For Michael

Today's post is a part of the Blog Exchange.
Special thanks to Jodi for her beautiful tribute.



Today is Michael's second birthday. 731 days ago Michael did not exist.

There are things I wish I had known before Michael was born, things that all the reading and birthing classes don't prepare you for. I had no idea what being a parent was like. I didn't know what it meant to be "a family." I didn't know that someone else being sick, or getting hurt, could break my heart. I didn't know "I love Mommy" would be my favorite sentence to hear.

No one ever told me that one of my favorite people in the world would be less than 3 feet tall. I had no idea that you genuinely like your child. I knew you always loved your child, but that you genuinely liked them, as a person, came as a surprise to me. I had no idea how fast it all disappears. That in an instant they go from squaling infant, to a toddler, to an adult. It is that quick. I had no idea how much my mother loved me, that this is what it feels like to love a child. It is an all consuming love that becomes a part of you like your hair or your eyes. The love becomes who you are.

Nothing prepares you for the sleepless nights, the crying, and the endless worry. Nothing prepares you for the immense love, the laughter, and the way your life changes in an instant. Less than an instant. No matter how much you plan, you just don't know until it happens.

Gone is his babyness. And I miss that. I miss the cuddles, the baby smell, and the big toothless grin. Now, he is all boy. He loves trucks, dinosaurs, and the movie Cars. He loves to run and jump and go to playgrounds. He loves the dog and his Daddy. And he has an opinion on everything, and will share it with you, or anyone who will listen.

Every once in a while I get a glimpse of the boy, of the man he will be. He will be tall like his Daddy. He will be kind (I hope). He will be smart (he already is). And I think he his going to love music and books, at least he does now.

I try to remember that he is only little once. That the whining and refusing to eat will not last forever. That every time he says "come play Mommy" could be the last, and even if I have something else to do I should play with him. In a few years he will not want to play with me. He will be a smelly teenager that wants to play ball and with his computer and will say "yes Mom" in an attempt to dismiss me.

More than anything, I want Michael to be happy. I want him to have love, like the love his father and I have. I want him to be close to his parents, like I am. I want him to have good friends, and a career he likes. And I want him to never doubt how much his father and I love him.

Happy Birthday to my monkey, my Michealest. I can't imagine what my life would be had you not come into it.

This post is part of The Blog Exchange. Jodi is mom to an almost 2 year old, a part-time lawyer, and wife. She blogs at Jodifur about all these things and many more. Please visit her terrific site, and you will see Amanda's post!

Sisterhood

Sometime during our weeklong sojourn the girls cemented their friendship. Watching them as the days passed we saw a new rhythm and tenderness. Briar was tending to Avery, making sure that she was happy, and always had a toy in hand. Avery was, as per usual, absolutely enthralled by Briar's every move.

Here they are waiting for our flight in Vegas after the 6+ hour leg from Albany.



A quick kiss for her little sister, perhaps a goodbye, as she immediately sprinted down the aisle putting as much mileage between her little toddler backside and us, her luggage laden folks.



Before the trip this kind of parent sharing would have been pretty rare.



My sister with Briar, they have an uncanny bond, often demonstrated through high pitched squeals of delight. Prolonged high pitched squeals.


And a shot that will forever be burned into my soul.


For those people considering a second --- Do it!

Home. Sick.

We're home. And the girls are sick. Both of them.

"We have a perfect match," the doc said.

"An infection in Avery's left ear, and another in Briar's right."

Two infections, two fevers, and two broken parents.

I realize we didn't invent suffering, but today facing these two sets of blue eyes and running noses it sure feels like we have a corner on the market. I am home, thank you Mr. Shimkus, for being the most benevolent boss ever and allowing me to work for you and take care of my family. Luck, lucky mom mom am I.

I am excited to be able to write again, but so help me the need to hold a mirror under their sleeping mouths is back with such force I look like I am suffering from tremors of some sort. I'll try not to on ad nauseum about the agony of being a helpless amoxicillin administering parent of two/too sweet, angelic little daughters.

Stay tuned for the inevitable sleeping beauty shots.

Real Moms...

