The One Thing I've Never Regretted in Parenting

When our boys were really young, well meaning friends and family liberally gave me advice on best parenting practices and sprinkled it with dustings of, "oh, it goes by so fast."

Most young moms I've known realize this is true, but are also sorta kinda vying for it to go as fast as others say it does so they can just simply take a shower or use the bathroom without an entourage.

And most of us young moms who aren't moms to really little people any longer realize with every passing year that, yeah, it just gets truer and truer. Time really does march on and the beat to which it marches only seems to quicken with every passing year.

This morning, my youngest son, who is five, was talking about next year when he goes to school every day and something about the way he said "every day" so casually made me pause and realize that those years of little are quickly coming to a close for him. He hurried me out of the car and out of my thoughts just moments later. As I walked him into his preschool class, my sweet little guy told me he loved me, gave me a hug and then was off and running.

After drop off, I sat in my empty car and stared into the blue winter sky simply thinking, when a song, I lived by One Republic, came across my speakers, and it made me pause long and wonder if I've really lived these days of little or if I merely just survived.

If I'm answering honestly, I'll admit that I really have just survived many days. Other days, I've lived and lived well, engaging in the moments, laughing and crying all within the same breath. I have my regrets. I have my doubts. I have my wishes for do overs.

But there's one thing I can honestly say I don't regret, one thing I did almost every day -- the survival and the thriving days alike -- that bring me tears of joy and thankfulness: I held these boys of mine.

I held them for hours and hours as small babies, nestled happily in my tired arms. I held them when they slept, and I held them when I was almost ready to pee my pants and my butt was asleep and I feared it might never wake again.

I carried their heavy toddler bodies when they insisted on being snuggled against me instead of walking. And I cuddled them when they didn't want to play solo.

I slept next to ninja-like preschoolers whose little bodies took up more than half of the king sized bed but who voiced the need for snuggles.

I held them. I held them close, and I held them long, and I held them often.

Despite the borage of noise that suggested maybe I should do less of it, I held them because my heart heard something loud and clear one day when my oldest son was a tiny little thing with a big old set of lungs who let us know his displeasure whenever I set him down.

As I sobbed, feeling trapped beneath a tiny tyrant while the housework piled higher and higher and higher, she whispered kindly, lovingly to me that there would always be dishes, always be messes and always be laundry. While it might look different at different times and stages of the game, the messes always would remain a constant in life.

But this boy wouldn't always be a baby, he wouldn't always be little thing who could fit snuggled in the space on my lap and be easily soothed by my mere presence alone.

I'm glad now that I didn't spend nearly as much time holding clean plates as I did holding these boys of mine when they were babies. I'm glad now that I let my toddlers have the place on my hip more often than the laundry baskets.

Yes, absolutely, some days it was a struggle to see beyond the mess and choose to hold my boys for just a bit longer. And some days I did less holding and more cleaning. And some days I did hours of holding only to football-pass a little body into my husband's arms and run out the door as soon as he arrived home from work.

But she was right, and I'm glad she told me.

Because the messes, yes, they remain. However those babies are now boys with long, lanky legs running and jumping, bodies spanning three fourths of my own body that pause only momentarily throughout the day to press quickly into me for a hug or kiss but are most often off and running to the next thing.

And when they're off and running, sometimes there's a little ache in the empty of my arms ... but mostly I feel thankful.  Because now I'm just holding them differently much of the day.

I'm holding them in my heart.

Everyday Life: Carry You

It seems like I don't carry you much any more.

At freshly five, you are long and lanky and beyond a comfortable hip seat.

So I settle for snuggling you to sleep. Tonight, I practically have to beg you to let me be the one to see you off to your dreams, but you finally oblige.

And I breathe gratitude at having these minutes.

We lay in the dark, wrapped tight beneath blankets shielding our skin from cool of night-time lake air.

We whisper back and forth, and I tell you the story of five years ago today.

How we waited long and we waited patient for you to come. {"How long, mom?" Nine whole months!}

How I labored hours and then days. {"Did you eat? Did you sleep?" Not really.}

How I pushed you out of my belly. {"How!?" With strong muscles.}

And how all you wanted to do was sleep in my arms and nurse, which was good

because that's exactly all I wanted to do, too -- exhaustion set deep in my body, we both faded in and out of sleep for five glorious hours that first night.

You smile, and I remember the you from five years ago, tiny and snuggled against my chest, legs still shaking from the shear labor of your entrance.

We are still in thought, still in bed, snuggling

and I linger in the very effort, remembering the endurance,

how my muscles worked long

and hard

and well

to grow you,

carry you,

deliver you into arms that spent hours cradling and rocking your small self.

How these muscles fatigued and pushed beyond what I thought I could muster.

How I was so much stronger than I knew.

And how I didn't even have a clue that that would be the easy part.

That carrying you in belly and in arms and bearing down and bringing forth your life was only training for the muscle that would bear the real load.



How I couldn't have known that my heart would need all the training in strength it could build to wrap you up in this weight of heavy love and carry you long beyond what my arms ever could. Linking with The MOB society's Let's Hear it for the Boys.

Bigger Picture Moment / Five for Five: Age

I felt it again last night.

Like I was superman with all my superpowers drained from my body.

The kryptonite -- stretching of skin over lengthening bones and shedding of babyness for childhood.

The super powers I'd had wrapped up in my mother's body only a mere memory amid the screams of an inconsolable 2.5 year old, shrieking in the darkness of my bedroom at 12:15 a.m.

When both boys weaned, there was that sense of power-comfort loss, too. And then again when I could no longer pick up my lanky oldest son and walk rhythmically with him up and down the long hallways after he'd had a bad dream or a badly skinned knee.

And there it was again in the fullness of my inky-black room, only a tiny section illuminated by soft-glowing nightlight.

No milk. No baby carrier in which he could find rest amid the steady bounce of my pace, against the beating of my heart, in the security of being snugged right against my frame. No swaddling blanket large enough to comfort his toddler body.

Just me fumbling in the dark for new the bag of motherhood superpowers I haven't quite yet mastered -- the right words, the right melody of soothing song for his ears, the right touch to his skin, the right calm for his wild, wordless upset.

I stumbled hard into thinking in the sleeplessness of midnight about growing in my own mother skin. About what I have now to offer little boys who are no longer little babies and are growing quickly into little men.

What is there apart from a breast of comfort and arms like entwined branches and the calm of my heart thumping in time with their own now that they've grown out of the supermom powers I'd relied on most.

We finally all drifted to sleep, exhausted and teeming with frustration after riding out the crystorm together of what I can only assume is emerging molars, snuggled in the same bed.

I slept hard-crazy-dream sleep where I found myself struggling against intruders in my home, unfaced villains who were trying to harm my babies. In my dream, I was conniving and fearless, strong beyond my own knowing and I protected my growing flock with super-natural God-given mother fierceness of heart.

I carried this fierce-love into total consciousness, woken by smiles and babble mixed with toddler-crafted words followed by the happy sounds of a preschooler coming to say hello.

There were wrapped-up words, oh so many words from my preschooler and tackle hugs, so many tackle hugs wrapped around my neck by my toddler.

And with these word spoken, hugs given, tantrums thrown, ideas shared, tears shed, the emerging super powers of a mother who ages with her children, the sheer weight and depth of that strong-ocean-current-fierce love manifests itself in listening well, in embraces fully returned and in pausing to pay the captors of this soul-love my fullest attention even when I feel like I'm fumbling around in the dark.

Every Thursday we come together to share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week, and this week we are teeming with Momalom's Five for Five to find the Bigger Picture wrapped up in AGE. Don't forget to link at both Jade's and Momalom's to support each other and find new friends!

