once and/or holding one child in each arm until my biceps tear while living on granola bars and broken sleep, but today, not so much. It's accumulated, I'm afraid.
You see, 2 days in a row now I have tried to mail a package at the post office. It's something I can't do online or on their automated services. And 2 days in a row I have unloaded 2 small children, prepared them with snacks and sticker bribes and whatever it takes, but to no avail. The first day we weren't in the post office for more than 2.7 seconds before Emery miraculously broke off my near death grip on her hand and ran down the long hall of PO boxes squealing and ignoring my firm directions to "stand up, quit crawling like a bear on the dirty floor, you are not a limp noodle so please don't become one mid stride, and no, yelling 'mail' repeatedly at the top of your lungs is not post office appropriate behavior," etc, etc, etc. My struggle continued for about 2 and a half more minutes until I had received one too many those-children-are-totally-out-of-control-and-I-wish-you-would-do-us-all-a-favor-and-leave stares and hardly a oh-I-know-how-that-goes-I've-been-there-before-you-are-doing-the-best-you-can looks.
Eve rightly complained about all the bending over and toddler chasing I was doing while she was trying to breastfeed in the sling (which was my effort to keep her quiet). So approximately 4 minutes after entering the post office, I exited with two screaming children and an unmailed package. Take two, despite my greatest efforts, was more of the same.
And so, today as I left the post office with my arms full of crying small children (Emery was full on noodle at this point) I returned to the car feeling rather inadequate and practically yelled at Emery to stop crying. Then I considered crying myself. I didn't because crying requires energy that I absolutely do not have at the moment and I'm practical like that. But an hour later, I was at home playing with Emery when she had a tantrum as a result of a world crisis which involved 1 crayon being stuck in it's box. Out came hidden stores of toddler vengeance as she cleared her table of all the crayons and stickers in two seconds flat, bit the edge of the table to leave teeth marks and took a crayon to the table top. I dissolved the situation to the best of my ability and plopped on the couch, all the while with Eve still sucking my calories away in the sling.
As if I actually had time to read it, I picked up my latest unread edition of Cooking Light and noted that the pecan encrusted trout with creamy grits sounded delicious. And then, all practicality aside, I cried. Really, it was just a lump in my throat and a few tears welling in my eyes before I had to forgo my self hosted pity party for picking up crayons and agreeing that the spider sticker on Emery's shirt is indeed scary, but it was as close as I get to crying these days.
I suppose I almost cried because I was hungry, and that recipe looked so darn good. And because despite my best efforts, I knew I wouldn't have the time or the energy to make it, or anything that requires two hands for more than 10 minutes anytime soon. It was because my shoulders hurt from holding Eve in a sling practically all hours of every day. And my back hurts from holding Emery simultaneously on my hip when nothing else will do. And because I so miss my yoga classes. I miss eating cheese and all things dairy, which makes Eve gassy and upset. I miss eating anything at all, which I hardly have time to do anymore. I miss cooking a big Sunday meal. I miss uninterrupted sleep. I miss not feeling like I have to count every freaking penny of monthly expenses since I'm not working anymore. I miss showering regularly. I miss eating out. I miss guiltless glasses of wine. I miss going on vacation. I miss listening to NPR instead of the annoying voice of Elmo's Song during every single car ride. Seriously, why does his voice have to sound like that?
Mostly, though, I just miss feeling like a really good mother and wife. I'm afraid these days I'm good at meeting my family's needs, but hardly mediocre at meeting their wants. The laundry is never done, the dishes sit, the dogs are forgotten and my garden is overgrown and neglected, among a thousand other things. I feel guilty that my similarly exhausted husband has to deal with a frumpy, hardly productive wife who can't manage to do minimal housework despite the fact she's given up her career. And lets not even mention that I have perpetual spit-up on my cheap, unstylish clothing, have gone 3 too many months without a haircut and highlight; and despite not having time to eat, have managed to hang on to most of my pregnancy weight. Don't even go there, I tell you.
This too shall pass, I say with some doubt. It will pass, just wait. Just get through this day, this minute, this moment. It will get easier.
And somehow, I always do get through. And it always does ease up.
Minutes after my pity party for 1, Emery was distracted from her whine marathon by her "booger," which is, as she describes with adorable gusto,"soooo big!" And I can't help but smile. Emery laughs, Eve is quiet, and all is right again. Then Emery falls against my shoulder and gives me a silent hug. Eve wiggles in her pseudo womb and wimpers that sleepy new baby sound that only lasts about this long. In that split second of serenity with my girls, I am reminded that it goes both ways. This too, shall pass. The chubby cheeked bundle in my sling, the snuggly breastfeeding, the moments of comic relief with my not quite two year old, the discovery of boogers and the rest of the world through the eyes of my daughters, who turn what was once jaded into something novel and curious.
