Archive | Mommy Thoughts RSS feed for this section

A Letter To My Daughter On Her 4th Birthday

11 Mar

DSC_0009.NEF

To my sweet Zoe girl,

Today you turned four years old. For months you’ve been talking about your birthday. You’ve been telling everyone everywhere we go that it’s your birthday soon; at the store, at the library, at my gym, and even while crossing the street you happily exclaimed to the cross-walk attendant, “March 7th is my birthday, I’ll be four years old!” He and I both laughed at your exuberance. Your excitement about your big day was pretty charming.

The night before your birthday, after you and your brother were sleeping soundly in your beds, and after your dad finally came home from his long day of class, he and I decorated the dining room.We hung up pink and purple streamers, dangled blue and yellow balloons from the ceiling, placed a big “Happy Birthday” sign on the wall and put a special festive table-cloth on our table, all for you, our birthday girl.

In the morning when you woke up, your daddy said with a big smile, “happy birthday, Zoe!” To which you replied, “not yet, Daddy! It’s not my birthday yet…” You were so used to hearing that from us that you couldn’t believe it when the actual day arrived.

Your dad led you to the dining room and showed you all the decorations and your face lit up into a million little flecks of fire. “It’s my birthday,” you said! And so it was – your fourth birthday.

DSC_0302.NEF

You’ve done a lot of growing up this year. You’re leaving the shell of your toddler years behind and you’re headed straight into kid territory. It’s kind of terrifying and exciting all at once.

As a mom, there’s this small side of me tangled up in emotions about the reality that most of your life lived so far you’ll never remember when you’re my age. And that’s kind of sad when I think about it. All the cuddles we’ve shared and giggles we’ve delighted in, you won’t remember when you’re older. Some of the best moments of my life shared with you, won’t really be a part of your memories.

On the other hand, a few moments when I’ve really blown it, you may not remember those either. Like the time you ripped a hole in my favorite childhood stuffed animal, Tigey. You shook out all his itty-bitty styrofoam balls all over your room when you were supposed to be sleeping. I walked in to ask you to get back in bed (I could hear you jumping around), and I was shocked to see that it looked like someone opened up the largest snow-globe in the world and used it like a salt-shaker in your room.

I should’ve laughed and grabbed a camera for one unforgettable picture, but instead I was frustrated and ticked-off. It was such a huge mess and those styrofoam balls were sticking to everything: the walls, the ceiling, your clothes, your hair, the dog, your bed sheets, the curtains (the list goes on). Truly, that was not one of my finer moments in parenting: vacuuming up the room while you cried your eyes out. I’ve found comfort in thinking and hoping that maybe you’ll never remember that moment.

DSC_0305.NEF

But now you’re four, and you’re bound to remember things. After all, I remember a lot of things when I was four: a cup of scalding hot coffee getting tipped over and spilling down my body. My mom and grandfather bathing me with cool water, while I cried through the entire bath.

I remember a snowy Christmas evening, pressing my face against the sliding glass doors, staring out at the moonlit drenched snow in our back yard, asking why it was all so sparkly, and hearing my dad tell me the ground was full of diamonds.

I remember our neighbor, an older man who loved to fish in the Arkansas River brought us a large white paint bucket full of fish for the second time that week. I answered the door and told him our family didn’t like fish because well, we didn’t. (I overheard my parents talking about how they didn’t know what to do with all of this fish and I thought I was doing us all a favor.) I’ll never forget the look of hurt and disappointment on his face, his shoulders immediately slumped down. He turned away from me, looking defeated and lonely, and walked home carrying his bucket of fish with him. Immediately, I knew I did something terribly wrong.

I remember playing in the yard with my sister, she and I found a seedling. We dug a hole in the ground with our fingers and planted the tiny seed in the wet black Oklahoma soil one late afternoon. We imagined together, out-loud, that the most beautiful tree would grow in that very spot and we would build a swing on its strongest branch.

I remember my mom and I walking to the shopping center across the street from our house. She was probably around my age right now, 35, she told me that she didn’t feel she was being a very good mommy lately. I was confused. I had never thought anything but perfection about my mom, and now suddenly her doubts creeped into my own little heart – that was the first time I started to view my mom as someone who could make mistakes.

DSC_0277.NEF

Which makes me think, Zoe, that you’re about to do the same. At four years old, you’re going to remember some of these memories that we’re making right now – you’ll be able to recall details, like what you were wearing when you took a fall, or if your dad told you the snow was made out of diamonds or if I responded in a way that made you feel loved and cared for.

Of course, there are memories that you and I have shared that are already impacting your world view, and they will continue to do so for the rest of your life, but it is unlikely that you’ll be able to recall the tiny details of those memories. Instead, like small candles, they cast a glow over your view of self and the world.