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Jade's!Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Bigger Picture Moment: The Tango that is Nursing a Toddler

After 39 months of nursing two little ones, 21 of these last months spent solely nursing E, I've been giving considerable thought to weaning.

But as with any tango, it takes two to dance, and it takes two to call it a night as well.

A self-proclaimed lactivist, much of my inner dialogue balks at the idea of even thinking of weaning my little one before the music's ended and he's taken the lead to move us off of the dance floor.

But, alas, here I am wondering how much longer I can dance at this intensity.

More accurately, here I am, a dancer who's all touched out.

Despite all of the reasons I adore our nursing relationship and passionately support breastfeeding from newborn well into toddlerhood or beyond, I'm finding myself at a complicated place of really wanting my body back for a few months before possibly sporting a brand-new pregnant belly again as well as really wanting to take my few scheduled trips sans kiddos without a pump permanently attached to my breast.

I'd be quite happy to simply slim down our sessions to ones just before bed or nap ... but at 21 months old, E pretty much thinks that the land of flowing mommy milk and honey is a God-given right to all toddlers in search of life, liberty and the pursuit of warm mommy snuggles.

So weaning?

Thems fightin' words.

Literally.

Currently, I need a drawbridge and mote to escape my persistent toddler when he is insistent on nursing. My linebacker child has been known to rearrange an entire dining room set and scale the entire dining room table only to plop down right on my lap and sign for milk after completing the obstacle course.

For those who have never nursed a toddler or even a baby, I know probably it seems strange to think that I'd still be nursing a little one who will turn two this fall.

And the above scenario? It probably sounds extremely weird. To the pre-baby me, it would have sounded absolutely ludicrous to continue nursing a child who could wash down his hamburger with some breastmilk.

So I get it -- this so-called "extended" nursing thing is counter cultural, it's really against the grain and it's really hard to explain to those who are outside of the relationship.

I can assure you, though, that the weaning process isn't as easy as just stopping.

Because nursing is about connection, with oxytocin --the mothering hormone -- coursing through mom's body and the calming act of suckling combined with sweet milk flowing to a nursling whose pressed gently against the skin of his favorite person. Even beyond just physical connection, there's something intensely physiological and physcological occurring every time the two sit down and connect in this way.

And honestly?

Nursing has pretty much been the key to much of the relative peacefulness in my and E's everyday life together. It's calming to both of us ... except for when it's not, like now, when I'd really like my body back again before we embark on a third journey that will likely result in a few more years of nursing another child.

These thoughts of nursing and weaning come just days before John and I are going be away from E for a few nights to attend a conference.

I'm sure E will fare just fine without his beloved mommy milk for two and a half days; likely since he'll be with Buba and Grandma, he'll have all of the organic hotdogs and strawberries he could ever want.

When I'm out of sight, mommy milk is out of his mind.

However, I'm not sure sure how we're both going to survive when I return if he finds the previously generous flow of milk has slowed to a trickle.

I'm left nervously anticipating the consequences of such a situation.

Because after G weaned {much to his irritation at there being no milk by the half way point of my pregnancy}, our relationship morphed from one of relative peace and closeness to daily altercations and struggles of will.

I wonder, if an abrupt weaning like that should happen, if E's reaction would likely mirror his brother's.

And how could I blame him? What could possibly seem unappealing to a little person about sipping sweet cream and snuggling up with mommy several times a day?



So, I don't know that I'm ready for our relationship to drastically change.

And if we return home, my milk still flowing and unaffected by the separation, I don't know if I'm ready for our relationship NOT to change either. And I don't want to be the soulless dancer just going through the motions.

Because I know that nursing is more than nutrients in, breastmilk out, belly full, breast empty just like the tango is more than a few steps to the right, a few steps to the left and a swoop of the foot before the final dip.

There's heart. And there's soul. And there's love in each step that makes up the complexity, the loveliness of the dance.

So I know -- it truly takes two to dance the tango that is nursing.

And I'm praying that somehow I have the heart to keep up with the rhythm of the dance or that music slowly fades into a new song that we're both ready to learn.



Did you see a glimpse of the bigger picture through a simple moment this week? Link up with Sarah today to share the harvest of living intentionally with others on the journey.

Thinking, that's All: If it Works

Against warnings from so many, all exlaining that our children would never sleep alone, would never sleep through the night without us, we decided to share sleep with our kids.

A new mother, barely getting any sleep with her high-needs baby clinging to her arms for dear life, I did the only logical thing I could think to do in the face of desperation and exhaustion:

I took my baby to bed with me.

And we slept.

We slept without many pillows, without cushy blankets, without foam mattress pads and anything else that could be hazardous to baby's well being.

But we slept.

So when number two came along, we did it all over again.



Even though we've continuously been advised against co-sleeping, others citing all of the nevers and won'ts and can'ts and shouldn'ts, we prayefully pressed on.

Because it worked for our family -- we were sleeping pretty well, we were interacting lovingly and we were finding peace in it.

And the few times we'd tried something different, questioning ourselves and our choices, those ventures ended in disaster, culminating in frustration and tears and unrest.

We had to learn that our family was just that -- ours.

And we needed to make decisions based on what worked well for us.

So we slept.

Together.

When each boy turned about 13 months old or so, we began transitioning them to our old queen-sized bed on the floor in their room -- a place either John or I could easily find rest should a child need one of us to climb in and snuggle.

G has been been sleeping through the night pretty regularly in his bed for about a year.

And last night, for the first time ever, E joined him all.night.long.

Few tears. Few frustrations. Few nights of unrest. {Nothing perfect at all, but much more manageable than trying to force arrangements that left everyone cranky and tired and upset.}

All solidifing in my mind, that if it works for OUR family, if it works for YOUR family, don't try to fix it.

Because it was never broken in the first place.

Bigger Picture Moment: When people ask about when we'll stop nursing ..

{I don't have many words to explain other than ...}

Sometimes, you strip down to your birthday suit, characteristic of your freedom-loving self, and

toddlerunruntoddletoddlerunrun

right over to me and fall trustingly into my arms.

I scoop you up, feet still dancing, and kiss soft patches of chubby belly while you giggle and giggle and giggle some more.

You're happy enough to laugh and play for a few minutes, but shortly after the novelty of raspberries against bare skin fades, you snuggle your head into the crook of my arm and stretch your legs across the width of my hips intent on completeing your orginal mission.

As you settle in to drink your fill, nostalgia sweeps over me and for a moment, I'm nursing a fresh-born baby, soft warm skin against soft warm skin, on his birth day, mesmerized by your cornflower blue eyes for the first time.



Nineteen months later, my heart still swells every time I have the chance to snuggle your body against my own.

And each time, I marvel at the view from here.



Every week we share the harvest of intentional living by capturing a glimpse of the biggger picture through a simple moment. Won't you join us in the journey and share your own over at Alita's today?

Live. Capture. Share. Encourage.

Bigger Picture Moments: Like Zumba

Mirrors stretch from the floor to the ceiling of one long wall.

Bass thumping, music bounces off the brick walls; I'm keenly aware of my body in this space.

As the instructor begins moving, swiveling her hips in a circle, moving her feet to the ryhthm of the beat, I struggle to see her amid the sleek, slender bodies of the other women who are dancing almost effortlessly.

And though I try, I really, really try, I just cannot see well enough to imitate what she's doing amid all the other experienced dancers.

So I do my best to shake my hips to the beat, move in the right direction.

By the end of the second song, I'm frustrated.

I feel simultaneously invisible and on display, and finally, somewhere around song four, as sweat is dripping down forehead, I resign to simply do my best and enjoy the music.

