Friday, May 5, 2017
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
Co-Sleeping
I often wonder if I am doing the right thing co-sleeping with my kids. I always feel guilty when I lie down to nap or sleep with my kids. My two kids have gotten used to sleeping with their yaya or with me before they can fall asleep, ever since they were born. They are unable to fall asleep (unless they are super tired) without someone beside them. It has always been this way. As with anything related to parenting, it is tiring and fulfilling at the same time. There are days when I wished they could just fall asleep on their own and days when I feel so much love bursting out of my heart seeing them sleep beside me. I have always said this to family and friends, I like sleeping with my kids. Being able to carry, hold, and watch them to sleep are some of the priceless moments in my book. Thanks to this article. It has somehow affirmed what I have always believed in, there is nothing wrong with co-sleeping. I will not deny my kids the security and comfort that they need at this stage in their lives. For now I will just savor each moment where they are still small enough to stay in bed with me.
'Lying Down With Your Kids Until They Fall Asleep Is Not A Bad Habit'
by: Wendy Wisner
I’ve spent approximately 7 billion hours of my life lying in the dark next to a fidgety, sleepless child, praying to the gods that my child will finally go the eff to sleep.
When the going gets tough, I’ve been known to hide under the blanket with my phone on the dimmest setting, scrolling through Facebook and hoping against hope that my half-asleep child doesn’t notice what I’m doing and call me out on screen time after lights out.
Other nights, it’s not quite that miserable. Actually, sometimes it’s downright beautiful.
Lying there as my kids drift between wakefulness and dreaming can be as magical and intimate as I imagined parenting would be before I actually had kids and realized how draining and relentless it actually is.
Sometimes, in the dark, my kids will nestle against me, and I’ll get a whiff of their sweet hair, feel their warm cheeks against my neck, or their little hearts beating wildly in their chests — and I’ll want to sob with gratitude.
As they’re drifting off, they’ll pour out their hearts to me, opening up about stuff they keep under lock-and-key during their waking hours.
I’d heard all the arguments about why lying down with your kids until they fall asleep is a bad habit. It’s kind of the No. 1 habit you’re supposed to break when your kids are babies.
Except, what if you just never do that? What if you rock or nurse your baby every night? Then, as they get older, what if it evolves into holding hands or patting their back until they’re out?
And then, even after they’ve outgrown all that, what if they ask that you to just lie there, soothing them with your presence until they’re fast asleep?
You might ask: How will they ever learn to self-soothe? How will they learn to fall asleep without you? Aren’t you going to create dependent sissies who never learn how to function in the world without you?
The answer to the last question is an unequivocal nope. Numerous studies have shown that the more attached kids are, the more secure and independent they actually become. It makes sense if you think about it: Giving kids security makes them feel confident and able to function with ease in the world.
I don’t think that means that every single family must lie down with their kid at bedtime every night. There are many ways to raise secure kids, and this is absolutely not a prerequisite. But I also know that there is no reason not to if that is what works for your family, and that just because you allow your children to have that habit doesn’t mean they won’t be adaptable when you aren’t there or that they will never learn to fall asleep alone.
I lie down with my kids because they want me to, because it is something we’ve always done, and because even though I often begrudge those extra 10 to 20 minutes of waiting, it’s really only a handful of minutes in my day, but they mean the world to my kids.
I lie down with them because between school, work, meals, homework, and other commitments, it’s rare for us to have moments of silence and closeness as lovely and deep as the ones just before sleep.
I lie down with them because, dammit, even I don’t like falling asleep alone. If my husband is out or away, it takes me forever to fall asleep, and I’m 38 years old. I feel like, at just 4 and 9, my kids are allowed to have that extra security that even grown-ups crave.
I lie down with them because there have been plenty of nights in the past few years that my older child did not need me there at all — times that he literally shoved me out of his room so he could fall asleep on his own. But I lie down with him the nights that he is stressed, restless, or just needs me and doesn’t know why.
I lie down with him then because I know that the days of him needing me that much are numbered.
I lie down with my boys because I know that boys are usually taught to be tougher than this, to bottle up their needs and wants, and I think that’s a dangerous way for boys (and men) to function.
I lie down with them because they ask me to and I’m willing.
Yes, sometimes at the end of my long days as a mom, lying there in the dark is the last place I want to be. Yes, sometimes I’m agitated, hungry, touched out. Sometimes I find myself tightly gritting my teeth just so I won’t let out my screams of frustration.
But I also know that these minutes that my kids drift off in the safety of my arms or my presence are exactly the ones that hold the most weight for my kids — and for me. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
'Lying Down With Your Kids Until They Fall Asleep Is Not A Bad Habit'
by: Wendy Wisner
I’ve spent approximately 7 billion hours of my life lying in the dark next to a fidgety, sleepless child, praying to the gods that my child will finally go the eff to sleep.
When the going gets tough, I’ve been known to hide under the blanket with my phone on the dimmest setting, scrolling through Facebook and hoping against hope that my half-asleep child doesn’t notice what I’m doing and call me out on screen time after lights out.
Other nights, it’s not quite that miserable. Actually, sometimes it’s downright beautiful.
Lying there as my kids drift between wakefulness and dreaming can be as magical and intimate as I imagined parenting would be before I actually had kids and realized how draining and relentless it actually is.
Sometimes, in the dark, my kids will nestle against me, and I’ll get a whiff of their sweet hair, feel their warm cheeks against my neck, or their little hearts beating wildly in their chests — and I’ll want to sob with gratitude.
As they’re drifting off, they’ll pour out their hearts to me, opening up about stuff they keep under lock-and-key during their waking hours.
I’d heard all the arguments about why lying down with your kids until they fall asleep is a bad habit. It’s kind of the No. 1 habit you’re supposed to break when your kids are babies.
Except, what if you just never do that? What if you rock or nurse your baby every night? Then, as they get older, what if it evolves into holding hands or patting their back until they’re out?
And then, even after they’ve outgrown all that, what if they ask that you to just lie there, soothing them with your presence until they’re fast asleep?
You might ask: How will they ever learn to self-soothe? How will they learn to fall asleep without you? Aren’t you going to create dependent sissies who never learn how to function in the world without you?
The answer to the last question is an unequivocal nope. Numerous studies have shown that the more attached kids are, the more secure and independent they actually become. It makes sense if you think about it: Giving kids security makes them feel confident and able to function with ease in the world.