I hope I’ve been a good steward of your heart, so far, little one. I hope I’ve lit good candles in your life. It’s my prayer. I breathe it out with a sigh every time I see you sleeping soundly in your bed. The remnants of the tiny cherub-baby I held in my arms for the first time when I gave birth to you, me – overcome with love and crying uncontrollably till someone asked me if I was okay. That baby is still there in my arms. I see her in the corners of your mouth, in the tips of your fingers, in the way your arms fold around your face when you sleep.

The other night, when I was pondering all of this: the memories I’m leaving on the hearts of my children. I was absent mindedly bathing your brother, and thinking about this coming of age that you’re in, I was thinking about how much I hope to do you both right. Exactly as I was thinking those thoughts, Noah leaned over to me, put his hand over my heart and said, “I know. I know.”

I gasped audibly and looked at him like a ghost had just spoken.

Leave it to your spirited little brother to speak to me like a prophet about my own mothering.

Someday, when you’re a mother, you’ll know this to be true: the child is the prophet and the mother is the disciple.

I promise you, it is true.

But you’re not a mother just yet. At four years old, you’re in the cradle of childhood, I hope you enjoy it all. I hope I can help you gather up each carefree lesson of the day, and that you’ll enjoy the innocent happiness of your youth. I hope I will help fill your years with insightful and beautiful memories.

I pray I’m a good steward of your love, of your childhood, of your innocence. I pray this for you, I pray this for myself, on your fourth birthday, sweet Zoe girl.

With all the love a heart can hold,

Momma.

A letter to Zoe on her third birthday

A letter to Zoe on her second birthday

A letter to Zoe on her first birthday

Photos by Lena Marie Photography

Advertisements

Dear Mommy Blogger: Your Perfection Makes Me Distrust You

5 Mar

perfection

Dear Mommy Blogger,

You are amazing!

Your body is svelte and chiseled. You are a greek goddess and you look dazzling in that dress you’re wearing.

You made that dress with your own hands, or rather ‘hand’ because your left hand was tied behind your back – just for fun.

The dress is made out of nothing but scraps of plastic Walmart bags you collected from the ocean while rescuing sea turtles caught in garbage.

(How do you manage everything?)

You wear all natural make-up. In fact, the lipstick you’re wearing right now is from the beets that you grew on your own farm. You hand-pressed the beets for their juice and mixed the crimson colored liquid with organic coconut oil. You shaped the all-natural ingredients into a tube of lipstick using molds which you hammered out yourself one evening after you cooked up a GAPS meal for the George Clooney. (He likes to visit sometimes.)

You ‘unschool’ your well-behaved and genius children who have already read all the classics. And gee wiz, if sweet Junip and feisty Cosmo are only four and six years old. Your children are also models for Calvin Klein.

(For real?)

Every day you have exuberant and young-love like sex with your PhD rock-star husband (literally he’s a rock-star and an MIT scientist) on your upcycled kitchen table (because your children are sleeping peacefully in your family bed). You never ever have to worry about faking it. EVER. (You’re careful not to knock over the paleo apple-crunch cooling down, fresh out of the stone oven, which you built by hand during labor with your second child.)

(I saw the pictures! I still couldn’t believe it! Of your labor, silly, not the other stuff.)

Your ec0-friendly ranch style home sits on 25 acres of organic land, it’s perched next to a lake your family has owned for three centuries. You have a chapel directly across from the lake made out of glass and twine. You meditate there every morning at 5am. Sometimes, after your most divine meditations, you write about your revelations of true love – when you do this doves cry.

You maintain a daily 5-mile barefoot run with darling Junip snuggled in your hand-woven wrap, happily breastfeeding on demand as you pound the pavement.

parent-without-negative-emotions

You’ve already written three eBooks and you’re working on a fourth right now. The title is, “How to Parent Without Feeling Any Negative Emotions … Ever, Ever, Ever.” You’re currently taking pre-orders for this book.

You started an orphanage. It’s named after you. Mother Teresa came back from the dead to be there for its grand opening.

Your husband sometimes logs onto your blog so he can write 850 words on what a fantastic woman you are. You are always totally surprised when this happens.

You run giveaways on your blog. Your last prize was a chance to babysit one of your kids. 500,000 people took part. Mother Teresa won.

Your children don’t play with store-bought toys of any sort, ever. Instead they craft toys out of leaves, clay, twigs and Mother Teresa’s stray hairs. (She decided to move in with you to become your nanny.)

You post photos of your home on Instagram. Martha Stewart takes notes.

(Why is every piece of furniture you own white? How do you keep it all so clean?)

