Happy Mother's Day?

Before Larkin was born, I made a promise - a promise to never discuss any baby bodily functions on Facebook. And I am proud to say that I have never faulted from that promise. My blog, however, is obviously not heldto such a high standard. So, for any of my readers who do not have children (and if you are squeamish about bodily fluids, you MUST not have children) and do not wish to read of such details, go ahead and check back tomorrow.

You may wonder why I am writing about Mother’s Day now, three days after the event. I seriously considered just not addressing it here at all, but I figured that a blog chronicling my experiences as a new mother would not be complete without recapping my first Mother’s Day.

We had no major plans for Sunday. We were going to attend Sunday services at our church, then have a nice lunch out. Afterwards, Jonathan was going to bake me a gluten free lemon drizzle cake that I’ve been craving for a couple of weeks now. That was as far as our plans went because we knew there was still some work to be done to my parent’s house (as it was going on the market Monday).

Sunday morning dawned to a fussier than usual baby. He woke up early, and we played for awhile. We attend the late service at church, so he has time to take his morning nap before service. He started crying and rubbing his eyes, so I laid him down to nurse and hoped he’d nap. Instead, he began screaming, shoving me away, and throwing a fit. I checked his diaper, and saw he needed a change.

I laid him down on the changing table, and pulled off his diaper. I looked up as Jonathan walked in the room, and mentioned that it looked like Larkin might have a bit of diarrhea. Just then, disaster. Larkin let out a pained cry, and baby poop went *everywhere*. Jonathan and I went into overdrive - me cleaning the baby while he grabbed the cover off the changing pad, me throwing a fresh diaper on as fast as possible while he handled the soiled one.

The rest of the morning involved a poor baby crying with stomach cramps and diaper changes about every ten minutes. I’m still uncertain whether it was a stomach bug or if another tooth is trying to make its way out, but it was a very unpleasant situation regardless of the cause.(I would, however, like to mention that our cloth diapers held up BEAUTIFULLY.)

Larkin finally started feeling a bit better, although he refused to be more than an inch away from me all day. We, of course, scrapped our plans for a steak lunch, and Jonathan went to bring home some Jason’s Deli. After we ate, we got to work cleaning the house.

Then we decided we might as well go to the grocery store and get food for the next week or two as well as the makings of the lemon cake. We picked up stuff for lunches and dinners, some GF all purpose flour, and all the other makings of the cake. Except, of course, for the lemons. This seems tobe a consistent in all my grocery shopping trips.

So, in other words, my first Mother’s Day involved baby diarrhea, scrubbing the grout on the tile between the refrigerator and the cabinet, and not getting lemon cake. No cards, no breakfast in bed, no smiles and well wishes at church, no fancy lunch, no yummy cake, no quiet “me” time.

The funny thing is, my Mother’s Day was such a perfect example of what motherhood is really about. It’s dirty and fussy and hectic. It’s unpredictable, unplannable and unexpected. It’s tears and laughter and time together, and the realization that I would rather be together anyway – despite the circumstances.

It amazes me that family can be both the dark cloud and the silver lining, the storm and the rainbow, the tunnel and the light at the end – ALL AT THE SAME TIME. I never really expected to be a mother, never expected to have my own “day”. So I don’t mind at all sharing my day with the little one who made me a mother – and who is making me the woman I was meant to become.

A Prayer for My Son

Dear Lord,

First, God, make my son a man after your own heart. With his every word and deed, let him preach the tender spirit of Christ to those around him. Let him question you and question his birth-spirituality, so that his faith may grow strong and steady on its own. Lord, when he questions it all and searches for his own answers, give me faith in him (and faith in you) that he will settle upon the answers you mean him to find.

God, let him stay a baby as long as possible. Never let me rush one second of his development, and never let him wish a moment of it away. Because life is very long, and childhood is but a magical and fleeting moment.

Let me always be able to soothe his tears as easily as I can now. Bless my memory, that I may never forget the tiniest detail of his babyhood.

When he becomes mobile, and I go to turn his pockets out to do laundry, help me not to die of panic and grossed-outness by the wealth of dirt, slime, bug and critters I will find. Allow me to see it all as treasures he has discovered while exploring his new world, and give me fortitude that I may not embarrass myself by crying when a cricket jumps out towards my face.

And when he is older and has friends in our car, remind me Lord, not to sing out loud. (Unless the song is “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”. Then all bets are off. Although with your strength, I MAY be able to leave out the instrumental sound effects. Maybe.)

May he know want, but never need. Need is a dark, empty, hungry place. Want is an inspiration to work more, try harder, be better.

God, keep him healthy. Protect him from illness and suffering. Know that his every cough and sniffle hurts my heart, and if I can bargain it with you, I will gladly take any illness of his upon myself.