And I presume that years from now, I will remember days like today, and only recall what I want to recall of them. Ironically, I'll probably recollect that the days, the minutes, the moments, must have passed all too quickly.
Though I look forward to those days of edited memories and fond nostalgia for this moment, I am trying to be okay with these days as they are, no matter how whiny and unproductive. I pull out the moments that make me smile and put them away for safekeeping. All the other moments, I let pass.
For with my accelerated arrival as a mother of two I have gleaned new perspective that a newborn is easy, a barely toddler is a cinch, but both at once by yourself no matter how grateful you are for their miracle (and I am incredibly grateful), requires daily recital of my mama mantra: "this too shall pass." And so it shall.
But today is not one of those days.
And this is not one of those posts.
know what I mean?
I suppose the reasoning stems from the fact that I have an infant and a not yet two year old. New babies cry and two year olds do too only louder and with flailing extremeties. I'm okay with that. It doesn't get under my skin like it might for others, but today I had a short fuse. Lately Emery has been incredibly "spirited." She wants me to hold her every waking moment and denial of anything (like a kitchen knife or the toilet plunger), and/or unknown variables of all kinds send her into a whine fest or a crumpled blonde mess on the floor. Usually, I have an incredible tolerance for the endless whining or 2 children crying at once and/or holding one child in each arm until my biceps tear while living on granola bars and broken sleep, but today, not so much. It's accumulated, I'm afraid.
You see, 2 days in a row now I have tried to mail a package at the post office. It's something I can't do online or on their automated services. And 2 days in a row I have unloaded 2 small children, prepared them with snacks and sticker bribes and whatever it takes, but to no avail. The first day we weren't in the post office for more than 2.7 seconds before Emery miraculously broke off my near death grip on her hand and ran down the long hall of PO boxes squealing and ignoring my firm directions to "stand up, quit crawling like a bear on the dirty floor, you are not a limp noodle so please don't become one mid stride, and no, yelling 'mail' repeatedly at the top of your lungs is not post office appropriate behavior," etc, etc, etc. My struggle continued for about 2 and a half more minutes until I had received one too many those-children-are-totally-out-of-control-and-I-wish-you-would-do-us-all-a-favor-and-leave stares and hardly a oh-I-know-how-that-goes-I've-been-there-before-you-are-doing-the-best-you-can looks.
Eve rightly complained about all the bending over and toddler chasing I was doing while she was trying to breastfeed in the sling (which was my effort to keep her quiet). So approximately 4 minutes after entering the post office, I exited with two screaming children and an unmailed package. Take two, despite my greatest efforts, was more of the same.
And so, today as I left the post office with my arms full of crying small children (Emery was full on noodle at this point) I returned to the car feeling rather inadequate and practically yelled at Emery to stop crying. Then I considered crying myself. I didn't because crying requires energy that I absolutely do not have at the moment and I'm practical like that. But an hour later, I was at home playing with Emery when she had a tantrum as a result of a world crisis which involved 1 crayon being stuck in it's box. Out came hidden stores of toddler vengeance as she cleared her table of all the crayons and stickers in two seconds flat, bit the edge of the table to leave teeth marks and took a crayon to the table top. I dissolved the situation to the best of my ability and plopped on the couch, all the while with Eve still sucking my calories away in the sling.
As if I actually had time to read it, I picked up my latest unread edition of Cooking Light and noted that the pecan encrusted trout with creamy grits sounded delicious. And then, all practicality aside, I cried. Really, it was just a lump in my throat and a few tears welling in my eyes before I had to forgo my self hosted pity party for picking up crayons and agreeing that the spider sticker on Emery's shirt is indeed scary, but it was as close as I get to crying these days.
I suppose I almost cried because I was hungry, and that recipe looked so darn good. And because despite my best efforts, I knew I wouldn't have the time or the energy to make it, or anything that requires two hands for more than 10 minutes anytime soon. It was because my shoulders hurt from holding Eve in a sling practically all hours of every day. And my back hurts from holding Emery simultaneously on my hip when nothing else will do. And because I so miss my yoga classes. I miss eating cheese and all things dairy, which makes Eve gassy and upset. I miss eating anything at all, which I hardly have time to do anymore. I miss cooking a big Sunday meal. I miss uninterrupted sleep. I miss not feeling like I have to count every freaking penny of monthly expenses since I'm not working anymore. I miss showering regularly. I miss eating out. I miss guiltless glasses of wine. I miss going on vacation. I miss listening to NPR instead of the annoying voice of Elmo's Song during every single car ride. Seriously, why does his voice have to sound like that?