I somehow catch the instructor's eye in the mirror. And though I'm void of ryhthm at that moment, and my right foot is moving when my left leg should, she winks and smiles, encouraging me in my great effort, though I'm showing little signs of improvement.

Her smile gives me the confidence to move my own body a little more swiftly, a little more to the beat of her drum.

As the last few songs echo, ricochet against the brick walls, I smile and move into the ryhthm gaining comfort with my own body, enjoying the last bit of my first all-Zumba class.

When I arrive home, I hear my 3.5 year old scurry down the hall way toward the door, feet thumping against the ceramic tile. I hear him exclaim that he's so happy to see me he can barely wait for my grandfather to unlock the door.

G. throws his little arms around my leg and declares that he's been waiting for me to get dressed in his pajamas. We scurry off to bed, pull the covers over feet, and he snuggles against my neck as we recap the day and pray.

As I think about his day -- like when he couldn't quite get the soap out of the dispenser, though he really, really tried -- my heart reels a little. I think about how I, trying to juggle holding his squirmy brother while manipulating the soap bottle, sighed under my breath and told him to focus on the task, try harder.

Those types of moments happen more than I'd like to admit.

As he drifts to sleep, I wonder if maybe being 3.5 years old is kind of like being the new girl at Zumba.

And I resign in my heart that next time I'll slow down, catch his eye in the mirror and smile instead.

If you've seen the bigger picture in a simple moment this week, link up with Alita.
Also linked with Mrs. 4444.

Bigger Picture Moments: Rebuilding

The glass that's been teetering on the edge of the table for the past few minutes tumbles to the floor, erupting into an orange juice volcano.

Thud, clank, clank -- sticky, orange puddles coat the floor, and before I can grab a towel, the toddler runs through it, barefoot.

Deep breathe on the outside, internal scream of frustration inside my head.

I lend a smile to a sheepish-looking preschooler, who clearly sees the error of his breakfast glass placement now that its liquid is no longer safely concealed inside.

As I spring to action, grabbing a towel, I can hear inside my head all the things I want to say.

I told you so.

I asked you to be careful.

I warned you that would happen.

Look at this mess!

Because I've had enough sleep, food, water, I can shoo those thoughts away and regroup my thoughts.

What do I really want to say about this, I ask myself. What do I want him to remember me saying.

I look at the hazel eyes staring up at me, waiting to see my reaction, soften and say, "Accidents happen."

But I so easily could've gone a road I've taken so many times before, exploding volcano style with huffs and groans and ashy black words that mar my little one's mind.

Here's the thing -- a few weeks ago, I didn't even notice how I was reacting, but as I've been reading Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves* and applying the author's method of response {NOT reaction}, I've witnessed my very selfish, very immature reactions to frustrations.

And I've noticed that G.'s reactions to frustration {you know, the ones I'm always trying to change -- like when he huffs or yells or groans?} are mirrors of my own reactions to situations I don't like.

{Yes, you read that right; I've been reacting to my toddlers like a toddler. Groan.}

And today, I doubt the OJ scene would have stuck out so clearly had I not witnessed the most beautiful moment between G., his toddler brother and me.

G. and I were building a fortress, a lair for his lions.

We were stacking the colorful, vibrant Duplos carefully, strategically {so the lions wouldn't escape}.

It turned into a labor of love that took us about 20 minutes to create.

No sooner than G. had placed all the lions inside, 17-month-old E. {affectionately referred to as Babyzilla} scurried over to the fortress and tore it apart when his brother and I took a quick water break.

Our masterpiece was ruined.

G.'s face fell, clearly disappointed.

I braced myself for screaming and yells of frustration.

But instead he looked at me, smiled and said, "Well, I guess we'll have to rebuild it."

I looked at the colorful blocks, totally scattered everywhere and said, "Yup. I guess we will."

And so we rebuild, restructure, one block at a time.

{* by Naomi Aldort}

Have you seen the Bigger Picture through a Simple Moment? Link up with Sarah!

Everyday Life: A Mommy Cocktail

He cries for me.

I can hear my 3 year old's small voice drifting down the hallway, seeping through a shut door.

"Mummmmeeeee," he calls.

My heart thumps in my chest at the sound of my name, leaps into my throat; I can see clearly in my mind's eye his red, tear-stained cheeks.

But I don't move from the bed.

My brain cannot handle one more minute of trying to respond to my children's needs and wants.

Neither can my body.

They are safe, I know, snuggled in the crevices of my husband's arms, one boy on each side of his strong, slender, solid body.

And they are loved.

He can love them better right now.

By day's end, I have nothing left to give other than reactions. My responding mechanism -- the part of my brain that filters my thoughts and catches the untruthful or unproductive ones before they spew out of my lips -- is too tired to do it's job of trapping the lies I often think or feel when my boys do or say something I don't like.

No. Actually, it's exhausted.

A few more moments of over-tired tears escape their room and wander into my ears.

Guilt, gratitude, relief, love, forgiveness mix into a cocktail I drink every night at bedtime.

Faint mumblings of "muummmmeee" echo in my mind long after both boys fall into a quiet slumber.

But when the well's dry, there's no water left to give.

My husband emerges from the shadows of bedtime, a rescue hero dressed as a strong, gentle father.

He reassures me that they know love from both my hand and his.

And that it's OK for me to tumble into our bedsheets and wrap myself up in blankets or words or prayer or whatever helps to fill me back up.

Because I'm not just raising two boys.

I'm raising myself into a mother.

And I'm not sure which requires more energy, more patience, more love or more forgiveness anymore.

{I'm reading Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves by Naomi Aldort, a book intended to take the struggle out of parenting. And I find myself pleased with the mothering road by day's end but exhausted. It's a worthwhile read.}

Babywearing: Rebozo

By Marion Scott

My baby was the one you could hear from down the hall.

Doors all along the hallway of the Mother-Baby Unit shut as the nurse brought 5 pounds and 2 ounces of scrawny, screaming irritation back to me once again.

After a physically uneventful but emotionally draining year, I was completely unprepared for a premature birth, forced labor and botched delivery.

Apparently baby was not ready, either.

It was weeks before I could sit down, months before I could sit down without pain. Days before baby could latch on, weeks before he wanted to latch.

Family came and went before the weather could turn. They marveled at baby’s tiny body and earsplitting voice. I notified the silence where baby’s father had been: “Baby boy born. Mother and baby fine.”

I tried to cook and clean for my patient husband, our new marriage trapped in non-verbal infancy and the frustration of novelty: diapers, dryer vents, drugstores, dirt.

Nights were measured in one-hour intervals. Days ran into one another strung together by the constant motion of bouncing, moving, swaying, walking around and around in circles on my carpet path. Housebound by doctors’ orders and winter storms I sometimes wore earplugs to dull the constant crying until I, too, became dull.

Dull. Alone. Sinking inside.

In my more lucid moments, I thought this must be punishment for unplanned pregnancy. No friends, no network, no family and no peace. I never registered for baby things thanks to the kind lady at the Pregnancy Center who gave me a crib, a stroller and some maternity clothes. Lacking a periodical subscription, a Babies R Us and an internet connection, I did not hear the term “Postpartum Depression” until well after the postpartum stage.

Books lived on the nightstands, on the counters, on the edge of the crib. Straight lines of text balanced the erratic daily mood swings, until they joined one day in a black-and-white picture book from 1961 entitled Children and their Mothers.

Grainy photos of black and white skin, poverty and prosperity, new world, old world, third world glared starkly in the glow of my nightlight. Mothers from around the world, sad and happy, eating, healing, resting, nursing, working, starving, dying. In homes, hospitals, clinics, hovels and ditches.


But the babies! The babies were content, peaceful, unaware of their circumstances. And for every sleepy, drooly, placid baby there was a piece of cloth, a basket, a scarf, a pack which held them up high on their mother’s body.

In the morning, after my tired husband left for work, I took a flat sheet and ripped it in half longwise. Looking in the mirror for perhaps the first time in weeks, I tried to tie a band around my body, wrapping the length and width around mummy-like.

I looked at the tiny body clawing at his blanket on my bed and then at the quantity of fabric wrapped around my middle. Looked at the picture of the African mamas washing, sewing, cleaning socializing with babies on their backs. Unwound the sheet and picked up now-frantic baby … and stuffed him feet-first into the top of my sports bra.

This became our morning exercise routine. Daddy leave for work. Baby wake up again. Mommy frantically strip her shirt off and nurse angry baby, then stuff him semi-upright in her bra and begin walking our carpet path.

After a few days, baby quieted after only minutes of protest, dosing in his tight elastic nest on top of mommy’s chest, all his bony arms and legs folded in, securely held. After a few weeks I got braver. I knew how to do something! I could cook, I could clean, I could help my baby feel better, if only for a few hours.

We got braver as the weather worsened and nights began before dinnertime. I half-expected to be stopped by a police car on our first walk around the block.

Ma’am, what is that lump under your coat?

Just a sleeping baby, warm in his swaddling of shirts and scarves, only the top of his hat visible under my chin.

Deep snow, deeper quiet, an hours’ respite from fighting our housebound demons.

By spring baby had outgrown his nest.

A new internet connection brought news of warmer weather, lists of garage sales and links to baby stores.

I dragged out a used Snugli and diaper-pinned the straps back on. Baby objected to this new, open-air insecurity. What luck when I found a “real” sling at Walmart! It was huge--I pushed and pulled the padding through the rings, removed stitching, chopped ends and generally mangled it into submission. Miles, weeks and two aching shoulders later, I found a new website. La Leche League led to Jenrose led to Jan Andrea led to my sewing machine and finally a simple pouch sling emerged.

We went to the grocery store together, baby, the pouch, and I. The white people stared, the gentleman in the milk aisle shook his head.

“What will they think of next? That baby is going to fall out on the floor!”

But the old Mexican lady buying bushels of tomatoes adjusted the stretch of fabric across my back with a gap-toothed smile and tucked the edges under baby’s knees.

The deli girl told me of her grandmother and her country as plastic-gloved hands mimed tying straps and tucking fabric.

“Rebozo?” asked a man sorting oranges, then let loose a torrent of Spanish.“Rebozo?”

“Rebozo?” I asked my Spanish-speaking mother a few weeks later.

Doubtful about my invention, she was heartened by my combed hair and babbling baby.



The wall between us cast shadows in either direction, baby rising every day, the noon sun of compromise.

A few months later she returned from a missions trip, thinned and warmed by hotter climate. She handed me two strips of brightly woven cloth with fringe at the ends.

The weave was open, the cotton soft and flexible. Meshlike, the scarves stretched and curved around the curve of baby’s peeking face.

“Rebozo,” said my mother, as she tied it around baby and me. “Rebozo.”


Marion Scott is wife to a patient man, mother to four youngsters and designer of the CatBird Baby Pikkolo. A babywearing pioneer of sorts here in the area, she's been wearing her babies intermittently for the past ten years, well before many slings were readily available on the market. She is the liaison for Babywearing International of Chicagoland, our local babywearing group. I'm proud to call her a babywearing mentor and friend.

Everyday Life: Eyes Wide Shut

Welcome to Bigger Picture Moments, a weekly writing meme intended to foster creativity and help busy moms actively seek every-day moments that show us a glimpse of the bigger picture.

Amid fast-paced lives, sometimes we lose sight of the grander scheme; won't you join us in consciously trying to embrace and remember these moments - however small or large?

The thermometer spiked today* at a whopping 16 degrees.

We layered shirts with heavy pants and wool socks.

We bundled under the cover of gloves, scarves, hats and heavy coats.

We hurried into the car from the house and out of the car to the preschool.

And then a few hours later we did that in reverse.

Instead of taking all of the layers off, we kept some on our bodies.

Though there were places I needed to go before Christmas, I just couldn't muster the will to rebundle, recoat, reglove and reboot each time I peaked at the thermometer and pondered leaving the house again.

So we busied ourselves with playing and cooking and reading and cleaning, and I tried really hard not to completely sulk about feeling like a self-imposed prisoner within our four walls.

I gave myself pep talks, prayed, laughed with the kids and tried to ignore my freezing toes encased in woolen socks.

The day wore on, and I sunk into the recliner, exhausted both mentally and physically, around 3 p.m.

As I sat down, it was like opening my eyes for the very first time that day.

Bright and brilliant. Warm and inviting.

I'd almost totally missed winter's most elusive and welcomed special guest because I'd been so busy layering and bundling, so tunnel-visioned about the cold.

And I could not help but wonder what else I'm so stuck on -- the unflushed toilets, the toys splayed across the floor, the dirty clothes piled just inches away from the hamper.

What here in the everyday doldrums has kept me from really basking in the awesome gift right before my face during this season of life where my boys are small and innocent, tickleable and excitable, spirited and openly loving?

The laundry? The messes? The dishes?

None are worthy.

I know this time is fast. I know it's fleeting. I know it could be so fruitful.

And I know I don't want to miss the sunshine there, in parenting my boys, especially.

*Written Tuesday in anticipation of Bigger Picture Moments.

To read other Bigger Picture Moments or link your own, visit Melissa.

Attachment Parenting: If I'm going to be real ...

I'm no caged bird.

Modern motherhood hasn't imprisoned me, quite contrary to Wall Street Journal Columnist Erica Jong's philosophical musings regarding modern motherhood and the incorporation of attachment parenting practices being just another method of victimizing women.

My choice to incorporate attachment parenting practices into our lives, was that -- a choice.

BUT.

I've got to be honest -- I've had this nagging thought running amok in my brain since I pushed the publish button last week and responded publicly in favor of attachment parenting and advocated for motherhood.

Because I neglected a very real, very related issue regarding modern motherhood and some of Jong's {albeit convoluted} point:

Burn out.

While I passionately defended Attachment Parenting, pointing out the many benefits {And I won't be retracting those sentiments, um, ever}, I realize many mothers experience the inevitable crashing and burning into a fiery flame somewhere along the motherhood journey.

So I've mulled it over, and chewed on it, and spit it out at least five or six times during the weekend, asking myself if, perhaps, by practicing Attachment Parenting we mothers are at higher risk for burn out {which I'd like to point out is drastically different from the imprisonment Ms. Jong spoke about, just to be clear.}

Though I firmly believe attachment parenting practices are meant to keep us moms away from the fires of burn out, sometimes I think we take good things too far {and NOT just with parenting}.

Samely, I think many of the parents who have taken a wide, sweeping look at AP practices {like Ms. Jong} have seen some of these good things being taken out of context and then altered into something that becomes unhealthy {and thus looks imprisoning}.

Take for example {one among many}, establishing trust through responding promptly with empathy to our babies' cries.

I think perhaps a few of us in the AP community {based on personal and online conversations} have found we've morphed this aspect of AP to mean our kids' ability to trust solely hinges on us-- the mothers.

I'm guilty of this, which is why I use it as a general example.

As a first-time parent, I didn't want to leave my baby for more than brief jaunts out during the first five months of his life for fear that I would somehow shatter his trust, completely missing the point of the trust issue and turning it into a high-pressure situation that pretty much set me up to "fail" or feel guilty.

Let me unwrap that a bit: In AP, parents are encouraged to respond lovingly and promptly to a baby's needs. Leaving a tiny baby to cry alone for extended periods can lead the baby to either giving up on expressing his needs or feeling insecure that his needs might not be met.

In my mind, and most likely because I'm a type A personality who is a perfectionist and a worrier, I twisted that to mean that I had to be the one who responded to his needs every time. Or, I worried, perhaps, another caregiver wouldn't respond to his cries {he was high-needs} like I would.

So I would skip out on baby-unfriendly events with my friends or opt out of date nights that required hubby and me to leave the house or whatever because I couldn't bear the thought of breaking little G.'s trust in me or in people, in general. {Yes, I'm apparently vain.}

My constant tending to him left me feeling beyond burned out.

I felt alone, and I felt lonely, and I wondered who I was anyway anymore. Was I only a mother?

I went kind of nuts, exploding emotionally one afternoon onto a Web page when I realized I hadn't given myself enough of a break from mothering to embrace the other parts that make me me.


Just as I said Ms. Jong didn't get AP, I didn't totally get it then either. I was at the polar opposite end of the extreme: I was putting all of my effort into parenting.

It wasn't until I was so burned out I was crispy that I finally realized that I could and I NEEDED to leave G. in the tender loving care of others {namely my awesome mom and my wonderful mother-in-law} for more than 40-minute increments.

I needed to do it for him because he needed to know that other people are trustworthy and that they would respond with love and care to his needs. {Of course, I learned to hand pick those people who would respond attentively and gently.}

And I needed to do it for me.

I had been taking a really good thing by not really understanding it and manipulating it into something that lead me down the hot path of burn out. I very likely could have wedged a boulder in between John and me, neglected most of my friendships to the point of extraordinarily hurt feelings and inhibited G.'s ability to separate from us into the loving care of others we trust.

Burn out happens in other ways, too, within and outside of the AP community and in regard to EVERY other area of life about which we feel passionate.

I can think of a dozen other parenting or lifestyle practices that are inherently good but can take us women down the path of major and extreme burnout if we don't really understand the philosophies to which we ascribe.

As we parent {or do anything really}, we need to keep in mind the end goal of why we are doing what we are doing.

My end goal of parenting is to raise healthy, thinking, compassionate people AND to better know God, myself, my husband and my kids -- not to completely lose myself in the flames of burnout; so I continually have to remind myself to leave the kids with trusted loved ones while I have coffee with friends or widdle down my commitment list on a regular basis or simply allow others to do things they are capable of doing instead of sweeping in and doing it myself.

And while I'm sure I will find myself touching the fire again, I hope maybe a few of my scars might caution me to exercise thoughtful moderation while doing the things I love -- mothering, writing, being a good friend, wife, daughter, or whatever.

So, I maintain, I'm no caged bird.

But I know how quickly I become a moth to a flame -- a fire risk who needs to take care not to fly straight into the blaze -- in regard to motherhood or anything else.

Bigger Picture Moment: Goose Poop

Welcome to Bigger Picture Moments, a weekly writing meme intended to foster creativity and help busy moms actively seek every-day moments that show us a glimpse of the bigger picture.

Amid fast-paced lives, sometimes we lose sight of the grander scheme; won't you join us in consciously trying to embrace and remember these moments - however small or large?

It was a recipe for Christmas-Card-Photo-Session success.

The temperature was still hovering around 66 degrees, and the perfect-picture afternoon sun was just gently beginning to sweep down toward the western horizon.

So we forfeited play clothes for collared shirts, scrubbed peanut-butter-and-jelly coated faces, smoothed hair that was sticking up like wild turkey feathers on the boys' noggins and headed to the park to capture a beautiful shot amid the lingering fall foliage.

My sister and I even loaded the car with a few cute, photo-worthy toys, some treats {bribery} and a few other props to ensure Operation: Capture a Christmas Card Photo would be a surefire success.

As we began the second leg of our mission, arrival at the park, I had the highest of hopes ... until the moment we freed the boys from their car seat prisons and they began running around like wild squirrels who had just been let of a cage on the first day of spring.

My plan for capturing the perfect picture -- ask boys to sit next to each other and smile in exchange for a bag of pretzels -- imploded.

They ran in opposite directions, squealing gleefully.

OK, I'd thought to my self. I can do candid, action shots.

They were completely entranced by the geese, laughing and herding them like a Shepard would sheep.

I grew a little frustrated at trying to keep up with them, keep up with my camera settings and keep up with those stinkin' fast-moving honkers.

Then they wanted to chase the ducks, G. quacking alongside his little brother who was exclaiming, "Duuuhhhk Duuuuhhhk!"

They were having so much fun, but I suddenly wasn't.

I can do this, I told myself. I love capturing raw, unfiltered emotion in my photos.

Except for when that raw, unfiltered emotion comes in the form of joyful squeals as my 14 month old and 3 year old simultaneously pick up goose poop and begin mashing it in between their fingers.

That, I just can't do.

Enter mommy's raw, unfiltered emotion: "NO! NO! That's GOOSE POOP! Put it down, for the love of all things CLEAN! DON'T SMASH IT UP ... OH, YUCK! NO! For my SANITY'S SAKE, put the GOOSEPOOPDOWN! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!?"

Their smiles and giggles gave way to wide-eyes and stunned faces.

I scooped up Baby E., grabbed G.'s non-pooped smeared hand and began hauling them to the bathrooms, nearly dragging G. behind me.

A few quick steps into our mad dash to the nearest sink and soap, I looked down at G.'s face and saw his chin quivering as he stammered, "I will nevereverever pick up goose poop again, mommy. I promise. Neverevereever."

My heart sank into my gut as he apologized, and I knew that I had so blown things out of proportion regarding the {icky stinky germy} goose poop partly because I'd been frustrated about not getting any good shots.

"Oh, I think mommy needs to apologize," I said as we scrubbed the living daylights out of their hands. "I shouldn't have gotten so upset and yelled. I know you guys didn't know what it was."

"I thought it was a stick, " G. said. "I'm sorry. I will never never NEVER pick up goose poop again."

"I know," I said. "Let's go play now."

We emerged from the bathroom with new understandings, each of us, about goose poop.

G. realized he shouldn't touch it because it's disgusting.

And I realized that my boys find goose poop, like most anything else outside, extremely fascinating and interesting because they are 14 months old and 3 years old.

And that being said, I can't expect them to understand how to sit and pose for the perfect, smiling Christmas card picture at such young ages. I mean, they are so little they don't even know not to touch the goose poop because they don't even know what it is.

We continued along with our afternoon, them focused again on fun and me focused on just capturing who they are in tiny moments on screen.



And while I may not have captured the traditional, Christmas-card perfect shots, I did perfectly capture them at their ages.
There will be plenty of time for traditional, posed Christmas pictures as they grow up and become less enamoured by water foul and goose poop no longer has the same allure.

But for now, we're going to enjoy the candid moments brought on by these germy fascinations -- but from a less intimate distance from here on out.

Link your Bigger Picture Moment up over at Melissa's place this week.

Motherhood: In Advocacy of Mothering and Attachment Parenting

Hear that clankity, clank, clank, clank around your ankles, mama?

Those are the chains you're sporting from attachment parenting -- babywearing, breastfeeding and cosleeping, just to name a few.

Wear your baby?

Add a link.

Blend his veggies yourself?

Attach another.

Breastfeed?

Bring on at least a dozen more shackles.

Oh, you didn't feel them?

I didn't either.

In fact, I didn't even know I was being "victimized" and "imprisioned" until I read Erica Jong's Wall Street Journal article Mother Madness, in which Ms. Jong renders Attachment Parenting practices like babywearing and breastfeeding them imprisioning and likens them to modern-day tortures that actually bind women into parental slavery.