Sarah at In The Trenches of Motherhood tagged me a for a Real Mom meme.

These are the rules: Put up a post "Real Moms [insert what you do here]", followed by an explanation, a picture, and a "Real Moms. Making ....".

My first meme. Oh Sally Field exclamation, oh my. You like me, you really like me.


So, I am following through with the meme like a real mom despite a wicked cold and an overwhelming desire to curl up in the fetal postion and suck a damp rag.

Normally I'm not shy to say what I think and this meme is a pretty perfect opportunity to lobby for organic foods, reading to your kids and doing the right thing. Yet I find myself feeling very cautious, protective of moms. Maybe it's because I am sick, maybe it's because I am grieving. I'd like to think it's because I allow other moms the latitude I wish for myself in thisunchartered journey. There are so many different voices we hear, so many opinions we are subjected to and judgements we have made on how we do this mom thing. I learn each day that being a real mom means very different things for very different people. Standing in line at the grocery store I watched a woman pull out her WIC card. Putting aside politics and beliefs all I could think was, "A real mom braves contempt and humiliation to give her child a square meal." Who am I to say that I a more of a real mom?

I appreciate all the women who posted hilarious versions of real moms. Here's my little take on it.

Real Moms share their kids


Real moms give space


Real moms improvise


Real moms play cards


Real moms have balls


Real moms believe in peace


Real moms try to see eye to eye


Real moms have strong arms


Real moms aren't afraid to break the rules


Real moms teach love


Real moms don't forget dad


Real moms just try not to be bad moms


I am lucky to belong to a community of incredible moms who bravely chronicle their journeys. From these women I am tagging:

Karla of Untangling Knots who has so courageously allowed us to accompany her as she waited for the incredible Nate.

My new friend Kelly over at A Child is Born, who regularly reminds me of what a great job I am doing even though I might feel like a hack.

Jerri Ann at A Crack'n Life because she is trying to be a really good mom.

Chelle at Soodz because she has captured my heart with her worries about her toddler, the nursery and California life as she awaits the arrival of a new baby (she gets a pass if need be as she is due very, very soon).

And because she once asked if she belonged, I tag Lara at Life: The Ongoing Education. In this community of moms she spoke as a daughter and gave an incredible tribute to her mom. I hope once again she'll remind us moms what makes us real for our children.

If you get a chance, visit their sites, you won't be disappointed.

I give.

Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

Fussy and impossible to please.

Cowlicks fighting valiant attempts at taming from the brush.

Spilled coffee on the floor.

Pulverized crumbs into the floor on top of the earlier spill.

Upended and opened a poopy diaper.

Got into a fight with her shirt untucking it and then batting at it.

Had a really grumpy and combative attitude.

Dissolved into tears 3 or 4 times.

But enough about mom...

Anyone else feel like moving to Australia?





Guess even that is out for me because with my paralyzing fear of flight the damn trip would reduce me to wrapping my arms around myself, rocking to and fro while moaning unintelligible pleas that I not die.

Ooof

Admittedly I am a sentimental person.

The Aaron Neville cotton ads kill me. The "a baby changes everything" Johnson & Johnson ads? A puddle. That's all that's left of me, a big, wet, snorting puddle. Now, throw two kids in two years into the mix, sprinkle in the death of my grandfather that I continue to be in utter denial about and you have a person likely to cry at the sight of a pair of tapered jeans. Because, you know, they demonstrate the passage of time and that means not being a kid anymore, and becoming a mom, getting closer to death, which means leaving the girls alone, which means the end of living for them.

I know, pull yourself together already, right? I've tried. I have actually stopped listening to country music thinking that Beyonce and J-Lo, while not the most age appropirate choices are less likely to reduce me to sobbing with profound lyrics of love and loss. I turn away during the news to avoid the stories of child abuse, dying before their time and all of the other misery they have for you "on the nines."

So you'll understand my being completely caught off guard by a commercial the other day. I'd seen a variation of this particular campaign targeted to dads. I thought it was cute, but it didn't particularly ring my bell. Enter the mom/daughter version and oh my holy god. Did they read my mind? Extract the deepest secrets from my soul and put them to film?

It may not hit you like it did me, but I tell you what, if I had $3000 burning a hole in my pocket I would head straight for Orlando and never look back.

Here's to wishing...

By Dawn's Early Light

The room was dark, Sean lay beside me in deep Nyquil slumber. My eyes seemed to respond to the sound,a faint cry, before my ears. No, please no. Don't open us just yet. My left eye taking things so far that it genuinely wouldn't open. I delicately slipped my left leg out and braced myself for the kiss of the cold hardwood against my foot. Avery mewed in the other room, a still gentle sound, as I made my way from beneath the quilts on our bed. They floated gently down to the now empty side of the bed, Sean's form took shape behind small calico and plaid squares. I ran my hand along the length of his legs and whispered I'd be back. I crept to Avery's room, familiar creeks in the floor letting her know I was coming. As I stepped into her room I whispered her name and she sighed.

You came.

I know this dance. It is my secret. Our secret. We meet like this each night and each morning. And each time we enter the familiar as if for the first time. I reach for her and she for me. And in the moment when we touch, to soothe and be soothed, there is awe. This magic of fitting together and creating one is something we know and trust without thought. Yet each time she melts into my arms and is at my breast before I've raised my shirt I feel genuine wonder. How does she know? How am I here holding her no longer wishing for sleep? She treats my body as an extension of her own and as I cradle her in my arms she is nothing less than an extension of my soul.

This morning her dark hair fell straight against her face, eclipsing her eyes and I kissed it away, pressing dark, silky strands back with my lips. She stirred beneath me and her forehead turned, a wispy caress against my lips. I held her closer and she curled her body against me, and for a moment she was inside me again. Wholly mine. I listened to the sounds of the house, the sounds of my life. Avery gently suckling, her fingers tracing circles. The gentle rustle of blankets in Briar's room, a contented sigh. I thought of Sean's warm body waiting for me in our bed, the smell of coffee. I lifted my arm to peek through the window to gauge the time. I expected the familiar glow of the street light. I caught the dawn, violet and orange hues coloring the snowy street scape. It was such an unexpected delight that I could swear Briar's voice came to me with exclamations of so many beautiful colors.

Avery slipped her head back and pursed her lips together, sated. I returned her to the crib, pulling a blanket over her and whispering an I love you. As I walked back to bed I said thank you to the creaks and the rustles of home. I gave thanks for another dawn in this wonderful life that I have.

Babyproofing Momproofing Your Marriage

The wonderful folks at Harper Collins, by way of Blogher sent me a copy of Babyproofing Your Marriage.



Let me preface this all by saying I have not read the entire book yet. It should come with a small pamphlet:

Creating Time to Read with Kids at Home or
How to read by flashlight in a locked linen closest

Who am I kidding? We don't have a linen closet. I'll take a set of queen size flannel sheets with a side of dog hair and dust, thank you very much.

Where was I? Ah, yes, Babyproofing Your Marriage. I have to say, the first chapter, along with 8 or 10 terms I looked up in the back of the book, sounded like I was taking to myself. Neglected hubby? Frazzled self? Double check.

The book is written in a very easy to read (Read speed skimming while making sure the toddler doesn't suffocate the baby or scoop "the potty" from the dog's ass with a teaspoon which will later be returned to the silverware drawer with us big people none the wiser.) When I was pregnant I read the Jenny McCarthy book (How about we leave some things sacred? Dads don't need to know about the "river of discharge" Jen!) and The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy (Great, but it isn't a foregone conclusion that your breasts will become knee dusters.) This book is somewhere slightly above those as far as not making me embarrassed to share passages with my husband and communicating at higher than a 7th grade reading level(However stay tuned, because like I said, I haven't read the whole thing yet.)

It was pretty incredible to turn the pages nodding and feeling like, you know what? Maybe I'm not so alone. A wonderful mom I recently met online wrote an absolutely incredible post about the moments as moms that we are not proud of. Her words slipped around me and I felt safe, understood and forgiven. This being a mom isn't always easy, and forgiving ourselves for the moments when we crack is at times nearly impossible.

Knowing that it may take me until the girls hit elementary school to finish the book, I am gleaning from the sweet morsels that I am able to read as much as I can. Today it is the knowledge that sometimes what really needs to happen is a little momproofing. A little bit of saying that it's ok for me to take a night at the gym. It's ok to not color and paint with Briar every time that she asks. It's normal to flinch when a razor sharp baby nail slices through the inside of my lower lip while 5 little teeth dig into my breast. That doesn't make me a bad mom. And it's ok to want to be with Sean, or by myself, or sailing away on a hot pink mattress into the setting son of Fiji. I'll put out there right now that if anyone wants to send me to Fiji I'll make myself available.

Barring a free trip to Fiji, I'll continue to find solace in things like great mom blogs and books authored by other moms who aren't afraid to say it can be tough.

Oh, and let's nopt forget little things like your 2.5 turning to you and looking at up at you with wides eyes the color of frozen lake water on a sunny day and saying,

Hey mama? Could you give ma favor?
Sure baby, what'cha need?
Ah, mama? I love you. Could you give me a hug?

Pinch me now I live with angels.

Wow!

Oh my! They look just like their daddy!

Would you look at that? Little Sean carbon copies.

Well, aren't you both just daddy's little girls?

Striking resemblance to the father.

I just can't get over how much they look like him.

Thank you world, because the 9+ months I carried each girl were so fun I didn't want them to take after me at all.

Nope, the privilege of weight gain, mood swings, break out, relentless burping, incessant peeing and a more sensitive sense of smell than usual were all prize enough.

No need for family resemblance here. Let them look like the person who stayed slim, lost weight even, dozed at points during the first labor experience and who never had to slip a twin size matress in his underwear to protect hideous granny panties from post delivery "stuff."

Well guess what? Before they slipped out of this here mini-Sean vending machine, they picked something up from me, and it wasn't rhythm.

Behold the bouncing to the beat of their own drum rhythm gene.









PS I'm kidding, I loved being pregnant and I see myself in them every day, no mattee what anyone else says. But c'mon, throw me a bone every once in a while.

1200 Thread Count

We were away this weekend.
Work and play.
And while the girls slept better than on other overnights away, I still feel as though I am enduring some archaic form of torture through sleep deprivation. I pledge to post soon...I have a huge deadline looming for this Thursday, bear with me until then.

I think the 8 bazillion thread count of the sheets and the raw silk of the duvet cover agreed with Avery.

Waking up my eyes

Thanks to Mrs. Chicken for visiting yesterday. You are an incredibly talented writer and a kind person. I loved spending time with you.
I'll be visiting your site often for a chance to read something special.




I think I may have mentioned in passing that there have been some sleep issues here. Passing, ha! I know I've gone on ad nauseum, but what's a girl to do? It's a huge issue. Things are compounded lately with Sean working until midnight at least 3 nights a week, Avery waking three times between 11 and 4 and me not being able to fall asleep. I can be tired, tired, oh so tired I think my eyes might just start to bleed and still I cannot find sleep. Most nights Sean takes pity and tries to soothe me to sleep with a back rub.

Can I tell you something about the Sean back rubs? They can be great. They can last for 30 minutes and involve wonderful lotions he's bought for me, significantly nicer than the drug store clearance rack slop I buy myself. They start with a whispered direction for me to take a breath and close my eyes. Then another breath. Breath. Shh. And then all is quiet. There is a peace, a calm that is so thick it wraps itself around me like a woolen blanket. The light of the moon through the window bathes everything in an ethereal light. It is as if I am drifting away like drop of glistening dew upon a leaf in a river's current. And then...

The spell is broken. I am no glistening drop of dew, the light shining on the bed is harsh and yelllow, the silence in the room more of a mocking whisper of unwanted solitude. He is sleeping, and I am, once again, awake. Alone. The clock beams 1:30. My heart starts to race as I realize soon Avery will wake. I must sleep. Sleep. Damnit, Amanda, sleep. But I can't. It goes on each night.

Sleep, it seems to be a bit like the bully in the school yard these days. Yesterday though, the bully made me laugh. Cause for all their cruelty and indifference, bullies do some spectacularly funny shit. To wit: Nap time.