There's no actual dining when you go out to supper.
Not with a toddler.
Especially not with a potty training toddler.
My friend Alyssa and I met at Panera last night with the intention of going to Target. She brought Brynn, who I could EAT UP, and of course Liam was along for the ride.
We got our meals and Liam ate the meat and cheese and yogurt and left the bread. Brynn was shoving her face with handfuls of sandwich bits. By the time we were all finished, the floor looked like...well, like two kids under the age of two had just dined there.
When I go out with Liam, I do not order hot food. There's really no purpose in heating anything up when it's just going to sit and get cold anyway.
There's this little dance that mom's do when they go out to eat. Because you know what your child will eat, and what he won't. And when you're going out, and you're actually spending cash money on food (and not just pulling from the freezer or pantry...) you're going to put a TON of thought into what is LEAST LIKELY to end up in the trash can on the way out. You scope out menus BEFORE you go in. Kids menu? Anything on it not fried? Anything on it come without fries? Anything on it going to make a minimal mess?
You get into the restaurant and the hostess eyes you up. You eye the hostess up. Those heels she's wearing are going to give her varicose veins. Just saying. She looks on her little white board eraser thingy for an opening in the noisy children zone. 20 minute wait. Sure, why not? Until you pack up your brood, get to another place with less of a wait, you should just wait the 20 minutes.
What do you do with a child under 2 for 20 minutes? Do you remember when they were just infants and you could use this little nugget of time to breast feed politely in a corner or feed them their bottle or get out the container of cheerios in an attempt to keep them occupied. No longer, my friend. Because now, your toddler is capable of something called "spoiling their supper." This happens when they find a handful of rogue goldfish snacks in their car seat on the way to the eatery. This happens when they ask for a drink before supper and "just a little sip" turns into them handing back the cup empty.
So you're sitting there waiting for your name to be called. "Do you have to go to the potty?" No. "Yes you do, let's go." NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. "Yes." (Because at this point, you don't want to be the push-over parent for all to see and silently mock) so you stuff your board of a child under one arm, and head for the bathroom. You come back. He didn't go. Your 2x2 foot space on the waiting bench is now occupied. You hold your child. You show him every number and letter you can find. "What's this?! An H! H is for HOUSE. You say it." "What is this? a 5? Party of Five! Let's count to FIVE!" You dig deep in the diaper bag for something to do. Oh, here's a bulletin from church on Sunday and a red crayon from the last place at which you attempted to eat! So you draw. Then he scribbles. Then he's done. Then you look and find a plastic bag that once contained snacks. You put it over your hand like a puppet. You put it over his hand like a puppet. The bag rips. You dig deeper. You find a teething toy from when he was actually- it wasn't THAT long ago, was it?? He puts it on as a bracelet. He can't get it off. He wails. "Fold your hand into a little...no listen, not a fist, no, listen make your hand like this...just put your fingers...Liam, stop. Liam." You get the teething ring off his hand. Your place on the bench is now free. Hey, weren't they their after you? Okay, whatever, it's been at LEAST 15 minutes, your turn is up soon. Liam lays on the floor. "Get off the floor!!! It's DIRTY!!!!" He cries. He's starving. You pick him up. You put him on the bench. He purposely slides off. You pick him up again. He jellies himself and drops to the floor. You hiss something in his ear about no ice cream. He stands up straight. He grabs you by the face and kisses you. Baby. Ice cream please. "We'll see."
You take out the dreaded cell phone. The thing you have always VOWED to take out only in times of emergency because it bothers you SO MUCH to see parents shove an electronic device into their kid's hands while acting out. Guess what, sister? You're that person tonight. Thankfully it fills up the exact amount of time it takes for you to get your table and get seated. They have a high chair waiting. Great, your child doesn't fit in a high chair any more...and they're all out of boosters. Of course they are! It's fine, you'll eat with him on your lap.
You get situated and put in your order. Salad for you, white pizza with broccoli for him. Baby drink. "Let me help-" nope. Words out of my mouth...water on my lap. On my plate. On my purse, on the dreaded phone. The bus boy runs over to help. There's a small waterfall streaming over the side of the table onto the floor. You now have the attention of the entire restaurant. Liam starts to cry, and then like magic, the cold water on his inevitably warm body had encouraged him to, you guessed it! Pee down the leg. Some people would take the high road at this point- offer to help clean up- until you catch your son splashing in the water/pee and you decided you just need to make a clean break from this place. "Can we please get our food to go."
You shove a $5 tip on a $10 meal in the hands of the bus boy and head for the car, child on the hip, scalding hot box of pizza in your hand.
Maybe you'll try it again.
When he's 10.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
365 Days Ago
On August 6th, I celebrated (observed? There was no cake, so it can't be a celebration...). On August 6th, I observed the date I found out I had MS last year.
There was no fanfare. I didn't make a heartfelt post on Facebook so everyone could "ooh" and "ahh" at me. Tell me how strong I was- how BRAVE I was. To tell the truth...I never post it on Facebook a year ago. The thing with people is, they like a good story, they like a good morsel to talk about, but they're not long term. Most aren't.
I did text a friend, however. A friend who has just checked in with my and stood by me. Brought me food. Loved on me and my family, even while she was going through her own stuff. Got muddy with me while we ran for MuckFest. Held my hand as we crossed the finish line.
I text her: One year ago today, I was diagnosed.
She said: I bet 365 days ago you were wondering where you'd be in 365 days.