I don’t think that means that every single family must lie down with their kid at bedtime every night. There are many ways to raise secure kids, and this is absolutely not a prerequisite. But I also know that there is no reason not to if that is what works for your family, and that just because you allow your children to have that habit doesn’t mean they won’t be adaptable when you aren’t there or that they will never learn to fall asleep alone.
I lie down with my kids because they want me to, because it is something we’ve always done, and because even though I often begrudge those extra 10 to 20 minutes of waiting, it’s really only a handful of minutes in my day, but they mean the world to my kids.
I lie down with them because between school, work, meals, homework, and other commitments, it’s rare for us to have moments of silence and closeness as lovely and deep as the ones just before sleep.
I lie down with them because, dammit, even I don’t like falling asleep alone. If my husband is out or away, it takes me forever to fall asleep, and I’m 38 years old. I feel like, at just 4 and 9, my kids are allowed to have that extra security that even grown-ups crave.
I lie down with them because there have been plenty of nights in the past few years that my older child did not need me there at all — times that he literally shoved me out of his room so he could fall asleep on his own. But I lie down with him the nights that he is stressed, restless, or just needs me and doesn’t know why.
I lie down with him then because I know that the days of him needing me that much are numbered.
I lie down with my boys because I know that boys are usually taught to be tougher than this, to bottle up their needs and wants, and I think that’s a dangerous way for boys (and men) to function.
I lie down with them because they ask me to and I’m willing.
Yes, sometimes at the end of my long days as a mom, lying there in the dark is the last place I want to be. Yes, sometimes I’m agitated, hungry, touched out. Sometimes I find myself tightly gritting my teeth just so I won’t let out my screams of frustration.
But I also know that these minutes that my kids drift off in the safety of my arms or my presence are exactly the ones that hold the most weight for my kids — and for me. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
Monday, March 13, 2017
Reminder to Self
This is a good reminder to myself. While I still consider Rafa and Claire my babies, I am acutely aware that they are fast growing up. I have to admit there are days (or should I say many days! Hehe) where I wished that they would grow up sooner. But I know like all parents, when that time comes (yes, sooner than we think), I would long for them to be tiny and needy again.
'5 Ways To Let Them Be Little'
by: Simple As That Blog
The days of diaper changes and cradle cap have passed for us. No longer do I search in the dark of night for a pacifier, or gather Gerber puffs from the floor of my car. I’m sleeping more these days, and that’s a plus. There is something about the longing to hold my babies again that still gets me at times. I want so much to let them be little, while still enjoying them as they grow.
Our home is full of noise and of hustle. Their chatter, the sound of legos, of deep belly laughter, the sweet way my daughter sings to her baby dolls – these are the soundtracks I play. They’re beautiful, and though these sounds are a far cry from the noises of their toddler-hood, I cherish the melodies all the same.
THE SPACE TO BE LITTLE
As I watch my young children grow into bigger and wiser versions of the babies they once were, I am inspired to allow them the space to be little. I have long since put off the notion the house should look this way or that. I’ve decidedly accepted the loss of one too many broken dishes and learned to find acceptance that the carpet used to look a whole lot brighter.
I’ve chosen a better attitude about mistakes. Middle of the night accidents, picky eaters, and kids with emotions they are unable to control, these are things I’m okay with now. I’ve taken long, deep breaths when I wanted to yell. I have done the hard work of choosing a smile over a frown when the stairs become muddy (for the hundredth time this year). I have decided to gift them with childhood, with these precious years that go by all too quickly.
Because before I know it, they’ll be grown and gone, and that melody I love so much? It will be replaced with the absolute quiet of their absence.
'5 Ways To Let Them Be Little'
by: Simple As That Blog
The days of diaper changes and cradle cap have passed for us. No longer do I search in the dark of night for a pacifier, or gather Gerber puffs from the floor of my car. I’m sleeping more these days, and that’s a plus. There is something about the longing to hold my babies again that still gets me at times. I want so much to let them be little, while still enjoying them as they grow.
Our home is full of noise and of hustle. Their chatter, the sound of legos, of deep belly laughter, the sweet way my daughter sings to her baby dolls – these are the soundtracks I play. They’re beautiful, and though these sounds are a far cry from the noises of their toddler-hood, I cherish the melodies all the same.
THE SPACE TO BE LITTLE
As I watch my young children grow into bigger and wiser versions of the babies they once were, I am inspired to allow them the space to be little. I have long since put off the notion the house should look this way or that. I’ve decidedly accepted the loss of one too many broken dishes and learned to find acceptance that the carpet used to look a whole lot brighter.
I’ve chosen a better attitude about mistakes. Middle of the night accidents, picky eaters, and kids with emotions they are unable to control, these are things I’m okay with now. I’ve taken long, deep breaths when I wanted to yell. I have done the hard work of choosing a smile over a frown when the stairs become muddy (for the hundredth time this year). I have decided to gift them with childhood, with these precious years that go by all too quickly.
Because before I know it, they’ll be grown and gone, and that melody I love so much? It will be replaced with the absolute quiet of their absence.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Family 1st
My husband would always tease me that I am anti social. I would always choose to stay home instead of going out. Friends would know that I am an early bird - I'd like to start and end early. I don't like staying out late because I would get less sleep, which would mean having less energy to take on the kids the next day.
I would like to think that while I am an introvert, I am pretty friendly and sociable. As much as I want to go out and relax, I can't. The logistics of leaving the kids behind is something I don't want to think about. I feel uncomfortable leaving the kids with their yayas for too long. They're probably sick of me giving so many reminders before I leave. Hehe And while my mom or sisters will gladly stay with the kids for awhile, somehow I feel guilty to ask them for their time. And when I'm out, I constantly worry and think about them. I guess it's the wired in us mothers to feel that way. I don't regret anything though. I will cherish these moments, no matter how hard at times, because it will only be awhile that they need me.
'Yes, I Miss My Friends, But I Just Can't Do The 'Bar Scene' These Days'
by: Clint Edwards
I was texting a childhood friend. We were catching up, as we do every couple years. She’s a single mother living in a big city. She has a good job and one daughter. I live in a small rural town. I’m married with three children. Obviously, we’ve ended up in very different places. Somehow we got onto the topic of how often we socialize without our children.
I told her that I really didn’t. I work two jobs and any free time I have I spend with my kids. She mentioned to me that she tries to go out with friends (to bars or a concert) as much as possible. “I have a good life,” she said. “I make good money, and I have a good sitter. I try to make sure I have a balance, so that I can keep sane.”