Respectfully, I must say, Ms. Jong, in regard to Attachment Parenting, you don't get it.

Jong states:

Attachment parenting, especially when combined with environmental correctness, has encouraged female victimization. Women feel not only that they must be ever-present for their children but also that they must breast-feed, make their own baby food and eschew disposable diapers. It's a prison for mothers, and it represents as much of a backlash against women's freedom as the right-to-life movement.

Jong rehashes her memories of being a single mother with a career in relation to a few AP practices. She says she liked breastfeeding, but her daughter hated it. And how on Earth was she to keep her child close by snuggling her daughter in a carrier while she was working when the workplace barely supports breastfeeding {a whole different issue!}?

Well, I wish someone would have shared with Jong quite a bit about Attachment Parenting and its "rules", as she calls them -- as likely she would have found AP practices to be freeing rather than binding and guilt inducing.

AP practices like sleep sharing, breastfeeding, babywearing and responding with empathy are tools we mothers {and dads} can use to help lesson the anxiety that comes with parenting a new life {or two or three or four} and help us mothers maintain a sense of ourselves while parenting.

By breastfeeding, we can go anywhere with baby and exert little planning. We don't have to fret over finding water or a place to mix formula or even remembering to bring the formula.

By babywearing, we have to free hands to go about our daily tasks while keeping baby close, easing mom's mind and the load on her arms.

By responding with empathy, we get to know our babies and understand what they need instead of becoming frustrated by their cries.

And the list of benefits extends beyond those few experiences that serve as examples of how mothers find freedom to maintain their normal activities while parenting.

Babywearing, for instance, doesn't have to be utilized by working parents solely as a way to take baby to the office; but rather it provides a means of being close when mom gets home, has to make dinner but also wants to snuggle her baby.

As Jong elaborates, her misguided perspective on AP becomes sadder and more absurd: she also blames AP for keeping parents from being active in governing decisions and positions:

Indeed, although attachment parenting comes with an exquisite progressive pedigree, it is a perfect tool for the political right. It certainly serves to keep mothers and fathers out of the political process. If you are busy raising children without societal help and trying to earn a living during a recession, you don't have much time to question and change the world that you and your children inhabit. What exhausted, overworked parent has time to protest under such conditions?

Attachment Parenting doesn't call for me to tackle parenting alone, without community {or family} support -- it encourages relationships between families and between our children and other trusted caregivers.

Our local Lake County AP group has been the opposite of isolating -- it's a community of overflowing support. I know if I need help, I can call anyone of my fellow AP moms, and they would extend care in a heartbeat -- I know this because I've been there, in a position of needing help.

When my dad died, some brought meals. When I needed a last-minute sitter so hubby and I could go to a group meeting, another AP mama was there. And so on.

As for AP practices making us parents too tired or worn out to engage in the political process? You'd find the opposite.

Many mothers in my local AP group are very involved in our goverment and political processes through voting, petitioning our congress people and even teaching classes -- and we pass these values onto our children as well.

This kind of involvement in the political processes obliterates Jong's theory of parenting being an avoidance strategy for us to escape bigger, global problems. She says,

It allows us to substitute our own small world for the world as a whole. But the entire planet is a child's home, and other adults are also mothers and fathers. We cannot separate our children from the ills that affect everyone, however hard we try. Aspiring to be perfect parents seems like a pathetic attempt to control what we can while ignoring problems that seem beyond our reach.

UGH.

As AP parents, we are simply trying to raise children who will be thoughtful, compassionate, contributing members of society.

And with AP, we do that by MODELING behavior.

We act out what we expect -- whether that means treating others the way they want to be treated, clearing the dishes from the table, casting our premeditated votes on election day, sharing our food with those in need or volunteering for causes in which we believe.

Mamas, don't let anyone tell you that your job as a mother isn't important or that being a mother is just a trendy, fashion statement.

Don't let confused women like Jong persaude you into thinking that responding to your child with love and grace and affection isn't one of the most empowering and important jobs we women have.

While I raise my coffee mug in a toast applauding that we shouldn't place shackles on each other by creating lists of "you musts" or hinge our entire our lives on being successful parents, we must not take lightly the job of raising our children to become THINKING, COMPASSIONATE, CONVICTED people.

AP gives us tangible ways with which we can respond with thought and love, which, model for children how they, too, can respond in thought and love in small situations as well as very grand ones.

And our tools -- babywearing, breastfeeding and responding -- are just that -- tools that help us respond well and teach well how to interact with people and situations.

Mamas, you are, indeed, raising small people to become bigger people who will take on the larger problems we face as a global community.

And you, AP parents, are teaching them how to do it through expending great thought and great love that your little ones will one day echo.

It's not AP practices that are imprisioning me, shackling my feet and attacking my spirit-- rather it's women like Jong who insist that mothering is not an honorable, necessary job.

I've taken to heart advice dispensed through my Vantage Point 3 Emerging Journey leadership class regarding jobs, vocation and calling:

"Go where your deep desire and the world's deep need intersect."

For me, in this season of my life, that place of deep desire merging with the world's deep need is here, at home, mothering my children.

And this place, Ms. Jong? It's not a prision; it's a beautiful labor of love rooted in the deep soil of a soul who was created to be, yes, a writer and a teacher and an activist, but also, {equally wonderful} a mother.

Everyday Life: Dehydrated

Sometimes when I'm at the end of my rope, and I think my kids are totally going to turn out to be juvenile delinquents because the older one is chasing the dog around with a stick in the backyard while militantly ordering him to get to time out NOW and the little one laughs when he jams his fingers up my nose while tears stream down my face from the sting and I'm pretty sure that one or both of them threw their bath toys in the toilet after *not* flushing just to see if I will run out of the house crying and pulling my hair out {deep breathe in!} ...

my three year old reminds me that he is only three by saying something during an overheard conversation like, "Aunt Jill, I broke my leg."

"Oh, no!" Aunt Jill says. "How did you do that?"

"Well, Aunt Jill, my leg was dehydrated ... it doesn't have hydrates, so I broke it, and now I have a cast."

{Deep breathe out.}

And I remember that I should wait, at least, until they both turn five to decide whether or not they are both going to have permanent seats with name plates in detention {either here at home if we homeschool or at away-from-home school.}

Bigger Picture Moment: Listening hat

Welcome to the Bigger Picture Moments, where we breathe in and find the beauty of
the bigger picture.

We hope you've found some time to internalize and write your Bigger Picture Moment this week. Join us by linking up to your post {not your main blog page} below, link back to us in your post, and then spend some time enjoying the other moments.

Sarah is hosting our link-up next week, so be sure to be aware of all the little moments in which the bigger picture is hiding during this next week.

*****
All of the groups were in the big gym for closing songs and a prayer when I walked in to pick up my almost 3 year old from his very first day of Vacation Bible School.

{He turns 3 in one week. Hold me.}

G. really wanted to go to school, and he realy wanted to have his own teacher along with his own class.

Because I'm going to be doing preschool with him this fall at home and possibly homeschooling him thereafter, VBS is probably the closest he'll get to a school situation for quite a few years. So I agreed to let him go.

We went over a few guidelines during the weeks leading up to the start day {Be kind, obey your teachers, treat others the way you want to be treated}, and then I released him into the care of his teachers bright and early Monday morning.

Upon pick up, I remained behind a computer so as to shield myself from his view and observe {spy} on G.

He sat relatively calmly on one of his teacher's laps as the leaders closed the day in song and prayer; it was then that I noticed he was wearing a sailor hat --very fitting for the ocean theme around which VBS is centered this year.



And then I realized he was the ONLY one wearing a hat.

If you've been around here for awhile, you know G. has more hats than he could wear in a month. He just loves them. So I figured he'd probably found it and clung to it.

When I greeted him, he proudly showed me his hat.

"Look at my special hat!" he said, quite visibly proud and excited.

Could it be, I'd thought, that maybe he got to wear the hat for displaying exemplory behavoir?

He was so excited about it. And he said it was the "special" hat. On his first day of VBS and being away from mommy, was my son really recognized and rewarded for his grand behavoir?

{Dreams totally inflated.}

I exlaimed over the hat, totally assuming the very best.

He then walked over to his group's bucket, and proceeded to remove the hat from his head because he knew the rules: "You can't take it home mommy. It has to stay here."

As he put the special hat back, I asked one of his teachers how G.'s day went because at just very barely 3, he was the youngest in attendance.

"He's a very active little boy," she said.

The sirens of teacher talk started blaring in my head.

I was a teacher once.

Decoded: "Your son drove me freakin' nuts because he wouldn't stay put in one spot during any of the activities."

"Ah, yes," I said, realizing my first assessment of the hat was very wrong. "He's very curious, and he likes to explore."

"That's why he's wearing the hat," she shared. "It's his listening hat. He can wear it only if he listens."

{Dreams. Dashed. Wah Wah Wah.}

My kid was the one who needed the listening hat.

So it was like that.

"I see," I said. "We'll talk about listening and staying with the group today when we get home."

"The hat worked pretty well," she offered, her words clearly a show of sympathy, as she could tell my unreasonable mommy heart had been a little bruised because my little one's actions had not met my expectations.

Seeing my unreassured face, the other teacher added, "Really, he did very well after he put the hat on. He just needed that little reminder."

I glanced over at my smiling, green-eyed, nearly 3 year old who was proudly, gently placing his special hat in the bucket all while reminding myself that he's still very much {only just barely} 3.

{Enter epiphany in the middle of a crowded noisy gym.}

And his wearing the hat? It wasn't something to be appologized for or something that was worn as a symbol of disobedience {or worse, in my eyes, unmet expectations}; rather it was something to be celebrated because at the end of 3 hours during his first day of VBS, he was still wearing the hat!



And that meant he not only listened to his teachers, but he also had a little problem and {with help} he found a way to solve it.

But most importantly, it meant that he had internalized something, which would open the door for talking about why his little heart so desired to disobey his teachers.

{Dreams altered. And for the better.}

Because a listening hat isn't an idicator of what my little guy has done wrong; rather, it's an shining example of turning a not-so-good situation into a better one.

And it's a stunning reminder that forces me to really listen, too.

I need to hear what my little ones' hearts are saying rather than just "fixing" their outward actions. We need to work on the heart of our issues, focus on the conditions of our hearts, so that our actions are a reflection of our hearts.



Perhaps, I need my own listening hat, too.

Bigger Picture Moments: Nursing me back to life

Welcome to Bigger Picture Moments, a place where we step back and take in life. There are moments where we're so caught up in it all, the hectic mind boggling pace of the day. We encourage you to take this opportunity to take a moment and view the Bigger Picture. Whatever that means to you. A moment where you recognized the role your faith plays in your every day life. A moment where you take note of motherhood and the importance of what you are doing. A moment that made you stop and smell breathe in the bigness of it all. The hugeness that is life and the small moments adding up to one huge Bigger Picture.

We hope you'll join us. Take a few moments. Think about your week, and pour however little or much onto a page. Then share. Tell us your moment. Link up this week at Sarah's, grab our button, and share your Bigger Picture Moment. And while you're at it, share the love and check out at least one other participant's moment.


Next week, Melissa will be hosting Bigger Picture Moments. Keep an open mind and heart throughout the week and come back to participate again or for the first time! All are welcome!

I scoop my crawling baby into my arms, cradling his head full of coppery dark hair in the crook of my arm as he signs for milk while making little coughing noises in anticipation of our our nursing session.

Sadly, he's the only one looking forward to it, desiring the time he spends nestled in my arms, at my breast, me nursing him to nourishment and calm.

I'm busy. I'm scrambling around the house throwing things inside our suitcase as warm salty tears escape my eyes.

I'd gotten a call from my sister just 30 minutes before; she'd told me our dad's surgery didn't go as well as the doctors hoped. One specialist said our dad had a 50 percent shot of making it.

I try to swallow the other option, telling myself percentages cannot measure endurance or stubbornness. And certainly our dad had exhibited both in his personal life and professional career. As a captain of his south suburban fire department, I rationalize that he'd been in really hot situations in the past, and he'd always come out on the other side of the flames and billowing smoke. Certainly it'd be like all the other times, I said. Certainly, he'd pull through from an emergency surgery to remove a bowel obstruction.

Baby E. grasps the top of my shirt as he latches on to nurse. His cornflower blue eyes, wide as saucers begin to slowly narrow as the milk starts flowing. The continuous rhythm of suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo, suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo becomes the constant sound in my ears in place of my wildly thumping heart, panicky thoughts and rationalizations.

His chubby little hand begins stroking my chest just below my neck, slow, steady, gentle brushes against my skin, bringing my breathing to a slower, steadier rhythm in place of short, gasping breathes. My body sinks into the couch.

My pulse slows as his nursing does ... the rush of the let down has passed and a steady, trickling flow replaces it. Little slivers of blue peak out through drowsy eyelids.

And even though I was in a rush just moments prior, I now want him to nurse just a little longer ... gently sweep his fingers over my skin just a few more times ... I want the peace to last just a little longer. I linger, my half-sleeping, half-nursing baby still cuddled in my arms, wishing I didn't have to move him. I carry him to his car seat, quietly, gingerly strap him in, a new calm washed over my body as we drive to the hospital.

*****
It's moment by the moment, his doctors say.

His kidneys are failing.

His liver is failing.

My dad is fading quickly, but for some reason he's hanging on. His heart is beating strong.

It won't let go. Here's that determination, that characteristic stubbornness at play.

I grip my father's large, olive-complected hands and try to say everything I need to say. But I cannot get everything out through the tears. I finally have to leave his room, escape to the waiting room.

It's been a long week, filled with uncertainty. I've sat in more waiting room chairs than I can count, my heart constantly torn between two places -- his hospital bed and the home that's housing my boys.

My heart is racing, my eyes are brimming with tears, my muscles shrink and tense. As I stumble to the waiting room, I know I need to pump milk for baby E.

I settle in the chair. I have to close my eyes, pretend my baby is really in my arms until the milk flows. And as it quickly begins to plop into the bottle, my baby gifts me with a calm, though he's miles and miles away. It's enough to return to my dad's bed side and finish laying my heart out to him, all while still hoping he pulls through.

****
My cell phone rings when we're minutes away from my mother's house, minutes away from my boys after spending a long day at the hospital. All I hear is crying and gasps of breathe in between my cousin's words ... He's gone.

My husband pushes the gas pedal, accelarates, and when we arrive at my mom's, I rush into the house and scoop up my baby.

He smiles, coos and signs for milk while nuzzling his head into my soft flesh. I cry heavy tears as he latches on, but again find solace in the rhythmic suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo, suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo, suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo .... suck .... suck ... suck ... swallow ... breathe .... coo.

****
It's been a long two months since I've last heard my father's voice, live, over the phone or in person. Grief hits me in tsunami-style waves ... unexpected, towering, unbelievable in strength.

I see a little girl place her small hand in her father's large hand while at the park. My heart sinks into my stomach as I smile back tears. Three-year-old G. is playing on the swings and baby E. is happily playing near my feet, eating dandelions and trying to pick individual blades of grass.

He begins quickly crawling to my feet as the grief hits my heart square in fresh scar tissue. He climbs up my legs, saying "ma ma ma ma ma" and signs milk with his free hand as he steadies his weight on his chubby feet.