She was totally right. I looked back at my blog post from last year- something I never do. My marriage was crashing, and I mean CRASH-ING. There were talks of who would stay and who would go. My son was not sleeping (my son will still not sleep, but it's better.) My leg, my mind, my soul was just...numb.
I looked back at my blog 730 days ago. I was pregnant. I called the cops on a woman who left her dog in the car. I wondered that day what wisdom I would impart on my son- what would I want him to see in that situation?
What if 1095 days ago, someone would've told me- you're going to decide to have a baby in a few months- it's going to be on the first try- it's going to be a boy- his name will be Liam.
What if 1460 days ago, someone would've told me- you're going to be in bankruptcy by the end of the year. You will need to claim everything you own. You're going to have to sell stuff and give stuff back. It's going to be terribly difficult.
WHAT IF 1825 DAYS AGO someone would have sat down with me and my fiancé and say- you know that sickness or in health part? It's going to be a reality for you in many ways. You know that richer or poorer stuff? You're going to experience it in very tangible ways. You know that in good times and bad stuff? You will be able to write books about that topic. And it will ALL HAPPEN in the next 5 years. 1825 days from now.
We drove past my high school a few days ago. My mind did a little flashback sequence to a moment I had not remembered in many, many years. In my minds eye, I saw a 14 year old version of myself sitting on the stairs, head in my hands, hair in curls, blue dress, white sweater, white sandals. I think I was wearing tiny red roses in my hair. It was a school concert, and I was supposed to meet my then boyfriend on the steps afterwards. I waited 10 minutes. I waited 15 minutes. I waited 30 minutes. A friend came out and gently told me- he wasn't coming. He left with another girl. It was over. When you're 14... this is earth shattering. Heck, when you're ANY age, this is earth shattering. I went on to take him back time after time, and he was always unfaithful. And then I met Andy, and then my life story really started to take shape.
But if someone would have gently told me, 15 years ago, 5475 days ago; This. Is. Not. The. End. You will meet someone. You will get married. You will have a son. You will rescue dogs from cars. You will be diagnosed with MS. You will experience heartache deeper than this and you will not be moved. You will survive. You. Will. THRIVE.
Would I have listened? All those 365 days ago, would I have listened? Honestly, I think I was listening. It's that still small voice that whispers, "This too shall pass. Cling to what you know. Pray and have faith. This is not the end."
See ya in another 365.
There was no fanfare. I didn't make a heartfelt post on Facebook so everyone could "ooh" and "ahh" at me. Tell me how strong I was- how BRAVE I was. To tell the truth...I never post it on Facebook a year ago. The thing with people is, they like a good story, they like a good morsel to talk about, but they're not long term. Most aren't.
I did text a friend, however. A friend who has just checked in with my and stood by me. Brought me food. Loved on me and my family, even while she was going through her own stuff. Got muddy with me while we ran for MuckFest. Held my hand as we crossed the finish line.
I text her: One year ago today, I was diagnosed.
She said: I bet 365 days ago you were wondering where you'd be in 365 days.
She was totally right. I looked back at my blog post from last year- something I never do. My marriage was crashing, and I mean CRASH-ING. There were talks of who would stay and who would go. My son was not sleeping (my son will still not sleep, but it's better.) My leg, my mind, my soul was just...numb.
I looked back at my blog 730 days ago. I was pregnant. I called the cops on a woman who left her dog in the car. I wondered that day what wisdom I would impart on my son- what would I want him to see in that situation?
What if 1095 days ago, someone would've told me- you're going to decide to have a baby in a few months- it's going to be on the first try- it's going to be a boy- his name will be Liam.
What if 1460 days ago, someone would've told me- you're going to be in bankruptcy by the end of the year. You will need to claim everything you own. You're going to have to sell stuff and give stuff back. It's going to be terribly difficult.
WHAT IF 1825 DAYS AGO someone would have sat down with me and my fiancé and say- you know that sickness or in health part? It's going to be a reality for you in many ways. You know that richer or poorer stuff? You're going to experience it in very tangible ways. You know that in good times and bad stuff? You will be able to write books about that topic. And it will ALL HAPPEN in the next 5 years. 1825 days from now.
We drove past my high school a few days ago. My mind did a little flashback sequence to a moment I had not remembered in many, many years. In my minds eye, I saw a 14 year old version of myself sitting on the stairs, head in my hands, hair in curls, blue dress, white sweater, white sandals. I think I was wearing tiny red roses in my hair. It was a school concert, and I was supposed to meet my then boyfriend on the steps afterwards. I waited 10 minutes. I waited 15 minutes. I waited 30 minutes. A friend came out and gently told me- he wasn't coming. He left with another girl. It was over. When you're 14... this is earth shattering. Heck, when you're ANY age, this is earth shattering. I went on to take him back time after time, and he was always unfaithful. And then I met Andy, and then my life story really started to take shape.
But if someone would have gently told me, 15 years ago, 5475 days ago; This. Is. Not. The. End. You will meet someone. You will get married. You will have a son. You will rescue dogs from cars. You will be diagnosed with MS. You will experience heartache deeper than this and you will not be moved. You will survive. You. Will. THRIVE.
Would I have listened? All those 365 days ago, would I have listened? Honestly, I think I was listening. It's that still small voice that whispers, "This too shall pass. Cling to what you know. Pray and have faith. This is not the end."
See ya in another 365.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Are you having a "Good Day?"
Liam is potty training.
It all happened so fast. He woke up one morning and told his daddy he had to go potty, and then it was like we were buying big boy undies and researching methodologies in the previously uncharted territory of Potty Training.
And then it's like, we became obsessed.
"Liam, you have to pee pee?"
"Liam, honey, you have to poo poo??"
"Liam, sweetheart, you're holding your wiener, let's try to potty."
"Liam, love, why didn't you potty just now? What are the words we use when we have to go?"
And on, and on, and on.
My husband actually took the reigns of this little adventure. After all, he's the man, right? And Liam is technically a "Little Man" and all the parts are the same. Why not? After two days of letting him run naked and discussing the anatomy of it all, it was time to go buy the MUCH anticipated "Jake Big Boy Pants"
We then started taking the potty everywhere with us. Everywhere. To movies in the park, to concerts, on trips...everywhere. And he was doing really, really well. People judged us for taking the potty everywhere, but you know what? My kid also wears a leash when we're in public. Mind your own dumb business.
Yesterday Liam didn't do a good job on the potty at my mom's house. He would poo, but not pee, and then throw major tantrums and then do it on the floor. He went through all his undies- every single pair. Today I called again, "Is Liam having a good day?" Nana reported yet another bad day. Peeing on the floor and not sitting on the potty. Making himself stiff and throwing himself on the floor when it's time to use the bathroom.
I started to cry. Like it was somehow my fault that my 21 month old son was rejecting a previously victorious task. Like it was somehow within my control to make my child well behaved for my mother at the ripe young age of "barely two." Maybe we should stop the training. Maybe it was a fluke that he did well for two weeks, sometimes going through the night with a dry diaper.
For a moment I reflected on the question I was asking. "Is Liam having a good day?" What does that even mean? Is Liam obeying and peeing in the potty and not climbing on anything and sharing and napping and listening to instructions and... And fulfilling all the tasks his fully grown, 29 year old mother wants him to? I should have just asked "Is Liam being the perfect child today?" A better question to pose, "Was Liam sitting like a little prince with his socks pulled up and his hair combed?" "Was Liam doing all the things that he should and all the things he shouldn't?" "Was Liam living up to the lofty expectations I have for him?"
What if this question was asked of us daily? "Was Libbie the model employee today at work?" "Did Libbie fulfill the expectations of a mother and wife today?" "Did Libbie make any mistakes today?"
Holy crud buckets, what was I expecting of my child? On a side note, those are the kids who get mothers shunned at play group. In a world of "normal" children, nobody wants to play with the "perfect" one. They're just not...fun. They have no stories to tell. ("Well, there WAS that one time little Timmy didn't finish his supper...") Loser. Everyone loves a good, "And then in an attempt to take his plate to the kitchen like I asked, Liam dumped it all over the floor. And then when I was down on the floor picking up rogue corn, he decided to pee himself right in front of me, even though the potty was sitting two feet away!" You've never heard anyone ever say, "Please stop telling hilarious stories about your super normal toddler."
So. Are you having a good day? I'm not. But screw it. The heat has made me so sleepy that even my "awake" medication is like taking two Smarties in the morning. I'm making frozen pizza for supper. Oh sure, I'll stop for a salad on the way to try to even out the laziness with the vegetables. Our kitchen is currently so full of dishes and since it's the size of a postage stamp and there's nowhere to put anything, I put a plate on the floor last night. That's right. I said it. I put plates on the floor because I was SO stinking tired after working and teaching and cooking supper in my hotter than hot kitchen, I didn't do dishes. I cleaned up corn and pee and then I collapsed for the night.
Please let me be remembered for not all the "good days" I've had, but the days where I've given it my best try and prayed for grace. Those will amount to more in the end anyway.
It all happened so fast. He woke up one morning and told his daddy he had to go potty, and then it was like we were buying big boy undies and researching methodologies in the previously uncharted territory of Potty Training.
And then it's like, we became obsessed.
"Liam, you have to pee pee?"
"Liam, honey, you have to poo poo??"
"Liam, sweetheart, you're holding your wiener, let's try to potty."
"Liam, love, why didn't you potty just now? What are the words we use when we have to go?"
And on, and on, and on.
My husband actually took the reigns of this little adventure. After all, he's the man, right? And Liam is technically a "Little Man" and all the parts are the same. Why not? After two days of letting him run naked and discussing the anatomy of it all, it was time to go buy the MUCH anticipated "Jake Big Boy Pants"
We then started taking the potty everywhere with us. Everywhere. To movies in the park, to concerts, on trips...everywhere. And he was doing really, really well. People judged us for taking the potty everywhere, but you know what? My kid also wears a leash when we're in public. Mind your own dumb business.
Yesterday Liam didn't do a good job on the potty at my mom's house. He would poo, but not pee, and then throw major tantrums and then do it on the floor. He went through all his undies- every single pair. Today I called again, "Is Liam having a good day?" Nana reported yet another bad day. Peeing on the floor and not sitting on the potty. Making himself stiff and throwing himself on the floor when it's time to use the bathroom.
I started to cry. Like it was somehow my fault that my 21 month old son was rejecting a previously victorious task. Like it was somehow within my control to make my child well behaved for my mother at the ripe young age of "barely two." Maybe we should stop the training. Maybe it was a fluke that he did well for two weeks, sometimes going through the night with a dry diaper.
For a moment I reflected on the question I was asking. "Is Liam having a good day?" What does that even mean? Is Liam obeying and peeing in the potty and not climbing on anything and sharing and napping and listening to instructions and... And fulfilling all the tasks his fully grown, 29 year old mother wants him to? I should have just asked "Is Liam being the perfect child today?" A better question to pose, "Was Liam sitting like a little prince with his socks pulled up and his hair combed?" "Was Liam doing all the things that he should and all the things he shouldn't?" "Was Liam living up to the lofty expectations I have for him?"
What if this question was asked of us daily? "Was Libbie the model employee today at work?" "Did Libbie fulfill the expectations of a mother and wife today?" "Did Libbie make any mistakes today?"
Holy crud buckets, what was I expecting of my child? On a side note, those are the kids who get mothers shunned at play group. In a world of "normal" children, nobody wants to play with the "perfect" one. They're just not...fun. They have no stories to tell. ("Well, there WAS that one time little Timmy didn't finish his supper...") Loser. Everyone loves a good, "And then in an attempt to take his plate to the kitchen like I asked, Liam dumped it all over the floor. And then when I was down on the floor picking up rogue corn, he decided to pee himself right in front of me, even though the potty was sitting two feet away!" You've never heard anyone ever say, "Please stop telling hilarious stories about your super normal toddler."
So. Are you having a good day? I'm not. But screw it. The heat has made me so sleepy that even my "awake" medication is like taking two Smarties in the morning. I'm making frozen pizza for supper. Oh sure, I'll stop for a salad on the way to try to even out the laziness with the vegetables. Our kitchen is currently so full of dishes and since it's the size of a postage stamp and there's nowhere to put anything, I put a plate on the floor last night. That's right. I said it. I put plates on the floor because I was SO stinking tired after working and teaching and cooking supper in my hotter than hot kitchen, I didn't do dishes. I cleaned up corn and pee and then I collapsed for the night.
Please let me be remembered for not all the "good days" I've had, but the days where I've given it my best try and prayed for grace. Those will amount to more in the end anyway.
Monday, April 28, 2014
One and Done?
Andy and I have never really had a "plan."
In our lives, we've discovered that 9 times outta 10, things were not going to go our way. Take for instance, when we tried to buy our first house. We were approved for the mortgage, were days away from settlement, were at the store buying a washer and dryer, and the bank revoked our money due to the collapse of the financial system in our county. Sorry washer sales guy- no house, no washer. TOTALLY saw that one coming.
We graduated from college and got jobs. We got engaged. We lost those jobs. We were engaged in January, he lost his job a few weeks later, I lost mine in May. We had everything planned for September. Every time we would get an unemployment check, we would buy something else for our wedding. After the fact, we took a loan out to pay my father back for all the money he had loaned us to give us the wedding of our dreams.
At 27, newly wedded and completely broke, we sat hand in hand in bankruptcy court, murmuring the mantra "we can do this. we can get through this..." We were trying to see our way clear of a year of unemployment while college loans mounted and the massive amount of credit card debt just piled up month after month. We spoke in hushed tones to the bankruptcy mediator, pleading our case, which now seemed petty after hearing the case BEFORE us. (Heart attack, no insurance, let all his employees go, economy collapsed...sigh).
And then we got pregnant on the first try. Who saw THAT coming? Liam was well thought out and well accounted for, but we were still blind to everything it took to raise a child. I had a poster perfect pregnancy. We had the perfect little infant boy. Then came the PPD, the marriage counseling, the MS, the weight gain...the weight gain...the weight gain... And then at 12 months he starts seizing in my arms...
The point is, you can't plan. WE cannot plan. I sat up with my sweet Liam on Wednesday night. He was fine, 97 degree temperature, and then BOOM, 102. No indication of what might've been wrong. Eating, sleeping, drinking, pooping, peeing, playing- all normal. 102 temperature. So I started the vigil- Tylenol...45 minutes...take temp...over 100, Motrin administered...cold washcloth...flip the pillow to the cool side...45 minutes...take temp...down a degree...doze off by his bed...45 minutes...take temp... and on. And on.
I love my son DEARLY, and would not trade him for anything in all my life. But when people allude to us having another one...I want to cut them. I went to my yearly OB/GYN appointment and I sat as far away from the pregnant lady as possible. It's not catching, is it? I double checked with my provider- my birth control isn't going to fail with this other med, is it? If we double up on birth control, we could be EXTRA EXTRA sure this won't happen again, right???
I hear of my friends (Now FOUR sets of them) all with number two on the way, TWO of my friends from high school have THREE little ones. Everyone looks to us for our next "big news." There isn't going to be any. Not for a LONG time, if ever. I spoke of giving some of my maternity clothing to a young, un wed mother at church. The woman next to me sat slack-jawed, "But what will you wear for your next pregnancy??" My next pregnancy? Is one not enough?
There are no plans in this family for the next child. The mere MENTION of another child turns my stomach. We have found this "new normal" everyone speaks of, and we're just hanging out here until something else unexpected throws us for a loop and we have to completely reinvent ourselves, just as we have SO MANY TIMES since 2007. Our child has JUST STARTED TO SLEEP. Just. 18 months, people. 18 months of no sleep. Yes, let's start that again in nine months.
Call me selfish, but I don't feel the need for a huge family right now. You can do anything with ONE child. Our house is big enough for ONE child. My mom can handle ONE child during the day. It's good for us right now. It's working. One and done? Maybe. But all the baby stuff is still in the attic in case we plan on losing our minds some day.
In our lives, we've discovered that 9 times outta 10, things were not going to go our way. Take for instance, when we tried to buy our first house. We were approved for the mortgage, were days away from settlement, were at the store buying a washer and dryer, and the bank revoked our money due to the collapse of the financial system in our county. Sorry washer sales guy- no house, no washer. TOTALLY saw that one coming.
We graduated from college and got jobs. We got engaged. We lost those jobs. We were engaged in January, he lost his job a few weeks later, I lost mine in May. We had everything planned for September. Every time we would get an unemployment check, we would buy something else for our wedding. After the fact, we took a loan out to pay my father back for all the money he had loaned us to give us the wedding of our dreams.
At 27, newly wedded and completely broke, we sat hand in hand in bankruptcy court, murmuring the mantra "we can do this. we can get through this..." We were trying to see our way clear of a year of unemployment while college loans mounted and the massive amount of credit card debt just piled up month after month. We spoke in hushed tones to the bankruptcy mediator, pleading our case, which now seemed petty after hearing the case BEFORE us. (Heart attack, no insurance, let all his employees go, economy collapsed...sigh).
And then we got pregnant on the first try. Who saw THAT coming? Liam was well thought out and well accounted for, but we were still blind to everything it took to raise a child. I had a poster perfect pregnancy. We had the perfect little infant boy. Then came the PPD, the marriage counseling, the MS, the weight gain...the weight gain...the weight gain... And then at 12 months he starts seizing in my arms...
The point is, you can't plan. WE cannot plan. I sat up with my sweet Liam on Wednesday night. He was fine, 97 degree temperature, and then BOOM, 102. No indication of what might've been wrong. Eating, sleeping, drinking, pooping, peeing, playing- all normal. 102 temperature. So I started the vigil- Tylenol...45 minutes...take temp...over 100, Motrin administered...cold washcloth...flip the pillow to the cool side...45 minutes...take temp...down a degree...doze off by his bed...45 minutes...take temp... and on. And on.
I love my son DEARLY, and would not trade him for anything in all my life. But when people allude to us having another one...I want to cut them. I went to my yearly OB/GYN appointment and I sat as far away from the pregnant lady as possible. It's not catching, is it? I double checked with my provider- my birth control isn't going to fail with this other med, is it? If we double up on birth control, we could be EXTRA EXTRA sure this won't happen again, right???
I hear of my friends (Now FOUR sets of them) all with number two on the way, TWO of my friends from high school have THREE little ones. Everyone looks to us for our next "big news." There isn't going to be any. Not for a LONG time, if ever. I spoke of giving some of my maternity clothing to a young, un wed mother at church. The woman next to me sat slack-jawed, "But what will you wear for your next pregnancy??" My next pregnancy? Is one not enough?
There are no plans in this family for the next child. The mere MENTION of another child turns my stomach. We have found this "new normal" everyone speaks of, and we're just hanging out here until something else unexpected throws us for a loop and we have to completely reinvent ourselves, just as we have SO MANY TIMES since 2007. Our child has JUST STARTED TO SLEEP. Just. 18 months, people. 18 months of no sleep. Yes, let's start that again in nine months.
Call me selfish, but I don't feel the need for a huge family right now. You can do anything with ONE child. Our house is big enough for ONE child. My mom can handle ONE child during the day. It's good for us right now. It's working. One and done? Maybe. But all the baby stuff is still in the attic in case we plan on losing our minds some day.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Seperation Anxiety
It's Easter this weekend! LOVE LOVE LOVE Easter. Oh my GOODNESS, I love Easter. Because it's impossible to be unhappy when you're watching all the little girls running around in their lovely little dresses. It's impossible to be burdened when you're giggling at all the little boys in ties and untucked shirts (they WERE tucked in earlier, I'm sure). And it's impossible to feel anything but joy when you're singing hymns at the top of your lungs in a Sunday morning service, surrounded by your family and friends.
Then you eat.
Oh MAN. Food. I have been good about the NOT weighing myself/Lent thing. I was sort of forced into it at two doctor's apps, but I did NOT step on the scale at the gym with the intention of weighing and breaking my promise to myself. I'm proud of that. I'm learning to be content with who I am and what I look like.
This is boring. Let's talk about something else.
We took Liam to his first Easter egg hunt last week. He and his PawPaw (my dad) had been practicing ALL week. Pick them up, put them in the basket. Over and over. Hide them again. Find them again. For the solid week, my dad became the enabler for this egg-hunting addiction my son has established. It was going to be GREAT.
The siren sounded, and 100 little 2 and unders toddled out to the field of brightly colored eggs and tiny golden candies. With his daddy's help, he picked the eggs up one by one and gently placed them in his basket. On to the next. And the next. At one point, he and another little boy attacked the same egg. MY little boy stood back and let him have it. What a sweet boy. :)
Nine eggs, and a chocolate crusted smile, later, we were in line for the bouncy slide and then the moment we were all waiting for: the barrel tractor ride. Liam had been pointing at the ride all day, making the tractor noise and running towards it while we weren't looking. It was FINALLY our turn. PawPaw strapped him in the barrel, showed him the horn and the wheel, and off they drove.
We heard the squeak of the horns as the other little ones honked away, waving at their parents from afar. The little tractor drove across the playground and Andy and I stood, arms wrapped around each other- there he goes! Music lightly played in the background. The camera panned out... I imagined this moment to be just like sending him off to college... JK. It was a barrel ride at an egg hunt. But we were still teary.
The elderly gentleman, who had probably waited all month just to haul out his prized ride and take the kids for a spin, pulled past where we were standing and I heard Liam before I saw him. "MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY!" SCREAMING my name. Tears running down his face. I was immedietly like a marathon runner, leaping over trash cans and pushing small children and strollers out of my way to get to my son.
Then you eat.
Oh MAN. Food. I have been good about the NOT weighing myself/Lent thing. I was sort of forced into it at two doctor's apps, but I did NOT step on the scale at the gym with the intention of weighing and breaking my promise to myself. I'm proud of that. I'm learning to be content with who I am and what I look like.
This is boring. Let's talk about something else.
We took Liam to his first Easter egg hunt last week. He and his PawPaw (my dad) had been practicing ALL week. Pick them up, put them in the basket. Over and over. Hide them again. Find them again. For the solid week, my dad became the enabler for this egg-hunting addiction my son has established. It was going to be GREAT.
The siren sounded, and 100 little 2 and unders toddled out to the field of brightly colored eggs and tiny golden candies. With his daddy's help, he picked the eggs up one by one and gently placed them in his basket. On to the next. And the next. At one point, he and another little boy attacked the same egg. MY little boy stood back and let him have it. What a sweet boy. :)
Nine eggs, and a chocolate crusted smile, later, we were in line for the bouncy slide and then the moment we were all waiting for: the barrel tractor ride. Liam had been pointing at the ride all day, making the tractor noise and running towards it while we weren't looking. It was FINALLY our turn. PawPaw strapped him in the barrel, showed him the horn and the wheel, and off they drove.
We heard the squeak of the horns as the other little ones honked away, waving at their parents from afar. The little tractor drove across the playground and Andy and I stood, arms wrapped around each other- there he goes! Music lightly played in the background. The camera panned out... I imagined this moment to be just like sending him off to college... JK. It was a barrel ride at an egg hunt. But we were still teary.
The elderly gentleman, who had probably waited all month just to haul out his prized ride and take the kids for a spin, pulled past where we were standing and I heard Liam before I saw him. "MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY!" SCREAMING my name. Tears running down his face. I was immedietly like a marathon runner, leaping over trash cans and pushing small children and strollers out of my way to get to my son.
It was horrible. He clung to me like a baby kangaroo. "It's okay!!! Mommy's here!!!!" Andy joined us and wrapped his arms around both of us. We stood in embrace, all three of us sobbing like we just lost the family dog. Until Liam popped his head up and asked, "Again?" Pointing to the train.
No. No more. Mommy and daddy can't handle it.
Happy Easter, everyone :) He is risen indeed :)
Thursday, April 10, 2014
You and Me and Ferber Makes Three
So my son sleeps now.
And not just a little sleep---ALOTTA sleep.
Liam had this nasty little habit of going to bed at 9pm SHARP, after I've satisfied his need to rock and cuddle and sing and talk, and then he wakes up at 11:30pm every night screaming. I'm more than happy to bring him into our room and cuddle him and press our foreheads together and go to sleep with my life sized teddy bear. If you've been following the blog, you know my son doesn't sleep. He goes through phases where he does, but they're short lived.
A few weeks ago, my husband decided (through sleep deprived, clenched teeth), "This kid HAS to sleep. Read. The. Book." This was after a night long vigil that ended with the contents of Liam's drawers thrown all over his room after screaming for a full 45 minutes (after which Andy laid wide awake audibly wondering if he was dead or asleep.) It was a long night.
When Liam was in the hospital, the ped's neurologist said, "Try Ferber. You won't regret it." And I smiled and nodded. Went home, downloaded the book...and never read it. THIS, Andy deciphered, is why Liam hadn't slept the night through since 5 months old. Because I had not read the book.
How was I supposed to do all my mommy/wifey things AND read a book? If I would have time to read a book, I'd take that time, and do something else. Something less frivolous- like vacuuming, or loading the dishwasher, or maybe shaving my legs properly. The mere NOTION that I was not reading the book ON PURPOSE infuriated me. "YOU read the book, Andy. Since you want it so bad. You read it." But alas, it was on MY Kindle. (Yeah yeah, you can exchange books on the Kindle. Not doing that.)
So, as fate would have it, our whole family simultaneously come down with the stomach virus and I got ALOTTA time to read. Amazing how sleepy a book on sleeping can actually make you. I'll admit, I skipped like 5 chapters. Spare me the science, Doc, just tell me how to get my son to sleep.
"Put him down drowsy, but asleep." Um, yeah, we tried that. LIKE A MILLION TIMES. He screams. He comes to find us.
"Close the door." Nooooo. Not closing the door. He could die in there and then what?
"Check on him in increments of 3-5-10 minutes." See, here's the clincher. Not only do I have to leave him, and make him scream. I have to do it MULTIPLE times? This isn't sleep training, it's punishment for the parents.
So we started. It was automatically MY job to carry out this training. Fine. I would prove to dumb old Dr. Ferber that his method was stupid and it didn't work on my kid. Besides- I already miss MOST of my son's life. Why not take bedtime snuggles away from me too? We brushed teeth, listened to three Sesame Street songs, prayed, and then into bed we went. I kissed him and told him I loved him and that I would be RIGHT BACK.
And then it was 6:45 the next morning.
That's it.
And it's been two weeks now, and we've had probably 2 rough nights out of all of them.
I've been following that same schedule to a T, and it's worked every night. Never even had to USE the 3-5-10 minute checking times. Teeth, three songs, prayer, bed. Every night. And he's just been AMAZING.
But I stick with the fact that we have tried it all before and it didn't work at any of those points. Maybe it's the toddler bed. Maybe it's the fact that he's 18 months and he's a smidgen better at reasoning. I stand by all the choices we've made pertaining to sleep thus far- as I really do think we've always done the best we could with what we were handed at the time.
Is it a phase? Maybe. Hopefully not. The test will come, I suppose, when we leave him overnight with Nana or something. In the meantime, Andy and I have rediscovered how much we really like each other. And as it turns out, there's much you can get done after 9pm without someone at your knees. Also, sometimes I save my special Del Monte peaches for this moment, so I don't have to share (read: relinquish ALL OF THEM) to a toddler with an insatiable appetite for whatever you may be eating.
And MAYBE the doctor and Andy know what they're talking about. But don't tell them I said that.
And not just a little sleep---ALOTTA sleep.
Liam had this nasty little habit of going to bed at 9pm SHARP, after I've satisfied his need to rock and cuddle and sing and talk, and then he wakes up at 11:30pm every night screaming. I'm more than happy to bring him into our room and cuddle him and press our foreheads together and go to sleep with my life sized teddy bear. If you've been following the blog, you know my son doesn't sleep. He goes through phases where he does, but they're short lived.
A few weeks ago, my husband decided (through sleep deprived, clenched teeth), "This kid HAS to sleep. Read. The. Book." This was after a night long vigil that ended with the contents of Liam's drawers thrown all over his room after screaming for a full 45 minutes (after which Andy laid wide awake audibly wondering if he was dead or asleep.) It was a long night.
When Liam was in the hospital, the ped's neurologist said, "Try Ferber. You won't regret it." And I smiled and nodded. Went home, downloaded the book...and never read it. THIS, Andy deciphered, is why Liam hadn't slept the night through since 5 months old. Because I had not read the book.
How was I supposed to do all my mommy/wifey things AND read a book? If I would have time to read a book, I'd take that time, and do something else. Something less frivolous- like vacuuming, or loading the dishwasher, or maybe shaving my legs properly. The mere NOTION that I was not reading the book ON PURPOSE infuriated me. "YOU read the book, Andy. Since you want it so bad. You read it." But alas, it was on MY Kindle. (Yeah yeah, you can exchange books on the Kindle. Not doing that.)
So, as fate would have it, our whole family simultaneously come down with the stomach virus and I got ALOTTA time to read. Amazing how sleepy a book on sleeping can actually make you. I'll admit, I skipped like 5 chapters. Spare me the science, Doc, just tell me how to get my son to sleep.
"Put him down drowsy, but asleep." Um, yeah, we tried that. LIKE A MILLION TIMES. He screams. He comes to find us.
"Close the door." Nooooo. Not closing the door. He could die in there and then what?
"Check on him in increments of 3-5-10 minutes." See, here's the clincher. Not only do I have to leave him, and make him scream. I have to do it MULTIPLE times? This isn't sleep training, it's punishment for the parents.
So we started. It was automatically MY job to carry out this training. Fine. I would prove to dumb old Dr. Ferber that his method was stupid and it didn't work on my kid. Besides- I already miss MOST of my son's life. Why not take bedtime snuggles away from me too? We brushed teeth, listened to three Sesame Street songs, prayed, and then into bed we went. I kissed him and told him I loved him and that I would be RIGHT BACK.
And then it was 6:45 the next morning.
That's it.
And it's been two weeks now, and we've had probably 2 rough nights out of all of them.
I've been following that same schedule to a T, and it's worked every night. Never even had to USE the 3-5-10 minute checking times. Teeth, three songs, prayer, bed. Every night. And he's just been AMAZING.
But I stick with the fact that we have tried it all before and it didn't work at any of those points. Maybe it's the toddler bed. Maybe it's the fact that he's 18 months and he's a smidgen better at reasoning. I stand by all the choices we've made pertaining to sleep thus far- as I really do think we've always done the best we could with what we were handed at the time.
Is it a phase? Maybe. Hopefully not. The test will come, I suppose, when we leave him overnight with Nana or something. In the meantime, Andy and I have rediscovered how much we really like each other. And as it turns out, there's much you can get done after 9pm without someone at your knees. Also, sometimes I save my special Del Monte peaches for this moment, so I don't have to share (read: relinquish ALL OF THEM) to a toddler with an insatiable appetite for whatever you may be eating.
And MAYBE the doctor and Andy know what they're talking about. But don't tell them I said that.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Nobody cares about the "1"
I never "do" Lent. I have no recollection of it growing up. As far as I know, I never went to a church that participated in it until I was in college. That's the first time I participated in Ash Wednesday- and participated I mean 'sat in the back and felt very depressed.' But this year I decided to "do" Lent.
I started a day late, but better late than never, and I decided to stop weighing myself. The motivation behind the choice was my obsession with the little digital number on the scale. I used to weigh myself once a week, and then it became twice a week, and then it became every time I went to the gym. (I don't actually own a scale...)
I THOUGHT Lent was a week.
Lent is 40 days.
As I was lamenting how the scale seemed to stare at me from the corner, my older and wiser cousin chimed in, "You know. You look amazing. You've got curves. You're doing great. Why are you so hung up with this number?" "BECAUSE!" I exclaimed, "I want to see a "1" in front of my weight. I long for that number!" She reminded me, "It's. A. Number." And it hit me that she was right. I'm eating well, I'm working out, I can pull my son in his little bike trailer with less stops than before. I'm down two sizes, I feel confident, I feel amazing. WHY does that depend on a number?
And then my friend's dad died.
I solemnly packed up my son and headed for the funeral. It was held at the church we attended as kids (he has since moved away and I've been through three churches). Walking back through the doors flooded me with emotions and memories and visions of all that had happened there through the years. People from my past hugged me and wanted to meet Liam (who was exploring everything at a rapid pace) and instead of talking about high school drama and who was dating whom, we were meeting spouses and introducing children.
My friend's wife is stunning. A natural beauty who just radiates love and patience. Which you'd need to have, if you were married to my friend. ;) His baby is the epitome of precious. His faith knows no bounds. In a word- he's got it made in this life and the next.