I read that text and felt like such a loser. I hadn’t gone out with friends in, well, months? A year? Both of us were in our mid 30s, and it’s not that I don’t have friends. I do. They just seemed really far down on my priority list, and I wondered if they should be a bit higher. Should I be spending more time with my friends? (And less time with my family?)
This isn’t to say that either of us were doing anything wrong. From everything I can tell, my friend is a great parent. But at the same time, I couldn’t understand how she did it. How she found the time to juggle her daughter’s extracurricular activities, run a household, work a high-stakes job, and still manage to have an active social life.
But the more I thought about how I could manage to find time for my friends, and what that would look like for my family, the more I felt like I wasn’t really missing out. It was around this time that an article by Joelle Wisler came across my newsfeed, titled "I Cherish My Friendships, But I’d Rather Spend Time With My Family Than Anyone Else" where she discussed this very subject, listing out all the times that she will choose her family over brunch with friends or a girls’ vacation because she only has a short window of time when they will choose her first.
And I think to anyone who really values socializing, this all sounds very suffocating. But for me, as a father working 50-plus hours a week, it makes perfect sense. It isn’t uncommon for me to leave before the kids are up, and get home once they are in bed. It isn’t uncommon for me to be sent to some conference, or meeting, or whatever in another city, far from the people I love the most, where the only interactions I have with my family for four or five days are choppy phone conversations and grainy images through Skype.
Every time I travel for work, I sleep through the night which, I admit, is awesome. I make a couple new friends from different places whom I will probably never see again. I learn a few things, but most of all, I miss my family. I miss their snuggles. I miss holding their small hands. I miss kisses from my wife.
And I miss being there for her. I hate hearing about how overwhelmed she is caring for three small kids, not because I think she can’t handle it, but because I know how demanding our children can be, and I like being her partner. I like being able to help. I like being a father and husband, and I enjoy everything that goes with it, even the frustrating parts.
So much of this comes down to the fact that, as a working parent, I spend a lot of time away from my family trying to support them, and so when I get home, I want to feel like I’m doing more than simply bringing in a paycheck.
This isn’t to say that my kids don’t frustrate me. This isn’t to say that I don’t sometimes come home to half-naked kids and a frustrated wife and think about how peaceful it was at work. But when I’m at work, I think about my kids and smile. I long for them in my arms. I look forward to watching them play soccer or practice gymnastics. I think about how amazing it feels to help my daughter figure out a math problem.
I have this deep longing to help them become something special. And I feel a deep connection to my wife that has evolved over the years from one of romance to one of partnership. It’s not that we don’t still have romance — we do. But we have grown to work well as a team. I get her, and she gets me, and together we are ready to take on any stain, sticky face, or poopy butt. I love her company more than I love the company of anyone else. And I feel very at peace when we are together.
Just last week, we watched Trolls as a family, and with each song, everyone but my too-cool-tween son had a dance party in the living room. My youngest shook her pigtails and stomped her feet, while my middle daughter pulled some seriously impressive ballerina moves. My wife and I bumped hips, and my son looked at it all with a red-faced, dimpled grin. It was better than any other dance party or concert I’ve ever been to.
Honestly, it’s hard to give that up.
Furthermore, it’s hard to spend so much time away, and then spend more time socializing with others, when all you really want to do is spend time with your wife and kids. I don’t think that makes me boring or uncool at all. I think it means I’m really digging this stage of my children’s lives, and I know that it will end sooner than I’d like.
Like Joelle said in her article, “So I’m sorry to anyone out there if I miss some stuff. I will probably miss a lot of stuff. You see, I only have this short amount of time to choose these little people because soon they aren’t going to choose me. I’m really going to try not to miss a single moment of it.”
I feel exactly the same.
I would like to think that while I am an introvert, I am pretty friendly and sociable. As much as I want to go out and relax, I can't. The logistics of leaving the kids behind is something I don't want to think about. I feel uncomfortable leaving the kids with their yayas for too long. They're probably sick of me giving so many reminders before I leave. Hehe And while my mom or sisters will gladly stay with the kids for awhile, somehow I feel guilty to ask them for their time. And when I'm out, I constantly worry and think about them. I guess it's the wired in us mothers to feel that way. I don't regret anything though. I will cherish these moments, no matter how hard at times, because it will only be awhile that they need me.
'Yes, I Miss My Friends, But I Just Can't Do The 'Bar Scene' These Days'
by: Clint Edwards
I was texting a childhood friend. We were catching up, as we do every couple years. She’s a single mother living in a big city. She has a good job and one daughter. I live in a small rural town. I’m married with three children. Obviously, we’ve ended up in very different places. Somehow we got onto the topic of how often we socialize without our children.
I told her that I really didn’t. I work two jobs and any free time I have I spend with my kids. She mentioned to me that she tries to go out with friends (to bars or a concert) as much as possible. “I have a good life,” she said. “I make good money, and I have a good sitter. I try to make sure I have a balance, so that I can keep sane.”
I read that text and felt like such a loser. I hadn’t gone out with friends in, well, months? A year? Both of us were in our mid 30s, and it’s not that I don’t have friends. I do. They just seemed really far down on my priority list, and I wondered if they should be a bit higher. Should I be spending more time with my friends? (And less time with my family?)
This isn’t to say that either of us were doing anything wrong. From everything I can tell, my friend is a great parent. But at the same time, I couldn’t understand how she did it. How she found the time to juggle her daughter’s extracurricular activities, run a household, work a high-stakes job, and still manage to have an active social life.
But the more I thought about how I could manage to find time for my friends, and what that would look like for my family, the more I felt like I wasn’t really missing out. It was around this time that an article by Joelle Wisler came across my newsfeed, titled "I Cherish My Friendships, But I’d Rather Spend Time With My Family Than Anyone Else" where she discussed this very subject, listing out all the times that she will choose her family over brunch with friends or a girls’ vacation because she only has a short window of time when they will choose her first.
And I think to anyone who really values socializing, this all sounds very suffocating. But for me, as a father working 50-plus hours a week, it makes perfect sense. It isn’t uncommon for me to leave before the kids are up, and get home once they are in bed. It isn’t uncommon for me to be sent to some conference, or meeting, or whatever in another city, far from the people I love the most, where the only interactions I have with my family for four or five days are choppy phone conversations and grainy images through Skype.