Mostly, though, I just miss feeling like a really good mother and wife. I'm afraid these days I'm good at meeting my family's needs, but hardly mediocre at meeting their wants. The laundry is never done, the dishes sit, the dogs are forgotten and my garden is overgrown and neglected, among a thousand other things. I feel guilty that my similarly exhausted husband has to deal with a frumpy, hardly productive wife who can't manage to do minimal housework despite the fact she's given up her career. And lets not even mention that I have perpetual spit-up on my cheap, unstylish clothing, have gone 3 too many months without a haircut and highlight; and despite not having time to eat, have managed to hang on to most of my pregnancy weight. Don't even go there, I tell you.
This too shall pass, I say with some doubt. It will pass, just wait. Just get through this day, this minute, this moment. It will get easier.
And somehow, I always do get through. And it always does ease up.
Minutes after my pity party for 1, Emery was distracted from her whine marathon by her "booger," which is, as she describes with adorable gusto,"soooo big!" And I can't help but smile. Emery laughs, Eve is quiet, and all is right again. Then Emery falls against my shoulder and gives me a silent hug. Eve wiggles in her pseudo womb and wimpers that sleepy new baby sound that only lasts about this long. In that split second of serenity with my girls, I am reminded that it goes both ways. This too, shall pass. The chubby cheeked bundle in my sling, the snuggly breastfeeding, the moments of comic relief with my not quite two year old, the discovery of boogers and the rest of the world through the eyes of my daughters, who turn what was once jaded into something novel and curious.
And I presume that years from now, I will remember days like today, and only recall what I want to recall of them. Ironically, I'll probably recollect that the days, the minutes, the moments, must have passed all too quickly.
Though I look forward to those days of edited memories and fond nostalgia for this moment, I am trying to be okay with these days as they are, no matter how whiny and unproductive. I pull out the moments that make me smile and put them away for safekeeping. All the other moments, I let pass.
For with my accelerated arrival as a mother of two I have gleaned new perspective that a newborn is easy, a barely toddler is a cinch, but both at once by yourself no matter how grateful you are for their miracle (and I am incredibly grateful), requires daily recital of my mama mantra: "this too shall pass." And so it shall.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Confessions
I don't use cloth diapers as often as I intend to. They were so much easier when I only had one child in diapers. How does 2 make it seem impossible?
I don't give my dogs and cat much love anymore. One day last week I forgot to feed them.
I haven't shaved my legs in 2 weeks. Cristian hasn't even noticed.
I shouldn't be blogging right now. I should be folding that big pile of laundry 10 feet away.
I miss having my body to myself. I've been either pregnant or breastfeeding (or both) for 2 years and 8 months straight. I really look forward to drinking a glass (ahem, two glasses) of wine and having no reason to feel guilty for it.
This is a secret blog. I can count on one hand the number of real life people that know about this blog and all of them are from the IF club. Cristian knows about it but doesn't read it.
I have another blog. Not sure if I've mentioned that here before. It's not a secret. It's basically this blog, but drastically edited, minus all my venting posts and plus a few pictures of my mother, grandmother, etc.
I suddenly feel out of place here. On this blog. Since Eve was born, I've been feeling an itch to change platforms. Much of it has to do with the fact that I have another blog and thus feel the need to update one every time I update the other. The other piece of it has to do with the fact that I began this blog when I was in the dark, and now I am very much in the light. I think I've outgrown this house.
I don't know. I have so much to write. So much that fills my heart and pours out of my fingers so quickly I hardly have time to think it through before it stands before me on the screen. I need to keep writing. Not for anyone else. Just for me. But I think I need a new place for it. That is, when and if I get the time to do such a thing.
In the meantime, I'll leave you with my atonement...
I don't give my dogs and cat much love anymore. One day last week I forgot to feed them.
I haven't shaved my legs in 2 weeks. Cristian hasn't even noticed.
I shouldn't be blogging right now. I should be folding that big pile of laundry 10 feet away.
I miss having my body to myself. I've been either pregnant or breastfeeding (or both) for 2 years and 8 months straight. I really look forward to drinking a glass (ahem, two glasses) of wine and having no reason to feel guilty for it.
This is a secret blog. I can count on one hand the number of real life people that know about this blog and all of them are from the IF club. Cristian knows about it but doesn't read it.
I have another blog. Not sure if I've mentioned that here before. It's not a secret. It's basically this blog, but drastically edited, minus all my venting posts and plus a few pictures of my mother, grandmother, etc.
I suddenly feel out of place here. On this blog. Since Eve was born, I've been feeling an itch to change platforms. Much of it has to do with the fact that I have another blog and thus feel the need to update one every time I update the other. The other piece of it has to do with the fact that I began this blog when I was in the dark, and now I am very much in the light. I think I've outgrown this house.
I don't know. I have so much to write. So much that fills my heart and pours out of my fingers so quickly I hardly have time to think it through before it stands before me on the screen. I need to keep writing. Not for anyone else. Just for me. But I think I need a new place for it. That is, when and if I get the time to do such a thing.
In the meantime, I'll leave you with my atonement...
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