Give him the courage and confidence to always stand his ground and believe in himself. Protect him from bullies, and insulate him from their inevitable taunts. And if he ever becomes a bully himself, Lord, give him someone to whup it out of him, because if they don’t – I WILL.

Allow me to never make any mistakes or missteps in my parenting. And, barring that impossibility, make my infractions minor and his forgiveness quick.

Midway through my pregnancy, I retired to bed in order to keep him safe. Now, I spend my days protecting him from harm. But I know that one day, he will walk out of my reach. Lord, keep my boy safe.  Protect him from all who wish him harm. Protect him from his peers who will prod him towards dangerous behavior. Protect him (perhaps most of all) from himself.

May he never pop his collar. May he never wear highly reflective sunglasses - or sunglasses of any type at night or inside a building. May he never wear baggy pants or ironic t-shirts. And if he does commit any of these sins (or whatever silly fashions his generation creates), Lord, help me to remember a girl in white Guess jeans, a denim jacket and penny loafers with neon socks, and to not tease him too harshly.

Help strengthen me, that I may tolerate long and late nights as well when he learns to drive as I do now in his infancy. Allow my constant presence when he returns home to be both a comfort and an annoyance that spurs him to always make curfew.

Lord, ensure that my son always treats women with the greatest of respect. Remind him that every girl is somebody’s daughter – not least of all, she is your daughter.

One day he may fall in love with one of those women. Lord, I ask that you go to the little girl that woman is today. Lay your word on her heart, that she may be a woman worthy of you and worthy of my son. Soften her heart, that she may see the world through your eyes. Make her be gentle and kind to his lovely heart. Let her love you and love him in a way that will endear my son to further his walk with you.

And when he marries this woman, help her to see him as I see him now - as he was when he was just a tiny baby in my arms. Let her know how dearly I love him, and know that he is the light of my life. And (please God) allow her to permit the love between my son and I. She should know that my tenderness and concern towards him is not a doubting of her standing as his wife, but an outflowing of love for the little boy who once needed me as he will then need her.

Then, when he shall have his firstborn, let us be close enough that he calls me in bleary tones to confide that the baby will not sleep, or is making a mess with his foods, or is wearing the entire household to exhaustion. And Lord, when those calls come, give me the strength to not giggle and bleat a cry of “REVENGE!” – or at least, not out loud.

Thank you, God, for the blessing that is my sweet boy. 

Mama's Boy

Today, exactly one year ago, the perinatologist pressed the transducer against my rounding belly. He confirmed that the baby’s spine was developing beautifully. Then he asked, in heavily accented English, “Do you weesh to know zee geeender?”

“Yes!” I shouted out, surprised. We had planned to find out at our next regular check up, but the level two ultrasound apparently had already made things clear. Jonathan rolled his eyes a little. He preferred to keep the sex a surprise, but I had prevailed.

“A boy,” the doctor said, matter of factly, continuing the ultrasound. “You are having a boy.”

My eyes twitched. A boy? ME?!? What was I going to do with a boy? I looked at Jonathan, taking in his huge smile and surprised eyes. Everyone had assumed I was having a girl.

I looked at the monitor, watching that kicking, floating ball of energy. I took in the fluttering heartbeat, the area the doctor had indicated, the tiny hand pushing back at the transducer.

A boy.

I was having a son.


I began to cry; warm tears of joy fell down my cheeks.

It was another step in God’s master plan to convince me that He had planned things out perfectly, despite refusing to consult my preconceived notions.

I had always imagined life with a daughter. A little bit of curls and lace, ribbons and bows. But the second the doctor said he was a boy, I knew I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Notice the banged up head? Already all boy!

 Dear Larkin,

You are all boy. You are feisty and fiery. You are always covered in scrapes and bumps, and you somehow manage to get dirt under your fingernails all the time (seriously - how do you do that?!?). You are sweet and tenderhearted and you adore your mama. I’m so very glad that God gave us you, just as you are. You are amazing.

And just remember that being a mama’s boy isn’t really as bad a thing as they say it is.

To the moon… and back,

Mommy

Sick Baby (And Other Miseries)

1 AM, and his fever was spiking. His little head was burning hot. I fumbled in the dark room to switch on a low lamp and find the thermometer. Usually he fights me, but this time he just moaned as I stuck the sensor in his ear. 100.5°. I kissed his forehead, and offered him a nursing. He accepted gratefully and drifted back to a restless sleep.

3 AM. I awoke to a low moan. I glanced at his baby face, there next to me in bed, illuminated by the still-burning lamp light. His cheeks were flushed and his forehead was as furrowed as his smooth skin would allow. His dandelion hair was pressed down to his head in rivulets of sweat. He had shoved off his blanket and tossed his stuffed monkey. I reached again for the thermometer. 102°.

