"Mom!" "Mooooom...." "Mom?" "Mamamamamamama." "Momeeeeeee!" "MOM!"
Someday soon, I'm going to keep a tally of how many times a day I hear my name. It's played on repeat from sun up to sundown, with mini-breaks scattered through naps (when they sleep) and late night hours (again, when they sleep). It's called, whispered, screamed, giggled, yelled, cried, offered. Little voices stalk me in the bathroom, in the laundry room, in my dreams. My name floats out the window, echoes in the hall, chases me down the stairs.
Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.....
I waited and waited and waited for my little babes to first say my name. Delighted in their mastery of it. Swooned at the sound of it in their sweet baby voices. I'm Mom! They said Mom!
Now, of course, they say Mom all of the time. I'm like the Cher of our house - no other names needed.
I've always loved names.
I love seeing them printed on an invitation, emblazoned across a jersey, stretched across a school supply, perched in my inbox.
I love them for their concreteness, their way of capturing all of the millions of things that make up a person and putting it all down to set syllables and sounds. I love them for their abstraction, their infinite inability to be absolutely defined.
I love them for the magical, intricate way they own us - and we learn to own them.
When it came time to name our children, I luxuriated in the challenge of playing with words, of crafting just the right title for these stories waiting to be born. Strong, classic, meaningful - yet mutable enough to mold to our children's will. We had a heck of a time deciding but found names that seem to fit our kiddos as they grow. We had even more fun naming our pets. (Don't know what that says about us, but we seem to yell the dog's name more than the kids', so at least we picked one we like!)
When I first started teaching, I was startled at the loss of my first name. I wasn't Megan. I was Ms. or Coach. All I heard were those titles, which often felt too advanced, too mature for my stage in life. In that shift, the importance fell to my last name, which I grew to love, as it celebrated who I belonged to.
When I got married, the loss of my last name hit me hard. Now I was Mrs. (which ages you at least 10 years in a high schooler's mind) with a new last name. I loved my husband and was excited to build our life together but I struggled with the loss of my identity. It didn't sound like me, it didn't feel like me. I took some comfort in making my maiden name my middle name, purposefully signing all three names each chance I had. It took some time, but eventually, the more stories I lived with my new name, the more I eased into it.
Nine years later, I'm home. Our last name is our children's last name and I've traded Megan and Mrs. for Mom. Even Jeff calls me Mom, a habit we've fallen into with the kids that sticks even when they're not around.
It too is a name that I had to grow into, one that initially felt odd to my ears, head, and heart - kind of like playing dress up in someone else's clothes. It wasn't one I was born with but rather one I (quite literally) gave birth to. While Megan was a gift from my mom and dad, Mom was bestowed on me by my kids.
In beautifully complicated ways I both own and am owned by all of my names. They are whom I'm called to be.
I love the sound of my name in all of its variations - it's just nice to sometimes not hear it. Thank goodness the dog can't talk...
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Oh, my!
My son squirmed, screaming, sweaty, and tear-streaked in my arms outside a local shop. He was infuriated that I had interrupted his train play for our next errand and was hell-bent on letting his feelings be heard.
Truth be told, if he were my first, I would have been reduced to tears and massive shushing attempts. For better or worse, as my third, he met only with secure, stubborn arms, a hissed, "Let's go!!!" to his slow-exiting sisters, and a set, if flushed, face. It was not my finest moment in parenting, but it would, as I had learned, pass.
"Oh, my!"
A wide-eyed woman approached our storefront perch, seemingly alarmed by my son's fit. In my kinder recollection, she helped me by distracting my son from his fury, a seasoned mom empathizing with my red-faced moment. At the time, her words felt like judgment. I was torn between hurling him at her and sinking into the pavement. I stared at her - hard - grabbed my daughters and marched to the car.
As I settled into the safety of my minivan interior, my brood silenced by my glare, I paused. What had just happened?
My son's outburst was not unexpected. He's two, not very verbal, and bad at transitions. I had anticipated the situation, exited quickly so as to minimize the impact on shoppers, and clearly signaled to all kids involved the impending sequence of events. He was loud and I was frustrated, but the moment was in my control.
Until another mom entered the picture and my confidence fell apart.
Was it her? Was it me? What is it about parenting in public that can be so debilitating?
Admittedly, I have never welcomed being openly vulnerable, nor have I been especially receptive to feedback of any kind. And yet being a mom of three independent-yet-born-of-me-and-raised-in-my-home souls has ripped off all of my protective layers and yes-I've-got-it-together facade. I shouldn't matter in this equation of human raising - my kids do. And yet...
Parenting strips me to my rawest core. And I'm not always brave enough to stand so exposed to the world.
There is no one I appreciate more than the parent in Target who smiles sheepishly at me while one of my three yells his or her head off. I want to hug the mom who doesn't blink when my child is especially whiny at the grocery store. I could high five the dad who wordlessly hands my son his thrown toy car with a wink in my direction and squeeze the grandma who smiles at me while I struggle by with an obnoxious puppy, loud stroller, swerving training wheels-rider, and independent two-wheeling kindergartner in tow, all in an attempt to "get some fresh air and enjoy time together." These are my people. Their gracious, humor-filled empathy is a gift.
I love my children fiercely, and am intensely humbled by the honor and challenge of being their mother. I am struck daily, hourly, each second by the immense responsibility of being their first teacher. I can and will be a warrior for them - I just can't fight other parents on that quest.
I know that much of the judgment I sense from the world beyond my home actually comes from voices within; I'm working at turning down their volume. But beyond that, perhaps, as partners on this parenting journey, we can make a special attempt to connect. Friendly faces, generous laughter, and safe zones of acceptance and patience help us all.
The spotlight glare of a child's tantrum is so unforgiving. Let's help each other find the safety in the shadows of the stage and offer enthusiastic applause, no matter what our parenting performance looks like on a given day out there in the world.
It doesn't take much to say "Oh my!" to distract a little one from his frustration and then offer a warm smile to his mom. It just might be the right band-aid for her raw, exposed heart.
Truth be told, if he were my first, I would have been reduced to tears and massive shushing attempts. For better or worse, as my third, he met only with secure, stubborn arms, a hissed, "Let's go!!!" to his slow-exiting sisters, and a set, if flushed, face. It was not my finest moment in parenting, but it would, as I had learned, pass.
"Oh, my!"
A wide-eyed woman approached our storefront perch, seemingly alarmed by my son's fit. In my kinder recollection, she helped me by distracting my son from his fury, a seasoned mom empathizing with my red-faced moment. At the time, her words felt like judgment. I was torn between hurling him at her and sinking into the pavement. I stared at her - hard - grabbed my daughters and marched to the car.
As I settled into the safety of my minivan interior, my brood silenced by my glare, I paused. What had just happened?
My son's outburst was not unexpected. He's two, not very verbal, and bad at transitions. I had anticipated the situation, exited quickly so as to minimize the impact on shoppers, and clearly signaled to all kids involved the impending sequence of events. He was loud and I was frustrated, but the moment was in my control.
Until another mom entered the picture and my confidence fell apart.
Was it her? Was it me? What is it about parenting in public that can be so debilitating?
Admittedly, I have never welcomed being openly vulnerable, nor have I been especially receptive to feedback of any kind. And yet being a mom of three independent-yet-born-of-me-and-raised-in-my-home souls has ripped off all of my protective layers and yes-I've-got-it-together facade. I shouldn't matter in this equation of human raising - my kids do. And yet...
Parenting strips me to my rawest core. And I'm not always brave enough to stand so exposed to the world.
There is no one I appreciate more than the parent in Target who smiles sheepishly at me while one of my three yells his or her head off. I want to hug the mom who doesn't blink when my child is especially whiny at the grocery store. I could high five the dad who wordlessly hands my son his thrown toy car with a wink in my direction and squeeze the grandma who smiles at me while I struggle by with an obnoxious puppy, loud stroller, swerving training wheels-rider, and independent two-wheeling kindergartner in tow, all in an attempt to "get some fresh air and enjoy time together." These are my people. Their gracious, humor-filled empathy is a gift.
