During his unexpected bachelor time he decided to do some home improvement projects.  While I was envisioning the hanging of shelves or the painting of walls, he envisioned maybe hanging a picture and going fishing.  Now, he did hang the pictures in the kitchen and I am incredibly grateful for that.   However, this is what I found sitting on my kitchen counter when I returned:

This is a phenomenon.  Most women I talk to speak of the same occurrence in their household.  A home improvement is FINALLY completed only to be left with a table/counter full of tools.  I’ve actually waited to see how long it would take David to put the tools away and the longest I’ve been able to hold out was four months. His argument? He is planning on still using those tools to do another project. Where? When? What? Nobody knows, but someday he will need those tools again and it would be so much more convenient to use them if they just sat on the kitchen counter until then.

Even though Max was the only boy at Nana camp with a plethora of female cousins he managed to have a great time swimming, fishing and playing in the air conditioning (he wasn’t so keen on playing outside and being hot).  He also left me a little surprise on the kitchen counter:

Max gleefully explained to me that he made a “brown snowman”.  So very thoughtful of him to bring me back such a sweet homemade gift from camp.

Ahhh boys, you gotta love ‘em.

Lucy: Mommy, will I ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever find a boy to marry me?

Me: Of course you will.

Lucy: But there are so, so, so many boys that are ALREADY married

Me: Well, God has somebody special picked out for you to marry

Lucy: What is his name?

Me: Well, Lucy I don’t know his name

Lucy: When will I meet him?

Me: I have no idea. God will introduce you when it is time.

Lucy: Mommy, let’s promise to not tell anybody that I asked that.

Me: I promise.

*****************************

A week later on the way home from school Lucy and I talk about the allure of the “bad boy”

Lucy: Matthew was very bad in school today

Me: Really?

Lucy: Yeah, he got a note sent home to his mommy

Me: What did he do?

Lucy: He is soooo mean.  I say nice things to him alllll the time and he never says nice things and today while we were standing in line he tried to bite Karen and then he lied about how many stars he got and then he didn’t stop talking

Me: Wow, sounds like he doesn’t have very good behavior

Lucy: No, but he does have a nice haircut.

After herniating a disc in my back from carrying Max around as an infant I swore I wouldn’t make that same mistake with Harper. I started researching baby slings and carriers. I wanted a sling that fit me well and that I felt comfortable using. I’m a rather “endowed” woman and so finding a proper fitting sling became a challenge for me.  I went to an actual sling store and spoke with experts who fitted me.  I settled on a Hot Sling – which I LOVE. (Dear Hot Sling, feel free to send me some more since I only own one). My only regret is that I didn’t use a sling with my other children.  Harper loves being so close to me and I love feeling her snug against me.  I can grocery shop with the other two kids in the cart and still have room for food. I can walk to the park,  wash dishes, play board games, etc.  It is one of my favorite baby items at the moment.

And then the article came out. SLINGS KILL BABIES! Suddenly strangers are stopping me in the grocery store warning me that I’m killing my child. My friends, family, doctors are suddenly concerned with the safety of my child.  I read the warning and I consulted the Hot Sling website and I’m still comfortable using my sling. You know why? Because only 14 children have died over 20 years. That is less than one death a year.  1.6 children a year die from eating hot dogs.  That means that hot dogs are more dangerous than baby slings. I don’t see anybody accosting people in the cold cuts aisle because they are feeding their child hot dogs. I recognize the problems that some women have had with slings and I am very careful that Harper is facing up, that she is not curled up on herself and I check her often.  I do this because I am a responsible parent who cares for her child. 14 deaths in 20 years is more of a comment on the idiots who are parents than the poorly designed product.

If you see me in the store and Harper is snug in her sling don’t even THINK about telling me about the death trap I have created or I will punch you in the throat.

Max recently turned four years old and during these four years we have already had to make three visits to the hospital. He has also almost electrocuted himself, and painted his entire head including in his ears and up his nose.  Max’s latest visit to the hospital was to get his tonsils out.  As he roused himself  like a Rastafarian emerging from the heavy haze of smoke he turned and said to me, “I like getting my tonsils out.” Ignoring this as the nonsense talk of somebody with a good buzz I tell him that it is time to go home.  And proving once again that parents have no idea what they are talking about he starts crying and declares “I don’t want to go home. I want to stay in the hopital”

Yes Lucy, boys are weird.