HGTV came and took pictures of your house because they were looking for inspiration on their “Dream Home Giveaway.”

You have a Pinterest account and you only pin your own blog posts.

You have a cat named Princeton, he uses the toilet instead of the litter box. You taught him this in under 30 minutes.

(Whew…that’s all really nice, but let me just get honest with you.)

Your home made mattress, the one you crafted out of goose feathers you collected by hand in a field where the geese wandered freely is beautiful, but doesn’t help me much if that’s the only thing you share.

I would like to know a little more about you, your struggles, your honesty, your screw-ups, and your “I can’t believe I did it” successes.

Show me your vulnerability. Tell me your most wicked stories. Share your most humbling learning experience. Tell me where it hurts and why.

Let me know you’re not that much different from me.

Because I really do have enough Barbies in my life, and your perfection only makes me distrust you.

Go ahead include me in your world…

just please don’t try so hard to impress me with your world.

Thanks,

joy.

The Best Parenting Advice I Ever Received Wasn’t Spoken

3 Mar

 

The-Best-Parenting-Advice

I remember one miserable day, that wasn’t unlike a long-string of awful days I already had with Noah. He had been crying all day long and was comforted by nothing. I was at my wit’s end and truly felt that I was losing it.

When my husband came home from class, I put Noah in the car with me, (he screamed even more frantically if he was away from me) and drove to Walgreens to buy a bottle of colic calm. (I cannot remember why I decided to go to Walgreens instead of my husband!)

Noah continued to frantically and angrily scream the entire drive. I was an emotional wreck and tried my best to focus on driving. When we arrived, I took a deep breath, stepped out of the car, wrapped Noah up in my baby carrier (yes, he was still screaming) and prepared myself for all the assumptions.

As expected, everyone in the store glared at me. What kind of trashy mom lets her kid scream like that? I could feel their judgment. The “oh poor baby” sentiment was dripping out of their eyes. The silent thoughts about what kind of terrible mom I must be for having a baby cry like that felt palpable to me.

227466_10150172867152637_5999693_n

Keeping it real. Motherhood ain’t always about looking cute.

I was standing in line at the register, Noah was still screaming, an older woman walked up to us and said,

“Oh, poor baby.”

I was furious. I didn’t want her two-cent sympathy. She didn’t know me. She didn’t know anything about anything. I was so sick of everyone feeling like my son was the only victim of his colic. I snapped back at her and said, incredulously,

“Poor baby? Good one! How about poor mom, because that’s a little more like it!”

She took a step back and looked at me like I had a foot growing out of my forehead. (Really, at this point, it was in my mouth. Like I said, I was officially losing it.)

261450_10150227517137637_6206754_n

My mom and sister came for a vist in July. Noah was three-months old. I made things work by wearing Noah all the time.

I tried to rush out of the store and get home, but not before I was stopped again, this time by a young mom.

Noah was still crying, of course. The conversation went something like this, with us slightly yelling to be heard over my son’s screams:

“Oh, I just had to come tell you my daughter had colic too.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, for like a week she screamed all the time. And then I did (insert unscrupulous and irrelevant advice here) and she stopped crying.”

“A whole week of colic, huh?”

“Yeah, it was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. I’m so glad I figured out what to do. How long has your baby been colicky?”

“Well, my son has had colic for over four months now. And yes, I’ve already tried everything you’ve suggested.”

“Oh…”

“Well, as you can see, I need to get home.”

I spun on my heels and headed to my car. Feeling relieved to be away from everyone’s speculations.

262036_10150209472802637_4609371_n

Noah, 8 weeks old, with a cute grin.

You’re Not Doing Enough

I can’t tell you how many moms came to me and told me what I needed to do. Cut out dairy. Eliminate wheat. Stop eating eggs. Meditate. Put my son in orange clothing. Stop stressing. He’ll be happy if I get happy. Stop doing this. Start doing that. Stand on my head while I drink green tea from a red straw and recite Byron poetry. See a chiropractor. Get Noah craniosacral therapy. Stop breastfeeding. Breastfeed him more. Stop coddling him. Swaddle him tighter. Just let him cry. Stop bed-sharing. Have your husband hold him more. Clip his tongue tie. Give him reflux meds. Give him Chamomile tea. Get him tested for allergies. Tell me that I’m paying for my easy and beautiful birth with a difficult baby. Recommend I go see this (really expensive) doctor. Spit on a string and tie it to Noah’s forehead. Try this herb. Use this oil. Rub sage into his diaper. And my favorite: get demons cast out.