I love my children fiercely, and am intensely humbled by the honor and challenge of being their mother. I am struck daily, hourly, each second by the immense responsibility of being their first teacher. I can and will be a warrior for them - I just can't fight other parents on that quest.
I know that much of the judgment I sense from the world beyond my home actually comes from voices within; I'm working at turning down their volume. But beyond that, perhaps, as partners on this parenting journey, we can make a special attempt to connect. Friendly faces, generous laughter, and safe zones of acceptance and patience help us all.
The spotlight glare of a child's tantrum is so unforgiving. Let's help each other find the safety in the shadows of the stage and offer enthusiastic applause, no matter what our parenting performance looks like on a given day out there in the world.
It doesn't take much to say "Oh my!" to distract a little one from his frustration and then offer a warm smile to his mom. It just might be the right band-aid for her raw, exposed heart.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Monday, October 27, 2014
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Good Night, House
I love the nightly ritual of putting the house to bed.
I turn off all of the lights, leaving little glows beaming down from the microwave and fireplace. I click off the fish tank light (who would have thought we would have fish? Have to say: Anna and Elsa are some kick ass fish) and pad my way in barefeet to check the lock on the front door. The dishwasher and dryer hum in the darkness behind me. I stare out into the street, looking for the moon.
Tiptoeing up the stairs, I listen for sounds of stirring. A TV chatters behind our half-closed bedroom door. A thud of feet against crib mattress comes from Will.
In Claire's room, I find a sprawled, sweaty heap of child. Tucking crooked legs back under covers, stashing books on the night stand, smoothing hair behind little ears, I lean down to kiss her forehead. I'm met with mumbled gibberish and a shift to the cool side of the pillow. Good night, sweet girl.
I almost laugh out loud at the snoring in Jenna's room. A round little bottom points to the ceiling, clad in tonight's selection of princess dresses. Oh, my Jenna. I cover her up with her blanket, repositioning Hop and baba for middle-of-the-night-cuddles. Shutting her door, I pause at the brightly lit bathroom and switch on the night light, hoping against hope that tonight, Claire will sleep the entire way through without noticing the switch.
In Will's room, I pause at the sight of the big boy in a baby crib. Six months have disappeared before our eyes. In a life of so much pink and purple, I am still in awe of this world of blue. Even in sleep he's all boy. He shifts, always ticklish, under his mom's light touch. See you at 2am, little man. Unless you want to sleep like a champ...
From the doorway of our own room, I watch my sleeping husband - my partner in all of this. He'll say in the morning he tried to wait up for me, but we both know he fell asleep when his head hit the pillow. Sometimes we laugh that we still feel, after all of this time, like we're playing house. How did this sleeping brood become our tribe? Who did we trick into letting us be responsible?
I pause in the hallway, momentarily connected to all of my people. All that's missing now is the click clack of dog nails on the floorboards - though I swear I still feel Rocky. Yes, all we need are dog sounds - and maybe those of another little baby, sharing a room with his brother. (Just don't tell Dad I said that. He's focused only on a four-legged addition to said tribe).
For all of the hub bub beauty of the day, my favorite time is at the end.
When I can put our house to bed and
fall asleep to the rhythm of its rooms.
I turn off all of the lights, leaving little glows beaming down from the microwave and fireplace. I click off the fish tank light (who would have thought we would have fish? Have to say: Anna and Elsa are some kick ass fish) and pad my way in barefeet to check the lock on the front door. The dishwasher and dryer hum in the darkness behind me. I stare out into the street, looking for the moon.
Tiptoeing up the stairs, I listen for sounds of stirring. A TV chatters behind our half-closed bedroom door. A thud of feet against crib mattress comes from Will.
In Claire's room, I find a sprawled, sweaty heap of child. Tucking crooked legs back under covers, stashing books on the night stand, smoothing hair behind little ears, I lean down to kiss her forehead. I'm met with mumbled gibberish and a shift to the cool side of the pillow. Good night, sweet girl.
I almost laugh out loud at the snoring in Jenna's room. A round little bottom points to the ceiling, clad in tonight's selection of princess dresses. Oh, my Jenna. I cover her up with her blanket, repositioning Hop and baba for middle-of-the-night-cuddles. Shutting her door, I pause at the brightly lit bathroom and switch on the night light, hoping against hope that tonight, Claire will sleep the entire way through without noticing the switch.
In Will's room, I pause at the sight of the big boy in a baby crib. Six months have disappeared before our eyes. In a life of so much pink and purple, I am still in awe of this world of blue. Even in sleep he's all boy. He shifts, always ticklish, under his mom's light touch. See you at 2am, little man. Unless you want to sleep like a champ...
From the doorway of our own room, I watch my sleeping husband - my partner in all of this. He'll say in the morning he tried to wait up for me, but we both know he fell asleep when his head hit the pillow. Sometimes we laugh that we still feel, after all of this time, like we're playing house. How did this sleeping brood become our tribe? Who did we trick into letting us be responsible?
I pause in the hallway, momentarily connected to all of my people. All that's missing now is the click clack of dog nails on the floorboards - though I swear I still feel Rocky. Yes, all we need are dog sounds - and maybe those of another little baby, sharing a room with his brother. (Just don't tell Dad I said that. He's focused only on a four-legged addition to said tribe).
For all of the hub bub beauty of the day, my favorite time is at the end.
When I can put our house to bed and
fall asleep to the rhythm of its rooms.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Everyday Rainbows
In the crabby-quiet of post-care-pick-up, I pulled into the gas station to fill up the minivan. As the door dinged open, Claire piped from the back, "Can we get a car wash?"
"Sure!" I offered, welcoming the spark of interest in her cold-fatigued eyes and celebrating - irrationally - the 10 cent discount on gas.
As we pulled up to the wash, Jenna voiced her protest, "Don't want to go car wash! I scared," only to be met with Claire's maternal, "Don't be scared, Jenna. Just hug Hop."
"Okay, Care," Jenna murmured around the baba we tell the world is only for bedtime, hugging her bunny blanket close.
"Mom, I've got Moo too. And I bet Will will like it. I'll make sure he's not scared," Claire promised from her backseat perch.
Squeals accompanied the green light and the whir of machinery.
"What's that noise?"
"What's that smell?"
"Ooh! There's the rainbows!"
"Mom! It's a car dryer - just like a hair dryer!"
"Will likes it! He likes it, Mom!"
"Can we do a car wash tomorrow?"
I smiled in the rearview mirror at my chirpy passengers. My little people were coming back to me.
"Mom! We made our own rainbows!" Claire cheered, accompanied by echoey-Jenna's "'bow, Mommy!"
"We did, didn't we?" I said, negotiating my way into traffic. We did, didn't we?
Everyday rainbows. They're there, even when I'm not looking.
Thank goodness my kids usually are.
"Sure!" I offered, welcoming the spark of interest in her cold-fatigued eyes and celebrating - irrationally - the 10 cent discount on gas.
As we pulled up to the wash, Jenna voiced her protest, "Don't want to go car wash! I scared," only to be met with Claire's maternal, "Don't be scared, Jenna. Just hug Hop."
"Okay, Care," Jenna murmured around the baba we tell the world is only for bedtime, hugging her bunny blanket close.
"Mom, I've got Moo too. And I bet Will will like it. I'll make sure he's not scared," Claire promised from her backseat perch.
Squeals accompanied the green light and the whir of machinery.
"What's that noise?"
"What's that smell?"
"Ooh! There's the rainbows!"
"Mom! It's a car dryer - just like a hair dryer!"
"Will likes it! He likes it, Mom!"
"Can we do a car wash tomorrow?"
I smiled in the rearview mirror at my chirpy passengers. My little people were coming back to me.
"Mom! We made our own rainbows!" Claire cheered, accompanied by echoey-Jenna's "'bow, Mommy!"
"We did, didn't we?" I said, negotiating my way into traffic. We did, didn't we?
Everyday rainbows. They're there, even when I'm not looking.
Thank goodness my kids usually are.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Feeding the Boy in the Pink Bumpo Seat
In Will's eyes, I'm hilarious.
Stream-carrots-out-the-side-of-his-mouth-kind-of-funny.
His deep little boy chortles, shaking Jabba-the-Hut-like chin folds, drown out the day.
Smiling into his sparkling blue eyes, I lose myself.
I'm head over heels in love with a boy.
A boy who thinks his mom is hilarious.
Stream-carrots-out-the-side-of-his-mouth-kind-of-funny.
His deep little boy chortles, shaking Jabba-the-Hut-like chin folds, drown out the day.
Smiling into his sparkling blue eyes, I lose myself.
I'm head over heels in love with a boy.
A boy who thinks his mom is hilarious.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Today: In 6 words
"Well, that didn't go as planned."
Story of the day.
Story of parenthood, adulthood, teacherhood, Meganhood...
Story I can handle.
Just not today.
Story of the day.
Story of parenthood, adulthood, teacherhood, Meganhood...
Story I can handle.
Just not today.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Return to Work: The Night Before
Dryer rumbling.
Dishwasher whirring.
Computer humming.
Children sighing.
Husband snoring.
Me. Sleepless.
Heart? Broken.
Dishwasher whirring.
Computer humming.
Children sighing.
Husband snoring.
Me. Sleepless.
Heart? Broken.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Tiny Dancer
When Claire burst out of her dance class in tears, I rushed her to the bathroom thinking she had an accident. In between echoing hiccups, she told me that she wanted to go home, that she didn't like the class, that she missed me. Brushing back hair from her flushed face, I tried to coax out reasons for her sudden emotional transformation. The little girl who had earlier bounced through the doorway in her Disney Princess tutu was suddenly, inexplicably clinging to my neck.
In between stall door slams and squeals from Jenna, who was barreling around like a puppy off a leash, Claire hitchingly shared her woes: "The kids were mean to me." "They knocked me over." "I don't like my teacher." My mind raced as I rubbed her back and grabbed at Jenna. What really happened? I fought to stop the irritated look that flashed across my face as the bathroom door swung in. Can't you see we need some space?! Torn between reactionary maternal fury and polite, rational thought, I offered our intruders a small smile and quietly ushered my expressive children back into the public eye.
Holding tight to two small hands, one pulling away, one refusing to let go, I made my way back to the dance class door. Responding to concerned parent inquiries, I found myself saying, "Sounds like someone pushed her down but she's ok" and assuring them that "Oh no, I'm sure nothing happened. I think it's just one of those days" while inwardly wanting to shake the children - I had my suspects! - who made Claire cry.
Never one to quit (even when I should), I convinced Claire to try again and promised I would stay inside the room, even though it was expressly against class policy. Watching her pick up her princess wand and crown and take a brave, deep breath, my heart twisted. She looked at me with her big brown eyes and said in a sweet, clear voice, "Thank you for staying with me, Mommy." My throat closed a bit, even as I shot a look at the teachers murmuring about my presence. To hell with rules - I wasn't leaving. That is, until Jenna - so my daughter - had a similar thought and decided she wanted to twirl with her sister.
Scooping up her squirming mass, I tried to ease out the door without Claire noticing. No such luck. Immediately, her face crumpled and she launched herself into my arms. Pointedly, I asked her teacher about the situation but received no insight. Manners once again trumping Mama Bear, I thanked her for her time, murmured apologies and have-a-great-weeks to all involved adults and took my screamers to the car.
Two car seat strap-ins and child-approved snack and beverage distributions later, I slid into the driver's seat and sighed shakily. The rear view mirror framed a pink-cheeked dancer, eyes still wet. "I don't want to go back next week, Mommy."
"We'll see, ok?" I offered, stretching a hand back to rub her leg. Jenna pointed a chubby finger at her sister and yelled, "Caaaaaaaaare!" sparking a little giggle between sniffles. As I drove home, I worked the worry wheel - This was her first class without me. If she can't do this, how will preschool be? Am I pushing her too hard? Was this a bad thing to try?
"Look, Mom!" Claire broke through my thoughts. "My crying is all done!" She pointed to her eyes and grinned. With that, the curtain closed on our dance class drama.
Later, Claire spontaneously shared with my mom, "I cried at dance class today, Grandma. There were too many kids," a comment that added clarity to her feelings. No one had pushed her. Cautious Claire just felt overwhelmed by all that was happening and needed to find her comfort zone again.
It has been incredible to be able to communicate with Claire. At three, she is a chatterbox; experiencing her thoughts and worldview through her words has been one of the greatest gifts of parenthood. There's this little person living with us who is like us and yet so her own person. The move from point-and-yell-for-the-baba to "What are we going to do today, Mom?" has been amazing and yet, even with all of her words, we know that she still can't make us see and feel all that she is seeing and feeling.
The recognition of Claire as an individual was a powerful a-ha for me. That tug between intuitive connection and inherent separateness is beautifully, painfully humbling. I can only imagine the feeling grows more intense as children grow older...
There is so much that is "big girl" about Claire and yet, moments like dance class remind me that she is still very much a little girl. Watching her lose herself in imaginative play, sleep hard all cuddled up with her Moo and twirl without abandon in a pretty dress at story hour, Jeff and I are as awed by the recognition of her tiny, individual little being as we were by her entrance into our lives.
It's Claire's world and we feel really lucky to be able to dance with her in it.
In between stall door slams and squeals from Jenna, who was barreling around like a puppy off a leash, Claire hitchingly shared her woes: "The kids were mean to me." "They knocked me over." "I don't like my teacher." My mind raced as I rubbed her back and grabbed at Jenna. What really happened? I fought to stop the irritated look that flashed across my face as the bathroom door swung in. Can't you see we need some space?! Torn between reactionary maternal fury and polite, rational thought, I offered our intruders a small smile and quietly ushered my expressive children back into the public eye.
Holding tight to two small hands, one pulling away, one refusing to let go, I made my way back to the dance class door. Responding to concerned parent inquiries, I found myself saying, "Sounds like someone pushed her down but she's ok" and assuring them that "Oh no, I'm sure nothing happened. I think it's just one of those days" while inwardly wanting to shake the children - I had my suspects! - who made Claire cry.
Never one to quit (even when I should), I convinced Claire to try again and promised I would stay inside the room, even though it was expressly against class policy. Watching her pick up her princess wand and crown and take a brave, deep breath, my heart twisted. She looked at me with her big brown eyes and said in a sweet, clear voice, "Thank you for staying with me, Mommy." My throat closed a bit, even as I shot a look at the teachers murmuring about my presence. To hell with rules - I wasn't leaving. That is, until Jenna - so my daughter - had a similar thought and decided she wanted to twirl with her sister.
Scooping up her squirming mass, I tried to ease out the door without Claire noticing. No such luck. Immediately, her face crumpled and she launched herself into my arms. Pointedly, I asked her teacher about the situation but received no insight. Manners once again trumping Mama Bear, I thanked her for her time, murmured apologies and have-a-great-weeks to all involved adults and took my screamers to the car.
Two car seat strap-ins and child-approved snack and beverage distributions later, I slid into the driver's seat and sighed shakily. The rear view mirror framed a pink-cheeked dancer, eyes still wet. "I don't want to go back next week, Mommy."
"We'll see, ok?" I offered, stretching a hand back to rub her leg. Jenna pointed a chubby finger at her sister and yelled, "Caaaaaaaaare!" sparking a little giggle between sniffles. As I drove home, I worked the worry wheel - This was her first class without me. If she can't do this, how will preschool be? Am I pushing her too hard? Was this a bad thing to try?
"Look, Mom!" Claire broke through my thoughts. "My crying is all done!" She pointed to her eyes and grinned. With that, the curtain closed on our dance class drama.
Later, Claire spontaneously shared with my mom, "I cried at dance class today, Grandma. There were too many kids," a comment that added clarity to her feelings. No one had pushed her. Cautious Claire just felt overwhelmed by all that was happening and needed to find her comfort zone again.
It has been incredible to be able to communicate with Claire. At three, she is a chatterbox; experiencing her thoughts and worldview through her words has been one of the greatest gifts of parenthood. There's this little person living with us who is like us and yet so her own person. The move from point-and-yell-for-the-baba to "What are we going to do today, Mom?" has been amazing and yet, even with all of her words, we know that she still can't make us see and feel all that she is seeing and feeling.
The recognition of Claire as an individual was a powerful a-ha for me. That tug between intuitive connection and inherent separateness is beautifully, painfully humbling. I can only imagine the feeling grows more intense as children grow older...
There is so much that is "big girl" about Claire and yet, moments like dance class remind me that she is still very much a little girl. Watching her lose herself in imaginative play, sleep hard all cuddled up with her Moo and twirl without abandon in a pretty dress at story hour, Jeff and I are as awed by the recognition of her tiny, individual little being as we were by her entrance into our lives.
It's Claire's world and we feel really lucky to be able to dance with her in it.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
And Baby Makes More...
In the past few weeks, I've visited three different hospital rooms for the world's best reason: meeting a new baby.
My husband's best friend welcomed darling twins, a friend had her second sweet little boy and my sister became a mom for the very first time to my absolutely beautiful-in-every-way niece. While the anticipation in the drive-overs, elevator ride-ups and down-the-hallway scurries was delicious, nothing compared to the moment when that hospital door opened and the world changed forever.
There is something beautifully intimate about a hospital room holding new life. Somehow, amid the medical tangle of clinical smells and beeping machines and bustling staff, there is a cocoon for each new family. After the chaotic and overwhelming adventure that is childbirth, that fatigued, awed retreat to a private space is an immeasurable gift.
Admittedly, I am a bit baby-obsessed, especially when it involves loved ones. Jeff has had to, on more than one occasion, pointedly tell me to stay put until a more appropriate time for a visit. I just can't help myself. There is such pure joy in the welcoming of a new life - and even more joy in witnessing the transformation of a child's parents and family.
It is amazing to me that one day, there is a child to be born and then the next, there is this brand new life that wasn't there before. When a baby is born, so are parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters. Perspectives, sleep habits, relationships, beliefs, lifestyles change. The world grows in love.
As a new mom, and then new mom of two, sitting in that hospital bed, I was grateful for the fleeting moments where the world was as tiny as I could make it. For a day or two, I could pretend that there was nothing beyond that threshold and attempt to process the new life the new life in my arms had brought to us. Each visit amplified our happiness, as we watched our family and friends meet our newest love. And when the lights dimmed for the night and it was just our little family again, we got to revel in the purity of this new beginning.
Visiting "new life" rooms is a fantastic treat, as I get to witness all of the excitement without facing any of the work. I love hearing Mom tell her birth story, while Dad (always busy with his computer, sharing pictures, working on correspondence, taking care of life) chimes in with extra details. I love proud Grandma on the couch who graciously lets me hold the baby for a little bit, even though it is her turn to rock. I love the wonder on each parent's face, the fatigued scruffiness of Dad and the fresh-scrubbed I-put-on-makeup-to-feel-better-holy-cow-I-made-this-life shine in Mom's eyes. I love the sounds and smells and movements of a newborn, the teeny-tiny diapers and hospital-issued swaddle blankets. I love the quiet, even when it's not quiet, of the room and the seemingly impossible view out the window (because how can the world go on when life is changing so immensely?)
As doctor-phobic as they come, I know that hospital rooms are not romantic. We were more than ready to go home on our release days, as have been all of our friends and family. And yet, in the middle of real life, there are tugs of homesickness for those early days in a small room that baby first called home.
We drive by our hospital often in our daily comings and goings and Claire rarely misses the chance to point out where she and Jenna and her baby cousin were born. I nod and we wave to the hospital (we say hi to almost everything in town). Inevitably, I glance at those windows and wonder about the lives that are changing within. A hospital is a keeper of many stories, but I'm drawn irresistibly to the stories of births - of babies, of parents, of families, of new beginnings.
Drawn so much that we just may have to find our way back to one of those rooms ourselves someday...
My husband's best friend welcomed darling twins, a friend had her second sweet little boy and my sister became a mom for the very first time to my absolutely beautiful-in-every-way niece. While the anticipation in the drive-overs, elevator ride-ups and down-the-hallway scurries was delicious, nothing compared to the moment when that hospital door opened and the world changed forever.
There is something beautifully intimate about a hospital room holding new life. Somehow, amid the medical tangle of clinical smells and beeping machines and bustling staff, there is a cocoon for each new family. After the chaotic and overwhelming adventure that is childbirth, that fatigued, awed retreat to a private space is an immeasurable gift.
Admittedly, I am a bit baby-obsessed, especially when it involves loved ones. Jeff has had to, on more than one occasion, pointedly tell me to stay put until a more appropriate time for a visit. I just can't help myself. There is such pure joy in the welcoming of a new life - and even more joy in witnessing the transformation of a child's parents and family.
It is amazing to me that one day, there is a child to be born and then the next, there is this brand new life that wasn't there before. When a baby is born, so are parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters. Perspectives, sleep habits, relationships, beliefs, lifestyles change. The world grows in love.
As a new mom, and then new mom of two, sitting in that hospital bed, I was grateful for the fleeting moments where the world was as tiny as I could make it. For a day or two, I could pretend that there was nothing beyond that threshold and attempt to process the new life the new life in my arms had brought to us. Each visit amplified our happiness, as we watched our family and friends meet our newest love. And when the lights dimmed for the night and it was just our little family again, we got to revel in the purity of this new beginning.
Visiting "new life" rooms is a fantastic treat, as I get to witness all of the excitement without facing any of the work. I love hearing Mom tell her birth story, while Dad (always busy with his computer, sharing pictures, working on correspondence, taking care of life) chimes in with extra details. I love proud Grandma on the couch who graciously lets me hold the baby for a little bit, even though it is her turn to rock. I love the wonder on each parent's face, the fatigued scruffiness of Dad and the fresh-scrubbed I-put-on-makeup-to-feel-better-holy-cow-I-made-this-life shine in Mom's eyes. I love the sounds and smells and movements of a newborn, the teeny-tiny diapers and hospital-issued swaddle blankets. I love the quiet, even when it's not quiet, of the room and the seemingly impossible view out the window (because how can the world go on when life is changing so immensely?)
As doctor-phobic as they come, I know that hospital rooms are not romantic. We were more than ready to go home on our release days, as have been all of our friends and family. And yet, in the middle of real life, there are tugs of homesickness for those early days in a small room that baby first called home.
We drive by our hospital often in our daily comings and goings and Claire rarely misses the chance to point out where she and Jenna and her baby cousin were born. I nod and we wave to the hospital (we say hi to almost everything in town). Inevitably, I glance at those windows and wonder about the lives that are changing within. A hospital is a keeper of many stories, but I'm drawn irresistibly to the stories of births - of babies, of parents, of families, of new beginnings.
Drawn so much that we just may have to find our way back to one of those rooms ourselves someday...
Sunday, May 12, 2013
In the Driver's Seat
When I was in my early twenties, I bought a book called How to Be a Lady, a contemporary guide to polished presence. I thought it might look sophisticated perched next to the candles in my guest bathroom, but I also quietly hoped that it would help me define myself as a woman in the world. Eager in my professional and personal beginnings, I wanted to ensure that I had all of my bases covered.
Ten years later, I sold it at a garage sale, along with some earnest quote plaques, fancy wine bottle stoppers (is it a problem that I rarely need one?) and "going out" clothes from the same decade.
I did, however, read it. More than once. Among the author's many suggestions was the admonition that a lady never apply her makeup in public - especially not in her car.
One look at my minivan's driver's seat visor and my blatant disregard for said rule is immediately obvious.
"What ya doin', Mom?" Claire, the ultimate in backseat drivers, pipes each morning at the last stoplight before her caregiver's home. Bronzer brush in hand, I make comical wide-eyes at her in the rear view mirror.
"Putting on makeup," I offer, winking at Jenna, who giggles and pretends to wipe a brush across her chubby cheeks.
"But why?" chirps Claire. It's a common question in our house.
"Because that's what mommies do." I watch her look out the window, her thin blonde hair curling a little just under her jaw line. For a moment, her pure, childish grace overwhelms me.
I'm always uncomfortable with the makeup conversation, as I want my daughters to feel beautiful as they are, to feel strong in the world - to feel that their intellect, opinions, talents and hearts are seen and celebrated, that their worth is not tied to appearance. It's a weighty topic in a pre-7am world and one I don't know how to tackle with my under-3 pair. I swallow the heart tug and reach an arm around to tickle Claire's long legs, earning kicking laughter. The light turns green and I drive through the intersection and into the first emotional crossroad road of the day.
After sweet kisses in a friendly driveway, I'm back in the driver's seat, tuning the radio from the girls' favorite CD to a livelier song that fills the silence. As the car shifts automatically, I negotiate my own internal shifts. Mom-mode transitions into teacher-mode, complete with final applications of lipstick and eyeliner. Parked in my usual spot, watching high schoolers attempt to parallel park and wondering about what my daughters will look like on their way to school someday, I glance at the mirror. My eyes look tired - and there are lines! - but my public face is finished. It's not coincidence that mascara is the last thing applied, nor that it's waterproof.
Sometimes the weight of that driver's door seems impossible to budge. I sit in that seat, in between worlds, and breathe. When I finally emerge, I tackle the day, carrying my girls' voices in my head, seeking to give others' children the best of me, as I would want the best for my own. I engage, question and challenge teenagers for eight hours, seeing now, with new eyes, the children they once were behind the stubble, acne and fake tans. I often laughingly, achingly, wonder how I can handle 150 of them with relative ease, but be brought to my knees by one two-year-old. At the final bell, after a last scurry to the bathroom where I can go in peace, I'm back in the driver's seat: one final song for Mom before the chorus of toddler chatter envelopes the car.
Home again, the shifts continue. Amid the flurry of dog, bags, potty, dinner, baths, books, and bed, I fight my way to find the groove, learning, sometimes in stumbling steps, how to do the dance of motherhood. It's good that I have a patient audience and lots of sticky, sweaty, sweet hugs along the way.
End of day, one final time in front the bathroom mirror, I look at a face life-stripped of makeup and picture the next morning. No matter how early that alarm is, inevitably I'll be finishing my face in the car. Yes, I'll be breaking a Lady rule, but I'm not as nervous about those as I once was. I am not perfect...but I am loved perfectly.
By two little girls, one slobbery dog and one amazing, best-friend-of-a-husband.
From my view in the driver's seat, that's a pretty great place to be.
Ten years later, I sold it at a garage sale, along with some earnest quote plaques, fancy wine bottle stoppers (is it a problem that I rarely need one?) and "going out" clothes from the same decade.
I did, however, read it. More than once. Among the author's many suggestions was the admonition that a lady never apply her makeup in public - especially not in her car.
One look at my minivan's driver's seat visor and my blatant disregard for said rule is immediately obvious.
"What ya doin', Mom?" Claire, the ultimate in backseat drivers, pipes each morning at the last stoplight before her caregiver's home. Bronzer brush in hand, I make comical wide-eyes at her in the rear view mirror.
"Putting on makeup," I offer, winking at Jenna, who giggles and pretends to wipe a brush across her chubby cheeks.
"But why?" chirps Claire. It's a common question in our house.
"Because that's what mommies do." I watch her look out the window, her thin blonde hair curling a little just under her jaw line. For a moment, her pure, childish grace overwhelms me.
I'm always uncomfortable with the makeup conversation, as I want my daughters to feel beautiful as they are, to feel strong in the world - to feel that their intellect, opinions, talents and hearts are seen and celebrated, that their worth is not tied to appearance. It's a weighty topic in a pre-7am world and one I don't know how to tackle with my under-3 pair. I swallow the heart tug and reach an arm around to tickle Claire's long legs, earning kicking laughter. The light turns green and I drive through the intersection and into the first emotional crossroad road of the day.
After sweet kisses in a friendly driveway, I'm back in the driver's seat, tuning the radio from the girls' favorite CD to a livelier song that fills the silence. As the car shifts automatically, I negotiate my own internal shifts. Mom-mode transitions into teacher-mode, complete with final applications of lipstick and eyeliner. Parked in my usual spot, watching high schoolers attempt to parallel park and wondering about what my daughters will look like on their way to school someday, I glance at the mirror. My eyes look tired - and there are lines! - but my public face is finished. It's not coincidence that mascara is the last thing applied, nor that it's waterproof.
Sometimes the weight of that driver's door seems impossible to budge. I sit in that seat, in between worlds, and breathe. When I finally emerge, I tackle the day, carrying my girls' voices in my head, seeking to give others' children the best of me, as I would want the best for my own. I engage, question and challenge teenagers for eight hours, seeing now, with new eyes, the children they once were behind the stubble, acne and fake tans. I often laughingly, achingly, wonder how I can handle 150 of them with relative ease, but be brought to my knees by one two-year-old. At the final bell, after a last scurry to the bathroom where I can go in peace, I'm back in the driver's seat: one final song for Mom before the chorus of toddler chatter envelopes the car.
Home again, the shifts continue. Amid the flurry of dog, bags, potty, dinner, baths, books, and bed, I fight my way to find the groove, learning, sometimes in stumbling steps, how to do the dance of motherhood. It's good that I have a patient audience and lots of sticky, sweaty, sweet hugs along the way.
End of day, one final time in front the bathroom mirror, I look at a face life-stripped of makeup and picture the next morning. No matter how early that alarm is, inevitably I'll be finishing my face in the car. Yes, I'll be breaking a Lady rule, but I'm not as nervous about those as I once was. I am not perfect...but I am loved perfectly.
By two little girls, one slobbery dog and one amazing, best-friend-of-a-husband.
From my view in the driver's seat, that's a pretty great place to be.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Chasing My Inner Athlete
My in-laws just returned from a fantastic trip and gifted our girls with a beautiful set of handmade Russian nesting dolls. I was thrilled to receive them, as my sister and I grew up playing with our own set. I always found the doll within a doll-within-a-doll arrangement fascinating and strangely comforting. No matter how many dolls I opened, there were always more waiting for me; that final, solid doll, small, smooth and smiling in my hand, seemed like the perfect reward for my unscrewing efforts. Though the surrounding dolls were bigger and more vivid, she, the core doll, held everything together.
I thought of them tonight as I plodded sweatily through my run, thumb flicking through ipod song choices in a rather desperate search for inspiration. Somehow, I hoped, the right rhythm would move my feet, the right words would still my thoughts, the right tone would let me just let go.
Those first few minutes of my runs are the worse, as my 17-year-old self offers 33-year-old me snarky reminders of what "used to be," inevitably locking me in a stupid, stubborn battle over pace and distance. On a good day, I can quiet the competitive voices and lose myself in the run, luxuriating in the amazing space of time where I am responsible only for myself. On others, I have to fight my way through every step, knowing that, at the very (unpretty) least, I gained a small victory by even running in the first place.
You would think that my love for running - or, more importantly, my need to run - would ensure that I would be a regular runner all of my life. And yet, that hasn't been the case. Life has intruded along the way, with unspoken insecurities and fears often causing my running shoes to collect more dust than dirt. Any former athlete will tell you that the one of the hardest hurdles is getting back on track once you have stopped competing and working. It is a humbling, humbling process...
In the past year, my husband has lost a significant amount of weight. His transformation has been amazing to witness and I've met, for the first time in my life, the athlete he was in college. He rises early in the morning to swim, bike or run and has faced the challenge of reshaping his body, his mind and his self-image head on. He's been inspired and inspiring - and a complete wake up call for me. In the 10 years that I have known him, I have been the fit (or at least fitter) one. All of a sudden, my reality was redefined. I needed to find my inner athlete. And no one was going to unearth her but me.
As a new mom of two, I've learned a great deal in the past six months. I love my girls and have actually settled more naturally into motherhood than I did as a mom only to Claire. I have found my footing and love what life has become but in doing so, there are some parts of me that I've let slide into the background.
I think any mom will tell you that she keeps (the occasional?) score in her head. No matter how balanced a parenting partnership is, Mom is going to feel like she bears the bulk of the load and that Dad doesn't (quite) know what her day/heart/life/mind is all about. I'll admit it: I envied my husband's freedom to focus on his health and fitness. I was jealous of his time on his feet, on his bike, in the pool. I would sometimes grow irrationally frustrated with his fitness "ah-ha" moments and new running path discoveries, thinking that I had "been there, done that," so why was he an expert?
And yet, even in my crabbiness, I knew the truth: no one was going to get me back out there again but me. And no one would be a bigger cheerleader for me in that pursuit than my husband.
So, I've laced my shoes up again, purposefully carved out time during naps or bedtime and forced myself out the door. I even signed up again for a half-marathon. Who the hell knows how I'll actually do (racing makes me so nervous!) but I'm out there trying.
The other day, I went for my longest run since before Claire was born, finally letting go of my battle with pace and relaxing into the experience of the run. Crossing the driveway's finish line, I found my husband chattering at our youngest, her pajama-ed feet kicking away in the stroller as she oversaw Dad's garage organization. It was one of those scenes you capture with your heart's camera.
"How did it go?" he asked, taking in my panting form. Jenna blinked at me, curious and smiling.
"Actually, pretty great," I grinned.
And somewhere, deep inside, under all those other life layers, my little inner athlete smiled too.
I thought of them tonight as I plodded sweatily through my run, thumb flicking through ipod song choices in a rather desperate search for inspiration. Somehow, I hoped, the right rhythm would move my feet, the right words would still my thoughts, the right tone would let me just let go.
Those first few minutes of my runs are the worse, as my 17-year-old self offers 33-year-old me snarky reminders of what "used to be," inevitably locking me in a stupid, stubborn battle over pace and distance. On a good day, I can quiet the competitive voices and lose myself in the run, luxuriating in the amazing space of time where I am responsible only for myself. On others, I have to fight my way through every step, knowing that, at the very (unpretty) least, I gained a small victory by even running in the first place.
You would think that my love for running - or, more importantly, my need to run - would ensure that I would be a regular runner all of my life. And yet, that hasn't been the case. Life has intruded along the way, with unspoken insecurities and fears often causing my running shoes to collect more dust than dirt. Any former athlete will tell you that the one of the hardest hurdles is getting back on track once you have stopped competing and working. It is a humbling, humbling process...
In the past year, my husband has lost a significant amount of weight. His transformation has been amazing to witness and I've met, for the first time in my life, the athlete he was in college. He rises early in the morning to swim, bike or run and has faced the challenge of reshaping his body, his mind and his self-image head on. He's been inspired and inspiring - and a complete wake up call for me. In the 10 years that I have known him, I have been the fit (or at least fitter) one. All of a sudden, my reality was redefined. I needed to find my inner athlete. And no one was going to unearth her but me.
As a new mom of two, I've learned a great deal in the past six months. I love my girls and have actually settled more naturally into motherhood than I did as a mom only to Claire. I have found my footing and love what life has become but in doing so, there are some parts of me that I've let slide into the background.
I think any mom will tell you that she keeps (the occasional?) score in her head. No matter how balanced a parenting partnership is, Mom is going to feel like she bears the bulk of the load and that Dad doesn't (quite) know what her day/heart/life/mind is all about. I'll admit it: I envied my husband's freedom to focus on his health and fitness. I was jealous of his time on his feet, on his bike, in the pool. I would sometimes grow irrationally frustrated with his fitness "ah-ha" moments and new running path discoveries, thinking that I had "been there, done that," so why was he an expert?
And yet, even in my crabbiness, I knew the truth: no one was going to get me back out there again but me. And no one would be a bigger cheerleader for me in that pursuit than my husband.
So, I've laced my shoes up again, purposefully carved out time during naps or bedtime and forced myself out the door. I even signed up again for a half-marathon. Who the hell knows how I'll actually do (racing makes me so nervous!) but I'm out there trying.
The other day, I went for my longest run since before Claire was born, finally letting go of my battle with pace and relaxing into the experience of the run. Crossing the driveway's finish line, I found my husband chattering at our youngest, her pajama-ed feet kicking away in the stroller as she oversaw Dad's garage organization. It was one of those scenes you capture with your heart's camera.
"How did it go?" he asked, taking in my panting form. Jenna blinked at me, curious and smiling.
"Actually, pretty great," I grinned.
And somewhere, deep inside, under all those other life layers, my little inner athlete smiled too.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Too
I've had some moments that aren't going to make the highlight reel of motherhood.
Take, for instance, my "argument" with my 23-month-old the other morning. After Claire threw everything out of her crib, a shrill "NO!" looping on repeat, I too became two. In a less than stellar performance, I countered with "Stop it!" and tossed a blanket in the corner for good measure.
She blinked at me, startled, breath hitching. Mom had officially lost it.
I hugged her without saying anything and for the next twenty minutes, we were very careful with each other. She played in her crib, singing along with the Wiggles while I headed to the shower to regather myself. Water pounding on my head, I contemplated my reflection in my husband's shaving mirror. There, blinking back at me, was my inner two-year-old.
Sometimes, in the heart of one of Claire's outbursts, I look at her face and know exactly how she's feeling. I see her emotion and imagine how freeing it would feel to be able to express myself without filter. If only I could fling myself to the floor in stubborn refusal to give in to someone else's directions. If only I could be unapologetically honest. If only I could let all my feelings fly out without restraint - all of the good and bad and in-between ones - and not later dwell on how I should have handled things.
As Claire approaches the beginning of her 24th month, she's living in high definition. Everything she feels, experiences and expresses is intense and new and sometimes all-consuming. Jeff and I are amazed at her seemingly overnight development. The little girl who wakes up in the morning is somehow vastly different than the sleepy toddler we put to bed at night. Her transformation is bittersweet for us: we are in awe of the little human she's becoming but often homesick for the baby that she was. Time is passing a bit too quickly.
While in the midst of a battle of wills with my oldest daughter, I don't have the capacity to focus on the bigger picture of her development. When she throws food off her high chair or kicks in protest against riding in the stroller or yells at the dog to get out of her way, I can't sit back with Zen-like calm and think, "This too shall pass."
But the truth is, it will. The challenging Mom-moments always do. More importantly, the innocent freedom that allows Claire to show exactly how she feels will someday disappear. I hope that as she grows, I can be a safe place for her to turn.
When we talk, face to face with older eyes, I want her to know that I understand her emotions. Because, chances are, I'll feel them too.
Take, for instance, my "argument" with my 23-month-old the other morning. After Claire threw everything out of her crib, a shrill "NO!" looping on repeat, I too became two. In a less than stellar performance, I countered with "Stop it!" and tossed a blanket in the corner for good measure.
She blinked at me, startled, breath hitching. Mom had officially lost it.
I hugged her without saying anything and for the next twenty minutes, we were very careful with each other. She played in her crib, singing along with the Wiggles while I headed to the shower to regather myself. Water pounding on my head, I contemplated my reflection in my husband's shaving mirror. There, blinking back at me, was my inner two-year-old.
Sometimes, in the heart of one of Claire's outbursts, I look at her face and know exactly how she's feeling. I see her emotion and imagine how freeing it would feel to be able to express myself without filter. If only I could fling myself to the floor in stubborn refusal to give in to someone else's directions. If only I could be unapologetically honest. If only I could let all my feelings fly out without restraint - all of the good and bad and in-between ones - and not later dwell on how I should have handled things.
As Claire approaches the beginning of her 24th month, she's living in high definition. Everything she feels, experiences and expresses is intense and new and sometimes all-consuming. Jeff and I are amazed at her seemingly overnight development. The little girl who wakes up in the morning is somehow vastly different than the sleepy toddler we put to bed at night. Her transformation is bittersweet for us: we are in awe of the little human she's becoming but often homesick for the baby that she was. Time is passing a bit too quickly.
While in the midst of a battle of wills with my oldest daughter, I don't have the capacity to focus on the bigger picture of her development. When she throws food off her high chair or kicks in protest against riding in the stroller or yells at the dog to get out of her way, I can't sit back with Zen-like calm and think, "This too shall pass."
But the truth is, it will. The challenging Mom-moments always do. More importantly, the innocent freedom that allows Claire to show exactly how she feels will someday disappear. I hope that as she grows, I can be a safe place for her to turn.
When we talk, face to face with older eyes, I want her to know that I understand her emotions. Because, chances are, I'll feel them too.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Love, Amplified
I'll admit it: as an oldest-child-mom-of-one, I was (a bit) worried about adding another baby to our family.
My husband, a middle child, gently teased, "Um, Megan? Life didn't end for my brother when I was born."
My sister, also a middle child, openly laughed: "Seriously, Megan? Would you prefer I wasn't here?"
My mom, yet another middle child, just smiled and patted me, offering, "A mom's heart is full of love for all of her kids. You'll see."
My head swirling with their words, I turned my anxiety inward, my heart twisting a little each time Claire sat on my lap, back pressed against my pregnant belly, her little sister tap dancing in utero. We had a cozy little world, the three of us and the dog. While I was thrilled to be pregnant with our second, I couldn't help but wonder what this new addition would bring.
Perhaps this is a worry shared by other moms, an unspoken one because there aren't really the "right" words to express the feeling. It's not that I wasn't excited to meet my youngest daughter or that I was worried I wouldn't love her as I did Claire. I think it was more of the unknown of it all...how would Claire feel? How would I share my time? Could I be the mom to our youngest that I had been to our oldest? What would happen to our marriage? At my most vulnerable, I even panicked about the dog. How would he react to another one? Would he ever have any attention? If I couldn't imagine adding another dog to our family, how was I going to add another child?
In the middle of the night, after yet another trip to the bathroom, I would pause in the doorway of the nursery, watching Claire breathe. She was my baby. What would another baby be like?
The moment Jenna was born, my heart exploded. The entire birth experience was a special one, maybe because we weren't so overwhelmed by what to expect. Jeff is a fantastic partner and there is something so intimate (even in such a institutional setting) about the world contained in that hospital room. When the nurses put her in my arms and I saw her face for the first time, everything my mom had said became clear. Jenna was meant to be ours.
Jeff and I tell first time expectant parents that the minute you meet your child, you love each other more than the day you got married. For as much joy, anticipation and celebration there is in "I do," there is ten times that in the welcoming of Baby. For us, welcoming Baby #2 intensified that feeling even more.
Holding Jenna, I was overcome with relief and wonder. My heart could hold both of my girls - and their dad. My world, my family, had grown in love.
When Claire burst into the room to meet her sister for the first time, her big eyes eager to see what all of the fuss was about, I knew that we had also given Claire a gift. She, like her mom, would have the chance to be a big sister. And there's nothing greater than that.
This morning, as we had breakfast together on the couch, Jenna on one knee and Claire on the other, Rocky snoring at my feet, I smiled at the fullness of my lap and my heart.
Adding to our family didn't divide my love, as I had quietly feared. It amplified it.
I am humbled and grateful for that gift.
My husband, a middle child, gently teased, "Um, Megan? Life didn't end for my brother when I was born."
My sister, also a middle child, openly laughed: "Seriously, Megan? Would you prefer I wasn't here?"
My mom, yet another middle child, just smiled and patted me, offering, "A mom's heart is full of love for all of her kids. You'll see."
My head swirling with their words, I turned my anxiety inward, my heart twisting a little each time Claire sat on my lap, back pressed against my pregnant belly, her little sister tap dancing in utero. We had a cozy little world, the three of us and the dog. While I was thrilled to be pregnant with our second, I couldn't help but wonder what this new addition would bring.
Perhaps this is a worry shared by other moms, an unspoken one because there aren't really the "right" words to express the feeling. It's not that I wasn't excited to meet my youngest daughter or that I was worried I wouldn't love her as I did Claire. I think it was more of the unknown of it all...how would Claire feel? How would I share my time? Could I be the mom to our youngest that I had been to our oldest? What would happen to our marriage? At my most vulnerable, I even panicked about the dog. How would he react to another one? Would he ever have any attention? If I couldn't imagine adding another dog to our family, how was I going to add another child?
In the middle of the night, after yet another trip to the bathroom, I would pause in the doorway of the nursery, watching Claire breathe. She was my baby. What would another baby be like?
The moment Jenna was born, my heart exploded. The entire birth experience was a special one, maybe because we weren't so overwhelmed by what to expect. Jeff is a fantastic partner and there is something so intimate (even in such a institutional setting) about the world contained in that hospital room. When the nurses put her in my arms and I saw her face for the first time, everything my mom had said became clear. Jenna was meant to be ours.
Jeff and I tell first time expectant parents that the minute you meet your child, you love each other more than the day you got married. For as much joy, anticipation and celebration there is in "I do," there is ten times that in the welcoming of Baby. For us, welcoming Baby #2 intensified that feeling even more.
Holding Jenna, I was overcome with relief and wonder. My heart could hold both of my girls - and their dad. My world, my family, had grown in love.
When Claire burst into the room to meet her sister for the first time, her big eyes eager to see what all of the fuss was about, I knew that we had also given Claire a gift. She, like her mom, would have the chance to be a big sister. And there's nothing greater than that.
This morning, as we had breakfast together on the couch, Jenna on one knee and Claire on the other, Rocky snoring at my feet, I smiled at the fullness of my lap and my heart.
Adding to our family didn't divide my love, as I had quietly feared. It amplified it.
I am humbled and grateful for that gift.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Reflections at the Kitchen Counter
I felt the urge to write today. It's 3:54 and I've been home for 15 minutes. In those 15 minutes, I've attempted to settle Claire in for a late afternoon nap, sorted the mail, let the dog out, started the dryer, emptied bottles and arranged them carefully on the top row of the dishwasher. I should change clothes and prepare for dinner, should tackle the bulging file folders in my school bag, should dig out coupons for the shopping trip I need to tackle when Jeff gets home, should start the myriad of small tasks associated with my sister's upcoming bridal shower and bachelorette party this weekend.
I should do all of my shoulds in the 15 minutes that follow this moment and the 15 minutes that follow that.
But I need to write.
I haven't blogged since I went back to school, though it's been on my list of things to do. I have a notepad scrawled with possible titles, jotted down as life and emotions hit. I blog in my head often, though those internal writings read more like a strand of Facebook status updates: "Some mornings, opening the car door in the school parking lot is the biggest challenge of the day" or "At times, I feel like the babysitter, not the mom" or "It's an odd, out-of-body-feeling opening your birthday presents with your daughter watching" or "I'm tired of poop. The literal, the metaphoric, the dog and the baby. My life is full of poop!" Part of the reason for "all quiet on the blog front" (Holy literary allusion!) is a packed schedule and overloaded brain but I have a feeling the silence is a little more complicated than that.
Perhaps it's that I don't want to read my thoughts or see my emotions so starkly placed in print.
Because putting them down - and out there - means acknowledging them fully. Sometimes that list of things to do is a convenient cover for the quiet heart tugs of the day -
I hate that my sitter (I hate that word) is the one to tell me what Claire is now doing in her day.
I died as I picked her up today and saw her become a little unnerved when I put her in the carseat. Died even more when her sitter's hand calmed her and not my own.
I feel a bit undone by the sweet picture my sitter's son made for Claire. Its bright flowers and message scrawled by five-year-old hands point to a life for Claire I don't know fully. I love her full face smile and her obvious delight in the day she shares with my sitter's children but I'm torn by the mystery that is my child's day.
I am happy when she visits morning library hour - yet my stomach wrenches each time I see that notation in the day's planner and imagine her eager little head and clapping hands, her bouncing bottom keeping time on someone else's lap.
I hate the up and down feelings that come in those first 15 minutes at home as I trade the world of teaching for the world of Mom.
I love our mornings, cuddled in bed, playing in the high chair, wrestling with clothes. 4:30-7 is a whirlwind of Mommy and Daddy and Baby time. I love the afternoons, witnessing the enthusiastic Baby and Dog reunion, playing on the floor, patting our way through books. I love the evenings, splashing at bathtime, rocking with the final bottle, relishing the sweet, drift-off-to-sleep-in-footy-pajamas-bedtime.
But I miss our days.
I think that's what pulls at my heart, what I've most avoided putting in print.
There's so much good in our life and I'm thankful for those blessings. Our daughter is growing and happy and active and confident and sweet and funny - really funny. We're making new memories each day as a family - and learning what it is to be a family. Life is really better than we could have ever imagined.
It's just that my heart plays tug-of-war a lot. Maybe that's what being a parent is all about?
It's now 4:35. My 15 minutes are way past up. There's a little girl upstairs who decided the afternoon nap wasn't for her. And we have a whole day to catch up on.