Every time I travel for work, I sleep through the night which, I admit, is awesome. I make a couple new friends from different places whom I will probably never see again. I learn a few things, but most of all, I miss my family. I miss their snuggles. I miss holding their small hands. I miss kisses from my wife.
And I miss being there for her. I hate hearing about how overwhelmed she is caring for three small kids, not because I think she can’t handle it, but because I know how demanding our children can be, and I like being her partner. I like being able to help. I like being a father and husband, and I enjoy everything that goes with it, even the frustrating parts.
So much of this comes down to the fact that, as a working parent, I spend a lot of time away from my family trying to support them, and so when I get home, I want to feel like I’m doing more than simply bringing in a paycheck.
This isn’t to say that my kids don’t frustrate me. This isn’t to say that I don’t sometimes come home to half-naked kids and a frustrated wife and think about how peaceful it was at work. But when I’m at work, I think about my kids and smile. I long for them in my arms. I look forward to watching them play soccer or practice gymnastics. I think about how amazing it feels to help my daughter figure out a math problem.
I have this deep longing to help them become something special. And I feel a deep connection to my wife that has evolved over the years from one of romance to one of partnership. It’s not that we don’t still have romance — we do. But we have grown to work well as a team. I get her, and she gets me, and together we are ready to take on any stain, sticky face, or poopy butt. I love her company more than I love the company of anyone else. And I feel very at peace when we are together.
Just last week, we watched Trolls as a family, and with each song, everyone but my too-cool-tween son had a dance party in the living room. My youngest shook her pigtails and stomped her feet, while my middle daughter pulled some seriously impressive ballerina moves. My wife and I bumped hips, and my son looked at it all with a red-faced, dimpled grin. It was better than any other dance party or concert I’ve ever been to.
Honestly, it’s hard to give that up.
Furthermore, it’s hard to spend so much time away, and then spend more time socializing with others, when all you really want to do is spend time with your wife and kids. I don’t think that makes me boring or uncool at all. I think it means I’m really digging this stage of my children’s lives, and I know that it will end sooner than I’d like.
Like Joelle said in her article, “So I’m sorry to anyone out there if I miss some stuff. I will probably miss a lot of stuff. You see, I only have this short amount of time to choose these little people because soon they aren’t going to choose me. I’m really going to try not to miss a single moment of it.”
I feel exactly the same.
Friday, March 3, 2017
Sunday, February 19, 2017
Best Days
This is a good reminder to cherish the kids still needing me now, even though everyday I wish I have some 'me' time. In a few years time, we will probably have a role reversal for sure. They will have their own minds and will probably have (or want) nothing to do with me, while I will desperately bug them. Haha!
Seriously it is my wish I will have a close bond with them when they are old. I will be happiest (and luckiest) when they will love me and still look for me as much as they do now.
'I Love Being Your Mom Because Even The Hardest Days Are The Best Days'
by: Jennifer White
I remember the day I gave birth to you like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t. It was two years ago.
I remember the second night with you in the hospital. Your dad had gone home to help your older sister get to sleep. He’d stayed as late as he could. My mom came in his place and slept on the hard, fake leather sofa in our room. She slept, but I didn’t. You didn’t. (You were a newborn baby after all — who would expect you to?)
I lay there on the uncomfortable bed, slightly tilted into a half-reclined, half-upright position, wondering if I’d made a mistake.
Could I handle more years of sleepless nights?
Could I handle two small children by myself when your dad went back to work?
Could I be a good enough mother?
The answer to all of these questions was “no.”
The truth was it would be hard. The reality is I called your dad at work several times a day crying. The brutal fact is I’m so flawed, as a person and as a mom.
But I didn’t make a mistake.
And now you’re 2, and I already know why they say things like, “It won’t last forever,” or “Don’t be the first to let go when your child hugs you.” I understand, too, that I’m not a good enough mother, but I’m what you’ve got.
I’m not in awe of you enough. I’m not always happy just sitting together and reading books. Sometimes I want to read on my phone instead. Sometimes I do.
But these days with tiny-you — even our hardest ones — are always my best.
Still, it hits me every night as bedtime approaches. Waves of our day’s moments when I could have been more present — when I should have reacted differently, when I needed to stop my own thoughts and be more available for yours — crash into me, and it hurts. It hurts because I’m not sorry.
I’m not sorry for sometimes wishing bedtime would come sooner. I’m not sorry for wanting desperately to just sit on the couch, alone. But what hurts is knowing each of these moments quickly add up, as I see your tiny face grow into more of a little girl and so much less of a toddler.
What hurts is witnessing how each day you need me less and less, and each day I have to let go a little bit more.
What hurts is knowing these minutes of you clinging to me and needing me for nearly everything are becoming fewer and fewer, until one day you’ll be left to choose how much of your time is spent with me.
What hurts is wondering if you’ll feel how infinitely I love you despite my marred humanness.
I remember the day I had you like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t. It was two years ago. Before I know it, it will be 20.
Before I know it, I won’t remember it as clearly.
Before I know it, I’ll be an older, wiser mother annoying new mothers with “how fast it goes.”
Before I know it, my memories of your babyhood will be what I hold closely instead of your tiny hand.
Being your mother is the hardest, best thing I’ve ever done. Being your mother is the hardest, best thing I’ll ever do.
I lay there on the uncomfortable bed, slightly tilted into a half-reclined, half-upright position, wondering if I’d made a mistake.
I didn’t. You remind me of this every day.
Every time your shining blue eyes twinkle at mine in a giggle, or your angry brow furrows in my direction, I see who I’ve made, and I know of the many, many mistakes I have and will make, their best correction will always be you.
Seriously it is my wish I will have a close bond with them when they are old. I will be happiest (and luckiest) when they will love me and still look for me as much as they do now.
'I Love Being Your Mom Because Even The Hardest Days Are The Best Days'
by: Jennifer White
I remember the day I gave birth to you like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t. It was two years ago.
I remember the second night with you in the hospital. Your dad had gone home to help your older sister get to sleep. He’d stayed as late as he could. My mom came in his place and slept on the hard, fake leather sofa in our room. She slept, but I didn’t. You didn’t. (You were a newborn baby after all — who would expect you to?)
I lay there on the uncomfortable bed, slightly tilted into a half-reclined, half-upright position, wondering if I’d made a mistake.
Could I handle more years of sleepless nights?
Could I handle two small children by myself when your dad went back to work?
Could I be a good enough mother?
The answer to all of these questions was “no.”
