the unexpected

Can six words be this hard?
All day, and only now writing.
Even now, I have to multitask.
Hold baby, make toast, type, eat.
Call friend, feed kid, plan birthday.
I never expected motherhood equalled juggling.

getting to yes

This post is inspired by Momalom's 5 for 10 challenge. Or, if you're me, the 3 for 6 challenge.

A friend of mine from high school was here over the weekend. He's single, sans kids, and asked me a very good question.
"Do you feel like a different person, now that you're a mom?"

Thinking about it, I tried to pinpoint what, exactly has changed. And here it is. With two kids, there are five nos for every yes I can give myself. Here's what I want : to sit down by myself, drink tea, eat a snack, and type on my computer for ten minutes.
But: no, I can't do all of that in the available time. I choose one of those things to say yes to: the snack, say, or the tea. Or, right now, the computer.
I can choose a clean house or sleep. I can choose time to myself or time with my husband. I can choose exercise or laundry. I can choose writing or reading. TV or unloading the dishwasher. There are yesses, sometimes. However, I have to say no to myself far more often then I ever thought possible, back when "Mom" was my mother.

Saying no to myself was a nasty shock. And it was kind of a change, but the biggest change is this: I have gotten used to it. I no longer mind it. Not usually. Instead, I have joy in the yesses I can give myself--the half-hour nap, the sun in the morning while I read a psalm, the time carefully managed to pursue my dreams.

Saying yes is more meaningful when you know the hard shape of saying no so often.

lactose lust

It has been ten months since I had any dairy products.
Dairy products. This makes it sound so clinical, so dry. When in reality, the absence of these things are the dryness.
When I open a menu, drive past our local restaurant row, navigate my way through the frozen goods section of Trader Joes, I tell myself no.
No to the Ben and Jerry's. No to the pizza, the lasagna, the rissoto with the earthy mushrooms. No to the shrimp and cream sauce, the enchiladas, the sour cream. No to the buttermilk pancakes, the lingonberry scones, the blueberry muffins. No to the brie with crackers, the hot chocolate, the grilled cheese sandwich, the cold glass of milk right before bedtime. No to the slightly sour frozen yogurt from the stand right down the street.

I'm milk-free for now. While nursing my oldest, milk for me also meant no sleep for me, and a cranky, sick baby. Which eased my lust for the creamy richness of melted cheese. Apparently, every appetite has its price--and this one I wasn't willing to pay. So when my youngest was six months in utero, I gave up the dairy cold-turkey. And am waiting for the day to try it again.

She's seven months old now, and her sleep is more predictable. Nearly predictable enough to try a grand experiment. One day, somewhat soon, I will head to the grocery store. I will say yes. Yes to the ice cream (chocolate chip cookie dough) and the havarti. Yes to the milk, the pizza joint, the baked goods. Yes to my appetites.

We'll see what kind of consequences this particular lust will bring.

forgetfulness

I'm joining Momalom's 5 for 10 conversation for the next few days...Today's topic is "Memory".

I've got a great memory. And a terrible one.

I remember my dad's 1980 Mustang's license plate (AKY 737...junked approximately 20 years ago). I remember my credit card number and (almost) my library card number. I remember to grab a hat on the way to the beach. I remember to set a reminder to remind myself to pay the mortgage. I remember to restart the laundry, refill the kitty litter, brush my daughter's teeth.

I forget to bring my purse in from our car, sitting in a public alleyway. I forget sweaters, car keys, wallets, birthdays. I forget (without taking a moment to calculate) exactly how many years old I'll be this year.

And I forget just what my first daughter was like, at seven months. I forget what the second one was like at three months. Looking at them now, I think: I will remember this. I will remember them. I will. Then I see pictures, and realize there is no memory real enough to live over. No picture clear enough to bring back the voice, the gesture, the downy cheek. Just the sweetness of making the memories, hearing the voices, feeling the soft give of kisses.

grateful

Today we walked down the street--Lucy on her tricycle, me carrying Julia in a blue polka-dotted sling--and visited a little park a few blocks away. We all wore hats. The sky is crayola sky blue today, and we heard a dove coo, and Lucy pointed out every single flower color we passed: ivory morning glory, orange bird of paradise, pink impatiens, red nasturtiums.
We passed a house, where a thin, middle-aged man paused as he walked through his garden.
"Hello," I said.
"You look like you have your hands full," he said.
I glanced down at my girls; my hands pushing Lucy's trike, the blue polka dot fabric binding my baby to me, and nodded. "But it's good," I said.
He smiled. "You look happy," he said.

I am.

It's funny, people keep asking me how life with two is. And I keep saying how much better it is than I expected. How much, much better. I'm really grateful, all the time, for these girls, for the chance to parent them, to witness their wonder, every day, to figure out the puzzle of their personalities, and to plan how to show them kindness and teach them the bad and the good of this world as gently as I can. To learn the names of flowers and birds together.

I'm grateful for second chances at things, and for the grace that comes with doing something long enough to get better at it. Because to be honest, motherhood the first time around did not fit easily on my shoulders. It felt big and awkward and confining. And this time around--with a baby of a similar temperament, and with some good bouts of sleep deprivation--it seems tough, but in the way that exercise is tough. I feel my muscles of compassion and patience and creativity forced into something resembling strength. Not just my back muscles, with that blue dotted sling.

We walked, and strolled under old gnarled trees, and caught glimpses of the rippled mirror of the sea. Lucy ran down a long pathway ahead of me, just out of sight. I watched her, joyful at the exuberant swing of her arms as she ran. And there, nestled close to my heart, was this second daughter, small and slight and still enough that I didn't have to think about her being there. Except for the soft down of her head brushing my chin, and the soft, chubby fingers grazing my neck, and the gentle warmth of her body, kinder than any sunshine.

happy mother's day

Lucy and Dyami both made me lovely cards, and got me some beautiful earrings and a necklace. Julia got me a good night's rest (which, no offense, L and D, kind of was my favorite gift. Sleep is better than chocolate, better than ice cream, better than diamonds, better than, well, you know.)

I was a little releived that Lucy didn't ask for her gift, because for the last couple days she's been saying, "Kids get gifts for mother's day, too."

Hmmm. No, not really. Love ya, kid, but this here is _my_ day.

Except. Seen this year at Michaels: a stand of coloring books placed in the prime spot in front of the registers (Batman, Barbie, et al), with the label: "Mother's Day, May 9th!"

Excuse me, Michaels, but I think I've all set on Disney Princesses coloring books.

But why am I writing an exasperated post when this year, more than any other, I am feeling the fruits of motherhood? I have an inquisitive, bubbly three-year-old that likes dress-up and cooking and just was painting some watercolor butterflies with me. And I have a snuggly, soft baby girl that squeals with delight when she sees me and spreads God's joy with her smiles. And I am the mother of sisters that giggle when they see each other and give eachother pretty amazing snuggles.

So--better than coloring books, or earrings, or chocolate, or even sleep, is this gift--my girls, and my family.

Happy mother's day.

royal trivia

Lucy has a little felt face toy--like a Mr. Potato Head made of felt.
There's a hair piece that is spiky and yellow. She thinks it is a crown. So, naturally, she started making a queen head.
She found the ears and asked me what they were. (Hard to see what ears are out of context, no?)
"They're ears, honey," I told her.
She looked at me and shook her head. "Momma, queens don't usually have ears."