I scoop my crawling baby into my arms, cradle his head full of coppery dark hair in the crook of my arm as he continues to sign for milk, making little coughing noises in anticipation of our our nursing session.

But this time, we're both looking forward to it, desiring the time he spends nestled in my arms, nursing me back to life.

The Bigger Picture: I'm cranky because I'm hungry

I've noticed the meltdowns are a whole lot hotter at our house when my boys are hungry.

Sometimes none of us realize that their hunger manifests itself in general crankiness and whining that drives me to run for the front door, much like Heather today, and search for just a few minutes of solitude, an escape from the noise.

When I finally realize it's as easy as giving them a snack, something to fill up their stomachs and mellow their hunger, I breath a sigh of relief and load their little hands up with nutritious, satiating foods like apples and cheese instead of candy and cookies. I don't want them to sugar buzz and then crash and burn all over again, you know.

And the meltdowns quickly mellow, like a pot of boiling water, from large, bursting water bubbles to a gentle simmer and finally to cool, still water.

You know, I'm a lot like my boys.

I have moments where I just totally lose my cool and become completely irrational, groaning, stomping and throwing a general unattractive adult temper tantrum in the face of minor inconveniences and offenses.

Sometimes I lose it when the whining persists; sometimes the things that send me into a fury of grumbling are as simple as picking up yet another dirty dish from the living room or finding half-full-of-milk cereal bowls inches away from an empty dishwasher.

I didn't realize it until this morning, but, my meltdowns are a whole lot hotter when I'm hungry, too. In these moments, I'm cranky because I'm hungry. I'm not physically hungry, like my boys; rather my soul is hungry; it's growling for spiritual food.

As I was reading a chapter on satisfaction in Beth Moore's book, Breaking Free {which I'm reading with my good friend Stephanie, who is such an encouragement and blessing. Do you know her?}, I had this epiphany, lovingly handed to me in just a few simple, yet so complex paragraphs.

Moore says: "We can learn several truths about satisfied souls by drawing parallels between the soul and the physical body ....The soul can manifest physical symptoms of need. I like to think of it this way: Just like my stomach growls when I'm hungry for physical food, my spirit tends to growl when I'm in need of spiritual food."

When I'm snapping at my kids, barking at my husband, stomping my feet over life's spilled milk, I need to do the same thing for my soul that I do for my kids when their bellies are hungry: I need to feed it.

For me, I feed my soul in so many ways: reading God's Word, praying, spending moments in solitude and silence, writing here in this space about the ideas He's layed on my heart, creating.

Of course, I'm filled the most and am the most satiated when I'm finding my fulfillment, my satisfaction in Him. But, admittedly, I also feed my soul by tending to the desires He's laid on my heart. Writing, painting, photographing, in short, creating, also feeds my soul.

This ephiphany, for me, was so freeing of the guilt that ususally attaches itself to me after I've had a hot temper tantrum.

I'm not a bad mom.

I'm not failing.

I'm just hungry. And in my quest to feed everyone else, I've forgotten or neglected to feed myself.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul; He guides me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake." Psalm 23


So when your spirit grumbles, what do you do? What feeds your soul? And does what your feeding it fuel you for an entire day or does it, like candy, cause you to go strong for an hour and then crash from the sugar buzz?

Chicago Moms Blog: He's just that into me

At first, it's just a whisper.
"You're meant to be together."
But as time goes on, it becomes louder.
"You're not meant to lead separate lives right now."
And louder.
"This just isn't the time to be apart."
Until there's an overwhelming volume of voice ringing inside.
"You may have two bodies, but you're still attached! Attached at the hip, the breast, the heart. Now's not the time to be apart for such long spans. He wants to be with you. That will come soon enough."

It doesn't feel right to be gone from baby E for more than a few hours at a time, so I simply try not to do it. But that's easier said than done in a culture that often doesn't see mothering as a priority. Or when surrounded by friends who expect babysitters to effortlessly take your place. Or when turning down invitations for adult-only functions in a time where career and opportunities and money often come before family.

I remember feeling the need for togetherness ever so strongly with my first-born son, too; though then I tried to shove those feelings under the cradle. Perhaps, I wanted to ignore it because I was a full-time, stay-at-home mom who felt like she'd lost all identity except for that of mommy, and I desperately wanted to be me again. Nonetheless, I never could really ignore it, though sometimes I strongly resented it. Invitations to get togethers and events that spanned hours were always considered but were usually declined because I couldn't leave my nurslings for that long. But as I have grown into my mommy skin, I've come to embrace and enjoy that babies and their mothers should be together [when they can]. Because they belong together.[I'm not talking about career mothers who need to work, so let's be clear. This is not, I repeat, not about working moms! So, for the love of God, please put down the torch; my thin skin cannot take much more burn after the breastfeeding post.]

The more I've thought about separation of baby and mom, the more it's become evident that I've turned into the mom who doesn't leave her baby often if she doesn't need to for work or a few hours of sanity.
When I do leave, after two hours pass, my breasts swell with milk, and I'm reminded that we're supposed to be together. The weight of the separation is too heavy for my shoulders; I hurry home.

When I was invited to the Sillicon Valley Moms Chevy brands and bloggers round table discussion and event at the Hard Rock Hotel in Chicago, my overflowing mommy heart began battling with my socialite brain. I wanted to meet my fellow bloggers and learn about how brands and bloggers work together. But I didn't want to leave baby E.
Do I go? Can I leave baby E for eight hours?
Sure, I can, but do I want to leave him for that long? This isn't like going to work, having to provide for my family. This is something that's fun. Yes, I should have fun, but eight hours worth? Without him? Oh, yes, I'm sure he'll survive, but will I survive? I'm a nursing mom; those bad boys overflow with milk every two hours. I don't want to be chained to a breastpump. I'd much rather be attached to my baby.
And thus the argument raged for days within my mind before I exploded in a direct message via Twitter asking Melissa if she thought baby E would be welcomed.
Her response [I love it -- so simple]: just ask!
So I did. Now you know you are working with a clearly intelligent and sincere group of ladies when the answer you recieve is sent only a half hour after the inquiry and it warmly states, "Of course, you can bring your baby. We're all moms after all."
Huge exhale. So it was settled. I didn't have to choose between being a mommy and an event-attending blogger. And that's good because I'm both. The other SV Moms bloggers and brand representatives at the SV Moms Chevy event understood and embraced that at this point I couldn't separate mommy from blogger; I didn't feel any scrutiny or awkwardness even when E. bellowed during the round table discussion, and I had to excuse us several times. Not from the brands or the bloggers or the SV Moms coordinators.
And I realized there, these are the kinds of companies with whom I want to be involved. And the SV Moms group is the kind of group with which I can be proud to partner. Because as Melissa said on our way home, in a totally unrelated conversation, "You cannot be a mommy blogger without being a mommy first." Amen, sister.
Yesterday, after the event, I left feeling like there are people who do understand the importance of mommying. There are people get that mommying isn't something that can be neatly packaged into specific times and spaces, rather it overflows into ever aspect of life at certain periods of the motherhood journey.
While I'm overwhelmingly grateful for those who embrace our temporary togetherness,I've finally come to the point where I'm all right with no one accepting and welcoming it -- with no one being just that into the package deal of "us." Because this little fellow? Well, he's just that into me.

And me? The feelings are reciprocal.

Chicago Mom Blog: Breastfeeding: Formula-Fed America

I'm writing for Chicago Moms Blog today about breastfeeding in Formula-Fed America.
And, yes, I do realize I've opened a can of breastfeeding [or formula-feeding] worms. I hope we can still be friends even if we do not agree. :)