When David and I discovered we were going to have a girl I quickly volunteered Scout as a possible name.  David quickly shot it down. It was too masculine, too odd, it was a name somebody gives a dog.  But I loved it and wouldn’t let go of the idea of paying homage to one of my favorite books.

I then suggested Jane.  Jane Erye is another one of my favorite books and Jane Austen a favorite author – it seemed right.  This time David agreed. He liked the name and with it also being his grandmother’s name felt that we should somehow give that to our new girl. However, pairing something with Jane proved to be far more difficult than we thought.

We went through countless variations.  We tried Jane both as a first name and as a middle name.  As the delivery date grew closer and closer we began to worry that we would have the first nameless baby born into this family.  And then we settled on something – a name that we felt was both unique without being weird. A name that gives a nod to my literary interests and has meaning. A name that she could grow into over the years.

Please welcome  Harper Jane Morley

#1 DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF

Now, I know everybody tells you this from the moment that the first pregnancy test comes back positive, but I will tell you that this is the hardest lesson to learn but also the most important. Every grandparent or ‘retired’ parent will tell you; “spend less time cleaning and more time playing”.  You know what? Listen to your elders.  Is my house a mess? Yes. Most days my sink is full of dishes, my laundry back-loaded, and toys in my family room. In exchange for that I have well-adjusted children who get to experience a mentally sane mother (on most days).  Some day I will have children old enough who can do the dishes, vacuum and make their own beds.  In the meantime, they clear their dishes, put their laundry in their hamper and do the best they can.  And you know what, I no longer care if my house is clean. I reject the idea that cleanliness is a sign of a successful mother.

#2 DON’T CRY – LAUGH

Motherhood is filled with the most ridiculous moments and indeed most “mommy blogs” are filled with tales of such silliness. In my case I can recount stories of spilled paint on carpet, exploding poop on visiting relatives, puke in the middle of the mall, etc, etc. If you thought child delivery lacked modesty and was embarrassing, well, that is only the beginning.  You must learn to laugh at yourself or you will find yourself crying far too often.

#3 ASK FOR HELP

At 39 years old and approaching the arrival of my third child I have learned this lesson.  I cannot do it all, and I’m not going to martyr myself in an effort to somehow garner praise and appreciation from some invisible entity.  Let me fill you in on a secret, your children will not appreciate you more for killing yourself and neither will your spouse.  They won’t appreciate you, they will resent you. I pay for a housekeeper to clean my house every two weeks. I pay for babysitters when I need a break or assistance to get things done.  Motherhood is a hard job and it is a 24 hour job – you cannot do it all the time

#4 CUT YOURSELF SOME SLACK

You are not going to be a perfect parent all the time.  You will snap, yell, scream, throw a grown-up tantrum, let them watch tv, eat popcorn, processed foods, sugar, soda pop, etc. None of these things make you a terrible parent.  One of my best friends is a family therapist and she has said to me on more than one occasion that unless I’m beating, purposefully neglecting or feeding my kids drugs I’ve got a long way to fall to become a bad parent. Most of us are consciously trying to read to our kids and provide a well-balanced diet in a loving and supportive environment.  It is just that that environment is hard to maintain 365 days a year. Some days you are going to be lucky if the kids spend the day watching PBS and eat macaroni and cheese for dinner.

#5 YOU KNOW NOTHING

When I was pregnant with Lucy I was terrified of the unknown.  What was it going to be like to be a parent? How was I going to handle it? How hard was it going to be? When I got pregnant with Max I had confidence and arrogance that was most definitely a mistake.  Max came out and was NOTHING like Lucy. It was as if I was a first-time parent all over again.  Now, pregnant with my third I recognize that I know nothing and there is peace in that.  No use in preparing for this child because it won’t matter. Whatever I anticipate or plan for will be wrong.

Finally, my mother-in-law has a sign on her desk that says “children grow to become the love they know”.  No matter how crazy my day is, or how much my children drive me crazy if I can end the day with a hug, kiss, snuggle and the knowledge that my kids know that they are loved, well, that is a successful day.

Sometimes the simple sound of Max’s heavy breathing at night can awake worry and concern

Sometimes the smell of Lucy’s hair as it is nestled tightly under my nose can be comforting

Sometimes the non-stop prattle of school day stories from the back seat can disappear into the air with little acknowledgment from me.

Car pool, packing lunches, homework, breakfast, lunch, dinner, play time, clean up, stories and the days bleed together.

And then you hear it, read it, see it

Big eyes, small hands, sometimes with a look of fear, a look of resignation. Each story tells of loss, heart break and a child yearning for the love and comfort of a home like mine.  And then the feeling starts to spread. You suddenly are reawakened to the subtle noise of craft projects, sibling squabbles, and the noise of your own children.  The sounds of love, security and comfort. Sounds that these lost children, the children with no family or parents or future can only dream about.

I don’t worry about whether or not my children will eat.

I don’t worry about how safe it is for them to go to school.

I don’t worry if my children will be kidnapped or if bombs will destroy our house.

I’m grateful that my children won’t ever have to face the fear of an unknown future, go to bed hungry or worry about being cold at night. That gratitude, that sigh of relief we all release when watching the latest news story, is fleeting. We breath it, we mean it, but it is always short-lived. Perhaps this Thanksgiving I’ll try to be grateful for feeling more gratitude.

Once again, I am inspired by Scribbit’s Write Away Contest.

Lucy has either been home with me or with a nanny from the day she was born.  She has spent her mornings tumbling out of bed, shuffling around her pj’s and drinking chocolate milk like a drunk sailor. Over the years I have carefully tracked her development against what is expected of kindergarten age children and indeed Lucy has always met or exceeded developmental milestones — except for scissors. Our first note from Lucy’s kindergarten teacher was to let us know that for a five year old Lucy was really lacking in her scissor skills.  OH MY GOSH MY DAUGHTER WILL NEVER SUCCEED IN LIFE BECAUSE SHE CAN’T CUT ON A STRAIGHT LINE!!! For the record, I have always supremely sucked at cut and paste and I’m assuming that Lucy has inherited this apparent lack of scissor skills from me.

We had a nanny lined up at the beginning of the summer for Max but this person fell through and I had to start the search for a new care-giver.  We ended re-hiring a former nanny and this seemed like a perfect resolution.  Max would continue to stay at home, like his sister, and be cared for by the same person who nurtured Lucy.  Two weeks before the school year was to start for me that person informed us that she couldn’t do it.  I was screwed.  Two weeks is not nearly enough time to find a quality nanny.  We were left with few options.  We enrolled Max into preschool.

Yesterday was Max’s first day of preschool.  My anxiety and self-doubt as a parent over this decision is bottomless. I have never second-guessed and questioned a parenting decision as much as I have this one. David dropped Max at preschool yesterday.  David was filled with trepidation and viewed all the people at the school with a cynical eye.  Max, after a brief moment of shyness and tears, quickly settled down and never looked back.  When I eagerly picked him up he was cheerful and excitedly told me about his new friends.

This is the ultimate truth about parenting;  kids are usually ready for new challenges and experiences long before their parents are ready.  I can justify and explain this decision all day but it still won’t make me feel any better.

Today was Lucy’s first day of school.  I have been anticipating this day since she was born.  I have spent a laborious amount of time researching and educating myself about schools, curriculums and the best option for my sweet, tender, shy, gentle little girl.  I felt confident in our choice and knew that she would blossom in the environment we selected.  Although Lucy was eager to go to school this morning she had the appropriate amount of anxiety.  She chatted nervously in the car and as I walked her to the front door of her classroom she squeezed my hand a little tighter.  The teacher swung the door open and Lucy easily fell into the routine and walked off without looking back.

Lucy's first day of school

I almost made it to the car before bursting into tears.  I sobbed uncontrollably, my breathing coming fast and in bursts.  As I sat there trying to regain my composure I talked to myself.  “She’s fine. She’s totally fine. You’ve done the right thing. This is the best thing for her. ” I took deep breaths and felt my body start to relax.  “It won’t be like this with Max. Max WANTS to go, he can’t wait to go. It is harder because Lucy doesn’t want to go. She’s scared.”  Pow! And just like that a flash of understanding.

How many times did my mother put on a stoic and strong exterior for me as she pushed me into my own life? How many times did she cry silently knowing that she was doing the right thing for me even though I was scared?  How many times did I mistake her lack of emotion as not caring or disinterest in my own fears?

Suddenly I no longer knew what I was crying about.  Was I crying because I was sad to see my little girl leave? Or was I crying out of acknowledgement of my own mother’s emotional sacrifice that had been ignored for so long? Or was it just because I’m pregnant and emotional?

When parents discuss what children bring to their lives they talk about the texture and richness. It is hard to explain and that is because it is multi-faceted.  Children allow you to explore and discover the world all over again.  They are a mirror holding you accountable for all of your behavior (both good and bad).  They are also your personal teachers, showing you your own life in a new and unexpected perspective.  The irony to being a parent is that the days and events that impact YOU the most are rarely the ones your children remember with any kind of significance.  For Lucy today was just the day she started school and for me it marked an emotional epiphany.

The kids could not have been more delighted and hours of play and experimentation transpired without a whimper of argument or whining.  The kitchen table was happily occupied and I took the time to finish up some chores around the house.  As I sat at my desk doing email Max walked in giggling and said to me, “Lucy is sad and hiding.”  I turned around and saw this:

He had stuck this material in his hair and I knew that was going to be VERY bad.  I leaped out of my chair and exclaimed, “WHERE IS YOUR SISTER?” Max, still finding the whole situation quite funny said slyly, “She’s hiding.”  I instantly knew that if Lucy was hiding it was bad.  I started calling her name but she was nowhere to be found.  After ten frantic minutes of searching I found her hunched behind the family couch, squeezed next to the wall.  Her low whimpers and cries barely audible.  “Lucy, what happened Honey? Are you okay?”  She stood up and stuck within her curly strands of hair was an entire container of this goober, glittery gunk.  It was spread evenly from roots to tip covering the entire front half of her scalp.  Tears were streaming down her face and I knew that she felt both shame and panic. “Baby, how did this happen?”  She lowered her eyes sniffling and just shrugged her shoulders.  I laughed. She cried harder. I suggested we take a picture to send to Daddy and she exploded in embarrassment, “NO!! DON’T TELL DADDY!! I DON’T WANT A PICTURE!!”  Her embarrassment was absolute and no amount of assurance from me was going to make her feel better. I calmed her down and told her we would wash it out of her hair and she shouldn’t worry.

We marched into the bathroom where I broke out the baby shampoo and started washing. And washing. And washing.  This goop (that was obviously made in China by people who don’t have children) would not come out of her hair.  Not even a little bit. I started pulling out every kind of cleaner I could think of to remove this stuff from her hair; baby oil, vinegar, adult shampoo, olive oil, dish soap.  Every new solution that I took out made Lucy cry harder and Max giggle.  Lucy was frantic and I was starting to get concerned that I was going to have to cut her hair off.  After an hour and a bottle of dish soap we finally got the goop out of her hair. Her eyes red and puffy from crying, she stood up and a meek smile spread across her face, “I love you Mama”. Not a true expression of affection, as much as a request to be reassured that I still loved her.  “I love you too Honey.  Mama isn’t mad at you. No worries. Okay?”  Lucy meekly nodded her head and toddled off to watch cartoons.

It was funny. As a matter of fact I burst out laughing several times during the process of washing her hair. It seemed like such a typical thing for a child to do and one of those great stories that every parent has.  And yet for Lucy, for sweet rule-abiding, must always be right Lucy, it was a moment of shame.  She had ventured outside of the rules (more than likely due to the prodding of her brother) and the universe instantly punished her for it.  My heart was sad for her and I wanted her to be able to laugh at herself, at the situation, to see the humor, but perhaps that is too much to ask of a five year old.