Glad I had a chance to write - here's hoping that I make it back to blog land soon. It feels pretty good here, typing away at the kitchen counter.
I should do all of my shoulds in the 15 minutes that follow this moment and the 15 minutes that follow that.
But I need to write.
I haven't blogged since I went back to school, though it's been on my list of things to do. I have a notepad scrawled with possible titles, jotted down as life and emotions hit. I blog in my head often, though those internal writings read more like a strand of Facebook status updates: "Some mornings, opening the car door in the school parking lot is the biggest challenge of the day" or "At times, I feel like the babysitter, not the mom" or "It's an odd, out-of-body-feeling opening your birthday presents with your daughter watching" or "I'm tired of poop. The literal, the metaphoric, the dog and the baby. My life is full of poop!" Part of the reason for "all quiet on the blog front" (Holy literary allusion!) is a packed schedule and overloaded brain but I have a feeling the silence is a little more complicated than that.
Perhaps it's that I don't want to read my thoughts or see my emotions so starkly placed in print.
Because putting them down - and out there - means acknowledging them fully. Sometimes that list of things to do is a convenient cover for the quiet heart tugs of the day -
I hate that my sitter (I hate that word) is the one to tell me what Claire is now doing in her day.
I died as I picked her up today and saw her become a little unnerved when I put her in the carseat. Died even more when her sitter's hand calmed her and not my own.
I feel a bit undone by the sweet picture my sitter's son made for Claire. Its bright flowers and message scrawled by five-year-old hands point to a life for Claire I don't know fully. I love her full face smile and her obvious delight in the day she shares with my sitter's children but I'm torn by the mystery that is my child's day.
I am happy when she visits morning library hour - yet my stomach wrenches each time I see that notation in the day's planner and imagine her eager little head and clapping hands, her bouncing bottom keeping time on someone else's lap.
I hate the up and down feelings that come in those first 15 minutes at home as I trade the world of teaching for the world of Mom.
I love our mornings, cuddled in bed, playing in the high chair, wrestling with clothes. 4:30-7 is a whirlwind of Mommy and Daddy and Baby time. I love the afternoons, witnessing the enthusiastic Baby and Dog reunion, playing on the floor, patting our way through books. I love the evenings, splashing at bathtime, rocking with the final bottle, relishing the sweet, drift-off-to-sleep-in-footy-pajamas-bedtime.
But I miss our days.
I think that's what pulls at my heart, what I've most avoided putting in print.
There's so much good in our life and I'm thankful for those blessings. Our daughter is growing and happy and active and confident and sweet and funny - really funny. We're making new memories each day as a family - and learning what it is to be a family. Life is really better than we could have ever imagined.
It's just that my heart plays tug-of-war a lot. Maybe that's what being a parent is all about?
It's now 4:35. My 15 minutes are way past up. There's a little girl upstairs who decided the afternoon nap wasn't for her. And we have a whole day to catch up on.
Glad I had a chance to write - here's hoping that I make it back to blog land soon. It feels pretty good here, typing away at the kitchen counter.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Only One Way Off This Ride
I'm cleaning closets like a madwoman.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The New Mile High Club
Well, I did it.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
And Poof! Life Changed
"You have a baby. In a bar."
Reese Witherspoon's Sweet Home Alabama quote flitted through my brain as I opened the diaper bag with my teeth and furtively looked for a suitable place to change my stinkily sweet daughter. She tugged at my earring as I surveyed the situation. Of course a bar wouldn't have a diaper changing station in a bathroom stall. I have a baby. In a bar.
The irony wasn't lost on me as I grabbed a clean floor space and wrangled a fresh diaper over kicking legs, careful not to crumple a red velvet Santa dress. I had been in that same stall many times a lifetime ago under extremely different circumstances. Operation Diaper Change successful, I headed to the sink. A mom blinked back at me in the mirror where a black bar pants wearing twenty-something fixed her makeup a few years ago. My daughter screeched with delight at her own reflection and I smiled at her lit-up face. Where exactly did time go?
My husband and I shared a laugh when I returned to the table, remembering vividly just how life used to be. We were having Breakfast with Santa with our infant daughter in the same place we haunted as eager twenty-one-year-olds finally legally allowed to be inside the patio wall after dark. The morning was delightful and we got a good chuckle at the bleary-eyed stares of the wait staff who we knew hadn't seen an 8am shift in years. Our daughter sat in quiet awe on Santa's lap and we enjoyed some much needed family time in the mad rush that was Christmas. And yet, as we climbed into our very responsible mid-sized SUV to put our little girl down for a nap, we couldn't help but think of the people we once were. How did we get here?
It's a question that springs up occasionally. When I was cleared to drive on my own after having a baby, I took my daughter to visit my parents. I was enjoying the freedom of life outside the house and even tuned the radio (softly) to a non-kid station. Tapping the steering wheel contentedly, I pulled up to a four-way stop and it hit me: I'm a mom. There was a car seat in my rear view mirror. I was that car. I was a mom.
A few months later, I met a friend for coffee at a popular local breakfast spot. As we settled in to our table, our car seats safely situated next to us, we looked at each other and giggled a little nervously. We were those moms. Those moms who took babies to have coffee. How exactly did we become those moms? Weren't we just those fun-loving college graduates? Weren't we just those bright-eyed girls with a sparkly new ring? Weren't we just those active, eager newlyweds? How did someone allow us to have babies?
I wouldn't change a thing about life in the present. Being a mom is a fantastic state of being. I'm just constantly struck by the fact that I don't feel like a mom - at least not the feeling my younger self imagined it would be. I'm lucky that my daughter doesn't know any different. To her, I'm Mom and Mom knows everything. I'm happy to have her fooled!
Reese Witherspoon's Sweet Home Alabama quote flitted through my brain as I opened the diaper bag with my teeth and furtively looked for a suitable place to change my stinkily sweet daughter. She tugged at my earring as I surveyed the situation. Of course a bar wouldn't have a diaper changing station in a bathroom stall. I have a baby. In a bar.
The irony wasn't lost on me as I grabbed a clean floor space and wrangled a fresh diaper over kicking legs, careful not to crumple a red velvet Santa dress. I had been in that same stall many times a lifetime ago under extremely different circumstances. Operation Diaper Change successful, I headed to the sink. A mom blinked back at me in the mirror where a black bar pants wearing twenty-something fixed her makeup a few years ago. My daughter screeched with delight at her own reflection and I smiled at her lit-up face. Where exactly did time go?
My husband and I shared a laugh when I returned to the table, remembering vividly just how life used to be. We were having Breakfast with Santa with our infant daughter in the same place we haunted as eager twenty-one-year-olds finally legally allowed to be inside the patio wall after dark. The morning was delightful and we got a good chuckle at the bleary-eyed stares of the wait staff who we knew hadn't seen an 8am shift in years. Our daughter sat in quiet awe on Santa's lap and we enjoyed some much needed family time in the mad rush that was Christmas. And yet, as we climbed into our very responsible mid-sized SUV to put our little girl down for a nap, we couldn't help but think of the people we once were. How did we get here?
It's a question that springs up occasionally. When I was cleared to drive on my own after having a baby, I took my daughter to visit my parents. I was enjoying the freedom of life outside the house and even tuned the radio (softly) to a non-kid station. Tapping the steering wheel contentedly, I pulled up to a four-way stop and it hit me: I'm a mom. There was a car seat in my rear view mirror. I was that car. I was a mom.
A few months later, I met a friend for coffee at a popular local breakfast spot. As we settled in to our table, our car seats safely situated next to us, we looked at each other and giggled a little nervously. We were those moms. Those moms who took babies to have coffee. How exactly did we become those moms? Weren't we just those fun-loving college graduates? Weren't we just those bright-eyed girls with a sparkly new ring? Weren't we just those active, eager newlyweds? How did someone allow us to have babies?
I wouldn't change a thing about life in the present. Being a mom is a fantastic state of being. I'm just constantly struck by the fact that I don't feel like a mom - at least not the feeling my younger self imagined it would be. I'm lucky that my daughter doesn't know any different. To her, I'm Mom and Mom knows everything. I'm happy to have her fooled!
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