I felt like all the advice I received was rooted in this idea that if I just changed one more thing in my life, if I just did something a little better, if I just tried a little harder I would fix my son. If I would just stop being so selfish by eating cheese and eggs I would fix him (or something like that). At the time, none of their advice felt compassionate, or needed.

They didn’t know was that I was doing all of that, or had already tried it. I had exhausted myself looking for a cure and wondering what the hell I was doing wrong.

Actions, Not Advice

And then one day a good friend called me. She saw my Facebook update about how…

“I’m thankful for the calm after the storm. Last night was the worst night yet, but this morning we’re all coping just a little better, even so I could really use some TLC.”

I picked up the phone, mustered up my most energetic and happy hello, and without introduction Marissa, my doula and Mommy Moxie friend, said,

“I’m on my way. Amanda (our mutual friend) and I are picking you up and taking you to my house. Zoe can play with my kids, and we’re going to take care of Noah and you’re going to sleep all day in my room.”

At first I refused. No way was I going to let my friends have to deal with my screaming baby. Inwardly, I knew a real reason I didn’t want their help was because I felt and looked my worst, and I really didn’t want to let my friends see me like this, in shambles – pathetic and miserable. After my adamant refusal she said,

“Girl, I’ve mothered four children. I promise you, I can handle you, your messy hair, your bad breath, seeing your dirty house when I pick you up, and holding your son while he cries. Besides, having two more kids in my house will not alter the intense chaos that is always present in my home as it is. Amanda and I will be there in 20 minutes whether you so yes or not. And don’t even think about trying to look cute, because you’re just going straight to my bed to sleep.”

And that’s exactly what happened. She and Amanda arrived at my home, took one look at me and hugged me tight. They took each of my children to Marissa’s mini-van and buckled them up in their car-seats, and looked at me and said,

“Alright, let’s go.”

Marissa brought me into her home. While Amanda held my son and Zoe ran off to play with a house full of new toys and friends. Marissa tucked me into bed. Set a glass of water next to me and turned on the large box fan, pulled down the blinds, turned out the lights, and shut the door. She promised me that when Noah was hungry, or if Zoe needed me they would bring them to me, but other than that, the most important thing I needed to do was sleep.

319624_10150284507937637_546380183_n

Staying with my parents in Arkansas while Peter was in Chicago, starting his first semester of grad school and looking for a home for us to move into.

Marissa and Amanda wore Noah in his sling and they used a white noise app on their iPhones – both seemed to keep his cries at bay for a little while. It also helped that they didn’t get frazzled when he screamed because their nerves, unlike mine, were not shot to hell. They rocked him and soothed him and enjoyed my baby – even when he was screaming. All the while my little Zoe played with a house-full of happy children.

And I slept the whole day. Unlike my own home, Marissa’s house was big enough that I couldn’t hear Noah cry if someone else had him. Her room was dark and very quite – providing me with rich deep sleep.

After the end of a full day of sleeping and feeding me, they drove me home. They hugged me and told me things would get easier, that they were here for me: the good, the bad and the ugly. One-hundred percent here for me. They reminded me that sometimes the best thing to do is simply trust that this stage won’t last forever.

312193_10150311623082637_1783350587_n

My sister and parents gifted me with a trip to Maui in September of 2011. My mom took this shot. Noah was five months old here, still in the thick of his colic.

I arrived home with a full-cup. Thanks to their care I felt a little more prepared to face the world knowing I had friends who had my back. I cuddled my son and knew that even if it didn’t feel like things were going to get better that things would. (And they did, you can read about that here: To My Son On Your First Birthday: A Mother’s Understanding)

They taught me, without saying a single word, that the best parenting advice doesn’t start with words but begins with actions.

(That next day Marissa called to check on me, and to let me know she woke up with one of my used breast pads stuck to her arm. I laughed hard.)

31426_1488149606716_6695042_n

Marissa and Amanda. Friends who made a difference. Thank you!

10 Ways To Feel Miserable As A Parent

23 Feb

10 Ways to Feel Miserable As a ParentI came up with this list of ten things I’m learning to avoid in order to feel happier as a parent. However, I would like to clarify a couple of things that came up when I shared this image on Facebook.

My children are young, four and under, and this list applies more to this age. If your children are not showing age-appropriate public behavior then you may need to consider how to best approach those lessons with them.

I think having such young ones in my home, it’s nearly impossible to keep my house tidy all the time. A kitchen sink full of dishes and fish sticks for dinner (again) is not (what I consider) a reflection on how well I love or care for my children. 

On the other hand, living in filth and serving junk food every day of course is another story and needs to be brought up to a higher standard of care for our children. 

I hope that everyone reading this takes a common sense approach to these ten statements and evaluates them according to their children’s ages and needs.

%d bloggers like this: