Wake UP

Having a toddler is very much like waking up from a long, unexpected afternoon nap. The kind of nap where you didn't get a chance to brush your teeth or take your makeup off first. The kind that leaves you in a terrible, groggy funk for the rest of the day; until real bedtime comes along, and is ruined because you aren't tired anymore. I'm right about this, just listen.

When you have a newborn you fall into a sleep deprived, emotionally driven haze. You put your car keys in the freezer, put the clean diaper on without taking the dirty one off, and you crumple to tears when you try to add up the amount of sleep you've gotten in the last 36 hours. (A number which may very well be in the single digits.) Your husband stands timidly at a distance wanting to help, but also knowing the greatest gift he can give you is to let you yell at him for awhile without expecting you to be logical or sorry when it comes out like, "Well maybe your mom is too nice, have you thought about THAT?!" Everything is hard. Normal things are ridiculously difficult. Taking a shower feels like finishing a marathon. Remembering to put deodorant on afterwards is the equivalent of a gold medal. How are you supposed to keep on being a person on top of all that?

So you go to sleep. (Unexpectedly, because it's one of those little tidbits no one ever shares with you beforehand.) You begin to realize that you can't go on as you are. You are too much to carry. Your interests, aspects of your personality, even some of your relationships have become too burdensome and time consuming. So you set down the things that are no longer vital and tuck them away for a long nap. Long term plans, hobbies, acquaintances, brooms, scrapbooking, eyeliner, and anything that has to do with current events. Not everything, and not the same things for everyone, but you lay down enough so that you can carry on, and you let those things slumber for however long. Some days you have to set everything down but the baby itself; you are alive, the baby is alive, and you don't care what eating out does to the budget, he's picking up Chick-fil-a on his way home. (May God help him if he forgets the sauce.) Other days you vaguely remember having opinions about things like climate change and GMOs and what happens in the second half of the movie you tried to watch the previous night.

Then, suddenly, your baby has nearly as many teeth as you do. He waddles around and eats goldfish crackers off the floor and sleeps through the night (LOL...but you get the point). For the first time in months (or years) you start to wake up. You stretch and wipe the sleep paste from your eyes, except you can't really stretch because your back is still out of place from lugging that baby carrier around for six months ... and the paste in your eyes is probably the pink eye your kid gave you (maybe you should get that checked out), and you are trying to figure out what year it is now and how old you might be. (Thirty-ish? Maybe.) You blink into the slanted rays of light coming through the blinds and you realize that it's gotten later, you're older, and there are still things you would like to do before the day is through. Also, you probably want a snack, but I digress.

Now I'll speak plainly for you people who are not fluent in avoidably complex metaphor. To become a mother is to experience the high of selflessness. There is absolutely nothing you would not joyfully give up or lay down for your new precious baby, even if it is whole pieces of your identity. That will never change. Whether your baby is brand new or 52, you give whatever you can for their success. However, what is required of you changes over time. It ebbs and flows. There comes a point when, after giving up everything for so long, they need you a little less, or at least a little differently. You are left with some empty time and a shelf full of dusty, slumbering pieces of yourself that you can either pick up and dust off, or forget about altogether. Should you call up that old friend and see if they can meet for a coffee date? Should you pull your paint and brushes out from the attic? Should you crochet? Begin Crossfit training? Start a garden? Finish reading the pile of books on your nightstand? ...... Should you write?

Even though I'm groggy, out of practice, and generally terrified of public opinion, I am choosing to write. I wasted too many years before I had kids worrying that I was unqualified and untalented, but I'm different now. I have spent the last six years walking around Walmart wearing leggings as pants and having so much dry shampoo matted into my hair it looked like I was in need of troll magic to remove the ice from my heart. Now I am shameless.

In light of all of this, an announcement: I am going to release a story I have been working on in a series of posts starting later this week. It isn't a funny story about my kids (losses the two subscribers I have). It's a work of fiction about a young woman who inherits a sword from a father she never knew, and the journey she embarks on to find him. It's called The Maiden of Inglaydius. 