The truth was it would be hard. The reality is I called your dad at work several times a day crying. The brutal fact is I’m so flawed, as a person and as a mom.
But I didn’t make a mistake.
And now you’re 2, and I already know why they say things like, “It won’t last forever,” or “Don’t be the first to let go when your child hugs you.” I understand, too, that I’m not a good enough mother, but I’m what you’ve got.
I’m not in awe of you enough. I’m not always happy just sitting together and reading books. Sometimes I want to read on my phone instead. Sometimes I do.
But these days with tiny-you — even our hardest ones — are always my best.
Still, it hits me every night as bedtime approaches. Waves of our day’s moments when I could have been more present — when I should have reacted differently, when I needed to stop my own thoughts and be more available for yours — crash into me, and it hurts. It hurts because I’m not sorry.
I’m not sorry for sometimes wishing bedtime would come sooner. I’m not sorry for wanting desperately to just sit on the couch, alone. But what hurts is knowing each of these moments quickly add up, as I see your tiny face grow into more of a little girl and so much less of a toddler.
What hurts is witnessing how each day you need me less and less, and each day I have to let go a little bit more.
What hurts is knowing these minutes of you clinging to me and needing me for nearly everything are becoming fewer and fewer, until one day you’ll be left to choose how much of your time is spent with me.
What hurts is wondering if you’ll feel how infinitely I love you despite my marred humanness.
I remember the day I had you like it was yesterday. But it wasn’t. It was two years ago. Before I know it, it will be 20.
Before I know it, I won’t remember it as clearly.
Before I know it, I’ll be an older, wiser mother annoying new mothers with “how fast it goes.”
Before I know it, my memories of your babyhood will be what I hold closely instead of your tiny hand.
Being your mother is the hardest, best thing I’ve ever done. Being your mother is the hardest, best thing I’ll ever do.
I lay there on the uncomfortable bed, slightly tilted into a half-reclined, half-upright position, wondering if I’d made a mistake.
I didn’t. You remind me of this every day.
Every time your shining blue eyes twinkle at mine in a giggle, or your angry brow furrows in my direction, I see who I’ve made, and I know of the many, many mistakes I have and will make, their best correction will always be you.
Monday, February 13, 2017
Routines
I am a strong advocate of routines when it comes to the kids. I always stick close to our routines. My dad told me once I sounded like a drill sergeant. Hehe! My mom in law also didn't understood at first why we had to let the kids have strict nap times. My husband also gets frustrated at times when I had to rush home, just so we could let the kids sleep on time. Other family members probably thought I was crazy. Good thing I stumbled upon these articles from Janet Lansbury and Maga Gerber, which validated how routines can help kids with their development. Phew! I was starting to doubt myself already if we were doing the right approach (but really, there isn't any right or wrong approach when it comes to parenting. Whatever suits the family.).
Now that the kids are older, we still try to follow a consistent routine as much as possible. But we also try to be more flexible with it. I'm okay with skipping naps sometimes. I'm okay with Rafa napping in the car instead or Claire having her lunch a bit later than usual. Unlike before, I try not to stress too much anymore if we don't get to follow our routine on some days. I just adjust accordingly.
'Empowering Our Babies With Rituals'
by: Janet Lansbury
Bore that I am, I do the exact same thing every morning. Up before my family, I turn on the tea kettle and walk to the street with Dulce (our Ridgeback- Pitbull-whatever rescue dog) to collect the LA Times. (Yes, I still read hard copy sometimes.) Then I make a smoothie with vitamin powder, soy milk and frozen fruit while I steep green tea. Alternate sips of hot tea and cold smoothie miraculously transform the beast. As Lumière, the candlestick in the Disney musical sang, “…I’m human again. Only human again. Poised and polished and gleaming with charm…”
I like to break out and do different things once in awhile, but one of the many things I have in common with babies (arrested development?) is my attraction to routine. My habits have shifted over the years, and some have been healthier than others, but they’ve always given me comfort. I look forward to these rituals and really like knowing I can depend on them.
Imagine what it’s like to be an infant. The world is all brand new — a fascinating, stimulating sensory delight — but the constant transitions, surprises and novelty can be intense and overwhelming. Combine that with the fact that we are growing, changing more rapidly than we ever will, so even what we know can feel different the next day. (Like the way my adolescent daughter feels when she wakes at noon and thinks the kitchen table and her mom have shrunk because she’s grown a half inch.)
We need responsive, reliable parents and caregivers to feel secure, but wouldn’t it also be nice to depend on some daily experiences? To be able to predict, for example, that after our morning meal and diaper change we’ll go to a familiar place to play. Or know that after our dinner and evening bath we will enjoy a book, close the shades, hear a lullaby we’ve begun to recognize and be gently placed in a cozy bed to sleep.
In a life full of changes we cannot control, creating routines and rituals is one of the most respectful and empowering things we can do for our babies.
Infant expert Magda Gerber emphasized the importance of establishing a daily sequence of events — not arbitrarily imposed, inflexible, or on the clock, but formed together with our babies in response to their individual needs. “In a predictable environment, and with regular, dependable schedules, they feel comfortable, cry less, and life is easier for both infant and parents. Infants who do not need to adjust to too much unnecessary stimulation will eventually regulate their sleeping and eating patterns. This regularity will, in turn, give parents some predictable time for their own needs and interests.”
It takes a little time to find a rhythm with our babies. Even in the giddy, chaotic, sleepless first days with a newborn, we can begin by getting into the habit of telling our infant what will happen next. “I’m going to carry you to the diaper table. Then we will unsnap your pajamas.” Soon our baby learns what he can expect. He feels more participatory in experiences he can predict and anticipate for himself. “After I drink milk in the morning, we usually go outside to my playpen under the tree.”
As our infants become toddlers, it’s easy to recognize that even the simplest rituals empower them. And when children know what to expect, they are inspired to immerse themselves in an experience and gain more pleasure from it. If I had any doubt about babies loving rituals, it would be shattered by the way the children in my life have always enjoyed creating them on their own.
One example of this began spontaneously. Snack time in my weekly Parent – Toddler Classes is all about ritual. Each ceremonial step is anticipated and relished by the children, and as they get older they gradually help and participate more, physically, communicatively, and then verbally. First we place the mat on the floor, or the deck outside if it’s nice weather. Then we bring out the table and stools. The children who want to participate sit, and we take turns washing hands with a wet cloth. Then each child chooses a bib. Next they get a turn to help peel the first banana, and are then are offered pieces to eat. After eating some banana we bring out the glasses (yes, glasses!) and little glass carafes from which the toddlers learn to pour water into their glasses…and boy, do they love that part.