I sat in the back of the chapel, near the door, and I watched the procession of my friend and his baby, his mother, brother and sister, aunt and uncle, and finally a frail looking grandmother. A mother burying her son. There's nothing right or natural about that picture. My friend's dad was 54. 54. I'm going to be 30. That's 24 years from now, in my world.
The funeral was a celebration of Craig's life. I had known him as a quiet, gentle man. Turns out he was so much MORE than that. My friend delivered the most beautiful prose on his father's life- his words have haunted me now DAYS after their reading. But as you sit there and listen to people talk about the past and what they remember about a person, it gets you thinking weird thoughts. When I die, what are they going to say about me? God forbid I should die TODAY- what's the Eulogy going to sound like?
"Well, Libbie lost 42 pounds recently in a desperate attempt to see a "1" in front of her weight."
In that MOMENT, I understood Lent. If done correctly, Lent is about giving up so we can gain. Lent is about eliminating something from our lives so every time we miss it, we consider other sacrifices in history. I know at the heart of the season, we're bombarded with a picture of Jesus on the cross, and that's GREAT. But I believe there are other facets.
When you're starving, food tastes better. When you're saving, money is more precious. When you're lacking, abundance is better appreciated. When you have nothing...something seems like the most generous gift. Lent is about eliminating the former, so the latter seems more meaningful than ever. Jesus came so we could have life and have it at it's fullest.
If I can be bold- this is why I believe Jesus said that the meek would inherit the earth. Not the pompous. When you have everything, what could you possibly need? In steps entitlement and greed and quiet honestly, these aren't the people with whom you want to be friends. These aren't the people you trust your secrets to. These aren't the people who draw you to their father's funeral, 17 years after you first met.
----
I walked into the gym yesterday and the digital beast stared at me from its corner. I walked by. I got on the stair climber and I climbed and climbed and thanked God for my breath and for my parents and for my legs that I can FEEL and for my son and for my husband and, and, and...
Plus think about it- not weighing myself for 40 days should yield a good result in the long run. But in the end...nobody cares about the "1."
I started a day late, but better late than never, and I decided to stop weighing myself. The motivation behind the choice was my obsession with the little digital number on the scale. I used to weigh myself once a week, and then it became twice a week, and then it became every time I went to the gym. (I don't actually own a scale...)
I THOUGHT Lent was a week.
Lent is 40 days.
As I was lamenting how the scale seemed to stare at me from the corner, my older and wiser cousin chimed in, "You know. You look amazing. You've got curves. You're doing great. Why are you so hung up with this number?" "BECAUSE!" I exclaimed, "I want to see a "1" in front of my weight. I long for that number!" She reminded me, "It's. A. Number." And it hit me that she was right. I'm eating well, I'm working out, I can pull my son in his little bike trailer with less stops than before. I'm down two sizes, I feel confident, I feel amazing. WHY does that depend on a number?
And then my friend's dad died.
I solemnly packed up my son and headed for the funeral. It was held at the church we attended as kids (he has since moved away and I've been through three churches). Walking back through the doors flooded me with emotions and memories and visions of all that had happened there through the years. People from my past hugged me and wanted to meet Liam (who was exploring everything at a rapid pace) and instead of talking about high school drama and who was dating whom, we were meeting spouses and introducing children.
My friend's wife is stunning. A natural beauty who just radiates love and patience. Which you'd need to have, if you were married to my friend. ;) His baby is the epitome of precious. His faith knows no bounds. In a word- he's got it made in this life and the next.
I sat in the back of the chapel, near the door, and I watched the procession of my friend and his baby, his mother, brother and sister, aunt and uncle, and finally a frail looking grandmother. A mother burying her son. There's nothing right or natural about that picture. My friend's dad was 54. 54. I'm going to be 30. That's 24 years from now, in my world.
The funeral was a celebration of Craig's life. I had known him as a quiet, gentle man. Turns out he was so much MORE than that. My friend delivered the most beautiful prose on his father's life- his words have haunted me now DAYS after their reading. But as you sit there and listen to people talk about the past and what they remember about a person, it gets you thinking weird thoughts. When I die, what are they going to say about me? God forbid I should die TODAY- what's the Eulogy going to sound like?
"Well, Libbie lost 42 pounds recently in a desperate attempt to see a "1" in front of her weight."
In that MOMENT, I understood Lent. If done correctly, Lent is about giving up so we can gain. Lent is about eliminating something from our lives so every time we miss it, we consider other sacrifices in history. I know at the heart of the season, we're bombarded with a picture of Jesus on the cross, and that's GREAT. But I believe there are other facets.
When you're starving, food tastes better. When you're saving, money is more precious. When you're lacking, abundance is better appreciated. When you have nothing...something seems like the most generous gift. Lent is about eliminating the former, so the latter seems more meaningful than ever. Jesus came so we could have life and have it at it's fullest.
If I can be bold- this is why I believe Jesus said that the meek would inherit the earth. Not the pompous. When you have everything, what could you possibly need? In steps entitlement and greed and quiet honestly, these aren't the people with whom you want to be friends. These aren't the people you trust your secrets to. These aren't the people who draw you to their father's funeral, 17 years after you first met.
----
I walked into the gym yesterday and the digital beast stared at me from its corner. I walked by. I got on the stair climber and I climbed and climbed and thanked God for my breath and for my parents and for my legs that I can FEEL and for my son and for my husband and, and, and...
Plus think about it- not weighing myself for 40 days should yield a good result in the long run. But in the end...nobody cares about the "1."
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