I debated what to do. The overprotective mama in me wanted to head to the ER. But a rational voice told me to wait, just wait. So I gave him a dose of Motrin, and offered another nursing. He had trouble finding me, then just laid his forehead against my chest and rested. I felt a small tear roll from his cheek onto my skin. My heart broke.

15 minutes, I promised myself. I will wait 15 minutes. Then I will check his temperature again. He continued to moan in his sleep. He started babbling quietly, talking to some dream figure. I dampened a wash cloth and brushed it over his forehead, down the crown of his head; the wetness made his baby fine hair wave over his ears as it dried.

I checked his fever again. 101.7°. Dropping. I breathed a sigh of relief against his cheek. He pushed me away. I scooted over to offer him more room and he clutched for me, pulling himself back close to me. I laid there awake for hours, watching as the flush faded and left his cheek, waiting until his restless sleep stilled.

We visited the pediatrician the next morning. He remarked on Larkin's red and swollen throat,  and received the  unsatisfactory diagnosis of "a virus of some kind". Since then, his fever has ridden an unhappy rollercoaster. He won’t sleep much, won’t eat his solids. He's fussy and grumpy. Won’t let me out of his sight. So we just lay together, resting, cuddling, nursing. He’ll sleep for awhile, and then slit open his eyes. His baby blues seek me out, red-rimmed, and verify that I’m close. Once he sees me, he drifts back off.

It’s his first fever, and I think it’s as hard on me as it is him.

If You Give a Mommy a Glass of Wine...

If you give a mommy a glass of wine, she’s going to remember how much she misses date nights.

She will be inspired the next day, so when the baby goes down for a nap, she’ll dust off her makeup kit and get all dolled up.

Once she sees how pretty she looks with her face made up, she’ll break out her favorite little black dress.

When she puts on the dress, she’ll realize that it didn’t use to be quite *so* little. So she’ll decide it’s time to go on a diet.

She’ll sweep all the cookies and sweets out of the cabinet, but one box will clatter to the floor. The noise will wake the baby.

When she goes to get the baby, he won’t recognize her with all that makeup on and will start screaming.

She will frantically try to nurse him to prove she’s his mommy. He will decide he doesn’t really care who she is, as long as she’s offering a snack.

While he is nursing from one side, the other side will start to leak. Now her little black dress is a mess. She will dig out a pair of yoga pants, and realize they didn’t have a babysitter and that a teething baby doesn’t make a good third wheel.

So she will decide to get take out.

As she goes into the kitchen to find the menus for their favorite restaurants, she’ll wonder why there are cookies all over the cabinet. She will eat a handful while she browses the menus.

Upon seeing the menus, she will reminisce about their last date night, and will settle on sushi.

She will change the baby’s diaper, and will realize that she needs to do a load of laundry. She will set the baby down and gather up the dirty clothes. She will want to wash the nursing bra she is wearing. All the other nursing bras will be dirty, so she will grimace and put on a regular bra. She will assume that since the baby just ate, he will not want to nurse again so soon and the bra will be fine.

The baby will decide he wants to nurse.

Once the baby is fed, and the laundry is started, she will load up the car and begin to drive into town for sushi takeout. Before she leaves the neighborhood, the baby will be crying hysterically. She’ll decide that fancy sushi is overrated, and grocery store sushi will suffice.

When she gets to the grocery store, she will remember that the cats need litter.

When she gets to the pet aisle, she will be reminded that the garbage can needs bags, the bathroom needs toilet paper, the husband needs shaving cream, and the baby needs a new teething ring.

After she throws all of those things in her cart, she will decide she might as well buy food for the next week.

As she goes to stand in line, the baby will dirty his diaper horrendously. She will realize she doesn’t have a single diaper in her giant diaper bag.

She will run back to the baby aisle to add a small pack of diapers to her cart. The line will have tripled in size when she returns.

The baby will start screaming.

Baby butt cleaned and groceries in the trunk, she will head home. Traffic will snarl, and a pickup will honk aggressively.

She will want to rear end said pickup.

When she finally arrives home, she will juggle the baby and the groceries, uncertain whether her head or the baby is screaming louder.

She will realize she forgot the sushi.

She will sit on the floor and cry, and her heavily made up eyes will stream rivers of mascara.

The baby will think this is funny and will head butt her and jam a finger up her nose.

Her husband will stare at her and ask why she bothered, since they have perfectly good leftovers in the fridge, and the sushi probably isn’t on her diet anyway.

She will want a plate served right there on the floor.

And then, because he is a good husband, he will ask if she would like….

a glass of wine.