One day, a 17 month old boy choked a little and coughed when he drank a sip of water, so I patted him gently on the back. He then coughed again, and I repeated the patting. Then a girl at the table coughed. When I responded with a pat, she grinned. Before long others tried it too, and we all laughed uproariously. Predictably, fake coughing, patting and laughing became a reliable and highly anticipated addition to our snack ritual each week.
Some believe that our babies will learn to be more adaptable if we expose them to our hectic lives. They argue that the parent’s constant presence and responsive care is the only consistency a baby needs to feel secure. The years Magda Gerber spent studying infants led her to disagree. “Being exposed to circumstances we cannot anticipate nor understand, and in which we cannot actively participate, makes us feel helpless, like riding on a perpetual merry-go-round. Anticipating a change, on the other hand, gives us a feeling of being prepared, of being in control,” she wrote in Dear Parent – Caring For Infants With Respect.
Magda believed that a secure, self-confident baby who has had the opportunity to build trust in his environment is more flexible and amenable to changes in his routine, and I’ve found this to be true with my children. They have quite different personalities, but all three are amazingly secure, self-confident, independent and much more adaptable to change than I ever was…or probably ever will be.
*Adding this article I read from Magda Gerber's website,
The easiest way to develop good habits in general is to have a predictable daily life. Young babies thrive on routine. Ideally, daily events of eating, sleeping, bathing, outdoor play, etc., happen around the same time and in the same sequence each day. As the baby is learning to anticipate the next event, many conflicts are eliminated. A mutual adaptation of the biological rhythm of your baby and your family schedule develops. It also enables you, the parent, to plan ahead for those blocks of rime when your baby is usually napping or playing peacefully.
Now that the kids are older, we still try to follow a consistent routine as much as possible. But we also try to be more flexible with it. I'm okay with skipping naps sometimes. I'm okay with Rafa napping in the car instead or Claire having her lunch a bit later than usual. Unlike before, I try not to stress too much anymore if we don't get to follow our routine on some days. I just adjust accordingly.
'Empowering Our Babies With Rituals'
by: Janet Lansbury
Bore that I am, I do the exact same thing every morning. Up before my family, I turn on the tea kettle and walk to the street with Dulce (our Ridgeback- Pitbull-whatever rescue dog) to collect the LA Times. (Yes, I still read hard copy sometimes.) Then I make a smoothie with vitamin powder, soy milk and frozen fruit while I steep green tea. Alternate sips of hot tea and cold smoothie miraculously transform the beast. As Lumière, the candlestick in the Disney musical sang, “…I’m human again. Only human again. Poised and polished and gleaming with charm…”
I like to break out and do different things once in awhile, but one of the many things I have in common with babies (arrested development?) is my attraction to routine. My habits have shifted over the years, and some have been healthier than others, but they’ve always given me comfort. I look forward to these rituals and really like knowing I can depend on them.
Imagine what it’s like to be an infant. The world is all brand new — a fascinating, stimulating sensory delight — but the constant transitions, surprises and novelty can be intense and overwhelming. Combine that with the fact that we are growing, changing more rapidly than we ever will, so even what we know can feel different the next day. (Like the way my adolescent daughter feels when she wakes at noon and thinks the kitchen table and her mom have shrunk because she’s grown a half inch.)
We need responsive, reliable parents and caregivers to feel secure, but wouldn’t it also be nice to depend on some daily experiences? To be able to predict, for example, that after our morning meal and diaper change we’ll go to a familiar place to play. Or know that after our dinner and evening bath we will enjoy a book, close the shades, hear a lullaby we’ve begun to recognize and be gently placed in a cozy bed to sleep.
In a life full of changes we cannot control, creating routines and rituals is one of the most respectful and empowering things we can do for our babies.
Infant expert Magda Gerber emphasized the importance of establishing a daily sequence of events — not arbitrarily imposed, inflexible, or on the clock, but formed together with our babies in response to their individual needs. “In a predictable environment, and with regular, dependable schedules, they feel comfortable, cry less, and life is easier for both infant and parents. Infants who do not need to adjust to too much unnecessary stimulation will eventually regulate their sleeping and eating patterns. This regularity will, in turn, give parents some predictable time for their own needs and interests.”
It takes a little time to find a rhythm with our babies. Even in the giddy, chaotic, sleepless first days with a newborn, we can begin by getting into the habit of telling our infant what will happen next. “I’m going to carry you to the diaper table. Then we will unsnap your pajamas.” Soon our baby learns what he can expect. He feels more participatory in experiences he can predict and anticipate for himself. “After I drink milk in the morning, we usually go outside to my playpen under the tree.”
As our infants become toddlers, it’s easy to recognize that even the simplest rituals empower them. And when children know what to expect, they are inspired to immerse themselves in an experience and gain more pleasure from it. If I had any doubt about babies loving rituals, it would be shattered by the way the children in my life have always enjoyed creating them on their own.
One example of this began spontaneously. Snack time in my weekly Parent – Toddler Classes is all about ritual. Each ceremonial step is anticipated and relished by the children, and as they get older they gradually help and participate more, physically, communicatively, and then verbally. First we place the mat on the floor, or the deck outside if it’s nice weather. Then we bring out the table and stools. The children who want to participate sit, and we take turns washing hands with a wet cloth. Then each child chooses a bib. Next they get a turn to help peel the first banana, and are then are offered pieces to eat. After eating some banana we bring out the glasses (yes, glasses!) and little glass carafes from which the toddlers learn to pour water into their glasses…and boy, do they love that part.
One day, a 17 month old boy choked a little and coughed when he drank a sip of water, so I patted him gently on the back. He then coughed again, and I repeated the patting. Then a girl at the table coughed. When I responded with a pat, she grinned. Before long others tried it too, and we all laughed uproariously. Predictably, fake coughing, patting and laughing became a reliable and highly anticipated addition to our snack ritual each week.
Some believe that our babies will learn to be more adaptable if we expose them to our hectic lives. They argue that the parent’s constant presence and responsive care is the only consistency a baby needs to feel secure. The years Magda Gerber spent studying infants led her to disagree. “Being exposed to circumstances we cannot anticipate nor understand, and in which we cannot actively participate, makes us feel helpless, like riding on a perpetual merry-go-round. Anticipating a change, on the other hand, gives us a feeling of being prepared, of being in control,” she wrote in Dear Parent – Caring For Infants With Respect.
Magda believed that a secure, self-confident baby who has had the opportunity to build trust in his environment is more flexible and amenable to changes in his routine, and I’ve found this to be true with my children. They have quite different personalities, but all three are amazingly secure, self-confident, independent and much more adaptable to change than I ever was…or probably ever will be.
*Adding this article I read from Magda Gerber's website,
The easiest way to develop good habits in general is to have a predictable daily life. Young babies thrive on routine. Ideally, daily events of eating, sleeping, bathing, outdoor play, etc., happen around the same time and in the same sequence each day. As the baby is learning to anticipate the next event, many conflicts are eliminated. A mutual adaptation of the biological rhythm of your baby and your family schedule develops. It also enables you, the parent, to plan ahead for those blocks of rime when your baby is usually napping or playing peacefully.
Monday, February 6, 2017
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Stop and Pause
While Rafa is only 5 years old now, I'll probably have the same feelings like the author below, when the time comes that he will not be needing me (as much) anymore. I can already see it coming, as he is slowly becoming his own independent person. While there are days that I wish he would grow up fast, this article is a good reminder that I should savor each moment (good and bad) he calls for me, no matter how kulit he is sometimes. I'm happy I still have 2 years before he officially turns into a big boy...until then, he is still (and will always be) my baby boy.
'What Lies On The Other Side of Six'
by: KLeClair
After tucking my 7-year-old boy into bed, after the noise of the day has turned into silence and my thoughts are the loudest sound in the room. After I’ve collapsed onto the couch from another dizzying day of parenting, this low and dull ache begins to form in my chest. Seizing my breath and gripping my heart until I have no choice but to focus in and acknowledge the rapid speed with which time is passing.
I instantly feel panic and my mind is scattered as I try to remember the last time I really looked at my boy, the last time I really held onto him, the last time he really needed me. He’s growing older with every blink of my eyes and becoming who he’s meant to be faster than I ever thought possible.
Gone is the baby whose survival depended on me. Gone is the little boy who constantly looked to me for guidance and approval. Arrived is this now 7-year-old boy who has unwavering confidence in his choices, thoughts disconnected from my own and a deep desire for independence. In some ways, it feels as though this metamorphosis happened overnight. But the time that’s passed tells a different story. We’ve spent the last seven years building up to this. I just didn’t know it was coming so quickly. I didn’t know by seven he’d already be racing towards what lies on the other side of my four walls.
Back in what now feels like the distant past when it was just my sweet baby and I caught in the crossfire of endless feedings, diaper changes and sleep training, time seemed to stretch out in front of us for what felt like an infinite period. In those early years of being a first-time mom life is such a blur of meeting milestones that you’re completely unaware of the significant and precious time that’s slipping right through your exhausted fingertips. You are merely surviving. Employing massive amounts of caffeine to see you through the fog. During that phase you’re physically unable to imagine how quickly you and your child will progress from each stage of life to the next as you rush along, rarely pausing to breathe in the very moment where you stand. No one tells you that one day you’ll turn to look at your baby and that baby will be gone.
The reality is, this boy, my first born, was never meant to be mine forever. Contrary to what my heart tells me each time I see him take another step towards the outside world. I want to shout out, “Hey, where are you going? You belong to me.” But he was always meant to move on and make his own mark. Just like his time in the womb couldn’t be forever, his time in my home won’t be forever. He will be here just long enough to gain his footing, mature, and then move on to his next phase.
When he turned seven, this realization kind of came out of nowhere and hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt stunned. Like the wind had been knocked out of me. Of course this was always going to happen. Seasons change, time silently ticks from one minute to the next and children inevitably grow up. I know this. It just hadn’t occurred to me until we hit seven. I guess my head was down and I wasn’t paying attention. And now, here we are.
I’ve been making a deliberate effort to stand in the moment more. Feel the weight of his growing body as he crashes into me for a hug, the sloppy kisses that he still doles out lovingly, at bedtime only, of course. The look of his face each day as it gradually morphs and shapes into that of a mature boy and less of my little boy.
I’ve tried to put the pause button on more and consciously reflect on the seven years of hugs, kisses and love that we’ve shared. And while the ache for my baby doesn’t immediately subside, it slowly turns into gratitude for the time we’ve had. I finally take that much needed breath while my slumbering child is still safely in a place where I can see him and gaze for just a moment longer before the next phase unexpectedly comes along.
'What Lies On The Other Side of Six'
by: KLeClair
After tucking my 7-year-old boy into bed, after the noise of the day has turned into silence and my thoughts are the loudest sound in the room. After I’ve collapsed onto the couch from another dizzying day of parenting, this low and dull ache begins to form in my chest. Seizing my breath and gripping my heart until I have no choice but to focus in and acknowledge the rapid speed with which time is passing.
I instantly feel panic and my mind is scattered as I try to remember the last time I really looked at my boy, the last time I really held onto him, the last time he really needed me. He’s growing older with every blink of my eyes and becoming who he’s meant to be faster than I ever thought possible.
Gone is the baby whose survival depended on me. Gone is the little boy who constantly looked to me for guidance and approval. Arrived is this now 7-year-old boy who has unwavering confidence in his choices, thoughts disconnected from my own and a deep desire for independence. In some ways, it feels as though this metamorphosis happened overnight. But the time that’s passed tells a different story. We’ve spent the last seven years building up to this. I just didn’t know it was coming so quickly. I didn’t know by seven he’d already be racing towards what lies on the other side of my four walls.
Back in what now feels like the distant past when it was just my sweet baby and I caught in the crossfire of endless feedings, diaper changes and sleep training, time seemed to stretch out in front of us for what felt like an infinite period. In those early years of being a first-time mom life is such a blur of meeting milestones that you’re completely unaware of the significant and precious time that’s slipping right through your exhausted fingertips. You are merely surviving. Employing massive amounts of caffeine to see you through the fog. During that phase you’re physically unable to imagine how quickly you and your child will progress from each stage of life to the next as you rush along, rarely pausing to breathe in the very moment where you stand. No one tells you that one day you’ll turn to look at your baby and that baby will be gone.
The reality is, this boy, my first born, was never meant to be mine forever. Contrary to what my heart tells me each time I see him take another step towards the outside world. I want to shout out, “Hey, where are you going? You belong to me.” But he was always meant to move on and make his own mark. Just like his time in the womb couldn’t be forever, his time in my home won’t be forever. He will be here just long enough to gain his footing, mature, and then move on to his next phase.