(Note: I ate an entire pint of ice cream while writing this post. You guys make me anxious.)

Adelaide

I have a child who needs to be heard.

She needs you to make eye contact while she's speaking and to nod your head and to respond in full sentences. If my eyes begin to wander away or my replies become mumbled, she will place her chubby little hands on my face and turn my head back toward her until she can look me in the eye and ever so gently whisper, "Mommy, I don't like it when you talk to me like that."

She is completely confident in herself and she needs you to be completely confident in her as well. She has an opinion, or at the very least a commentary, for every circumstance. She has a plan, a suggestion, and in her own mind, she believes she has complete autonomy and presidential level veto power. She is not particularly inclined to obedience. Why ever would she want to follow an order that is totally lamer than her own? She doesn't care if you're happy about it or mad at her as long as you never ignore her; as long as you see that she was right, in the end. (Just realized I might possibly be raising President Obama. Hold on a sec while I Google law school tuition ..... Well, she'll make a great hairdresser.)

There is no greater offense her siblings could bestow upon her than to simply cover their ears and pretend she isn't speaking. The repercussions are immediate. And loud. And not easily placated.

Have you ever tried to reach into a mirror to fix your reflection's hair or straighten her clothes, but you just keep running into yourself? Over and over and over, no matter how hard you try? If she would just stay still you could set her hat on right, but instead she insists on rising up to meet you. If you keep trying you'll just end up frustrated. You'll end up hurt. And your reflection will be no better off. That's what it's like for me to raise Adelaide. That's what it's like to be in charge of instructing someone so much like myself.

This morning she dumped out a basket of toys and used it to climb onto the kitchen counter. Once she was done pushing all the buttons on the coffee maker she opened the doughnut box and ate all the frosting and sprinkles off of her sister's doughnut. When I caught her red-handed she covered her ears and ran down the hall screaming, "You aren't saying NOTHING, because I can't hear you."

Touche, Addy. Touche.

I see myself when I look at her. In the color of her skin and the flip of her hair. I see myself when she is being impossibly loud, impossibly sensitive, and impossible to correct. I see the road before her like an emotional suicide mission. She will put her foot in her mouth, and overreact, and rebel against every voice of reason ... at least once or twice. She will be told that she's too loud, too prideful, and too selfish. And she'll have to learn that everyone is right. She'll have to learn to hold her tongue. She'll have to learn to listen. She'll have to learn that her words are no less valuable just because they aren't meant for every second of every hour of everyday for every person. 

I want to shake her. To warn her. To give her the last 20 years of my life so she can avoid the painful lessons, but we just aren't the type who learn the easy way. Trying to force her to understand would do about as much good as painting makeup on your reflection.

So I'll do my best to turn my hands back around and brush my own teeth and button my own jacket. I'll comb my own hair and straighten my skirt. Maybe then my little reflection will see and follow suit. Maybe if I can face my own demons it'll give her strength to fight her own. 

I'll celebrate her strengths. I'll affirm her value. I'll trust the Good Shepherd whose rod and staff have never failed me. Who never let me wander too far and whose discipline was never too harsh. I'll do my best to love her in the process. 

You do you, BB. Mommy will be right here.

A Mother's Paradox

Today I refilled 10,000 bowls of Cheerios, and I yelled when they woke the baby. Then my three year old told me she knew I was proud of her, so I wrote this in an apple juice stained notebook and made everyone late for school.

I want you to leave me alone for five whole minutes. 
I want you to never stop needing me.

I want you to use your quiet voice
to tell me all your secrets.

You need to pick up your toys,
but don't you ever stop playing. 

I want you to never be afraid to color outside of the lines.
You should always look both ways before you do.

I want you to be fearless.
I want to carry your shield and fight all your battles.

Your wings will grow broad and you'll soar.
I want your feet strong enough to carry them.

I want you to love without restraint.
I want to keep your heart safe.

This world could never be good enough for you.
It needs your brave, kind heart so badly.

I'll be so proud of you when you're on your way.
I'll keep my eyes on the horizon, just in case.