When he turned seven, this realization kind of came out of nowhere and hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt stunned. Like the wind had been knocked out of me. Of course this was always going to happen. Seasons change, time silently ticks from one minute to the next and children inevitably grow up. I know this. It just hadn’t occurred to me until we hit seven. I guess my head was down and I wasn’t paying attention. And now, here we are.
I’ve been making a deliberate effort to stand in the moment more. Feel the weight of his growing body as he crashes into me for a hug, the sloppy kisses that he still doles out lovingly, at bedtime only, of course. The look of his face each day as it gradually morphs and shapes into that of a mature boy and less of my little boy.
I’ve tried to put the pause button on more and consciously reflect on the seven years of hugs, kisses and love that we’ve shared. And while the ache for my baby doesn’t immediately subside, it slowly turns into gratitude for the time we’ve had. I finally take that much needed breath while my slumbering child is still safely in a place where I can see him and gaze for just a moment longer before the next phase unexpectedly comes along.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
On Hubby
I have put up this blog to write down my thoughts about marriage and motherhood. But somehow all the articles I have been reposting have been about kids and parenting. I think it is timely I found an article about marriage, as this is equally (if not more) important. Our lives are so much different (but a fulfilling one I must say!) now, with kids and all. I wonder what would it be like to bring back the good old days..to be carefree and have so much time in our hands, even just for a day. That is why we make it a point to have a "couple only vacation" and date nights from time to time so we can spend quality time and reconnect with one another. I am planning to let my husband read this as well, just so he knows he his missed dearly! :)
'Dear Husband, Sometimes I Miss You'
by: Christine Organ
All those years ago, when we were fresh-faced and starry-eyed newlyweds with all the time in the world, there were so many things about marriage and parenting, and marriage while parenting, that I just didn’t understand. I didn’t know date nights would be playing Stratego late at night and Sunday night movies. I had no idea we would eventually create our own language of sighs, groans, and giggles to be substituted for entire sentences so that without saying a word, we would know exactly what each other is trying to say. And I didn’t think it would be possible to miss you so much even though I see you every day.
But it is. And I do.
I miss you.
Even though we live under the same roof, share a bed and a life, and try like hell to get some alone time every now and then, there are days and weeks and months when life gets in the way. Either you’re working long hours or I’m working long hours, or we’re both working long hours. We’re busy parenting and adulting and taking care of all the things. Tiny little humans who call us Mom and Dad clamor for our time and attention. Bosses and clients and deadlines call to us from our computer screens. Parents, siblings, and friends need and deserve our attention as well. We are pulled in a million different directions by a million different things and by the end of the day, it is all we can do to not to fall asleep on the couch while watching five minutes of Jimmy Fallon.
We know that our marriage is at the center of this little family of ours, and so we do our best to make time for each other. We plan date nights and stay up late watching a movie together. We splurge on the occasional kid-free vacation — a night here or an indulgently long weekend there. We “talk” via text and emails throughout the day. We check in with quick “how’s your day going?” and send each other silly memes on the days when the other could use a pick-me-up. We’ve learned to make not just the hours, but the minutes, count.
And still, there are times when I miss you.
There are days when I miss the long conversations about everything and nothing at all. When I miss lazy Sunday mornings in bed. When I miss being able to start a sentence and finish that same sentence without tiny voices interrupting us with “Guess what, Dad?” and “Mom, can I have…” When I miss taking the train home from work together and reading books together and going out for brunch together.
There are days when I miss seeing you and touching you and breathing the same air as you. When I miss knowing the simple details of your day, like what you ate for lunch and how long your commute took. When I miss the sound of your laugh.
There are days when I miss you.
You spend long hours doing hard and good work to provide for and take care of our family. You answer client emails and lead conference calls. You write legal documents and stand before judges in a courtroom. You put out fires and fight the good fight. And then you run to catch the commuter train so you can watch the second half of our son’s baseball game. You play with our younger son and ask him about his day. You spend a few hours breaking up fights and reminding the kids to brush their teeth, before sitting down in front of the computer for a couple more hours of work after the bedtime routine is finally done.
I, too, spend long hours doing hard and good work to provide for and take care of our family. I shuffle kids to school and the swimming pool and eye doctor appointments, fitting in work obligations between it all. I help with homework and check backpacks and remind the kids to brush their teeth, before sitting down in front of the computer for a couple more hours of work after the bedtime routine is finally done.
We are both doing hard and good work to provide for and take care of our family in our own ways.
Sometimes it feels like there are cosmic forces at work trying to keep us from spending too much time together. Just when life settles down in your world, it heats up in mine. Or vice versa. One weekend I’m out of town, and then you’re out of town, and then family comes to visit. Just when the two of us seem to have things under control, some kind of emergency or last minute social plans will flip life upside-down again.
None of this is unique to us. This is, after all, what it means to be an adult, to be a parent, and to be a spouse. We are surrounded by people clamoring for our time and attention. We are pulled in a million different directions. We are asked to be everything to everyone. And as much as we want to focus on each other, as much as we need to be each other’s one and only, sometimes doing what is right for the family and the tiny humans who call us Mom and Dad take priority.
And we miss each other.
But maybe the missing each other isn’t a bad thing. Maybe the missing each other is actually a good thing?
It is in the missing you that I remember the passion and romance of those fresh-faced and starry-eyed days. It is in the missing you that I become acutely aware once again of how much I need you. It is in the missing you that I know without a doubt how much you love and care for our children and our family. It is in the missing you that I am reminded that you are still my one and only.
So until the next date night, the next stolen kiss, the next movie night — until the next long weekend away, the next indulgent vacation, the next snuggle on the couch… Until then, I will miss you because I love you — even more than when we were fresh-faced and starry-eyed newlyweds with all the time in the world.
'Dear Husband, Sometimes I Miss You'
by: Christine Organ
All those years ago, when we were fresh-faced and starry-eyed newlyweds with all the time in the world, there were so many things about marriage and parenting, and marriage while parenting, that I just didn’t understand. I didn’t know date nights would be playing Stratego late at night and Sunday night movies. I had no idea we would eventually create our own language of sighs, groans, and giggles to be substituted for entire sentences so that without saying a word, we would know exactly what each other is trying to say. And I didn’t think it would be possible to miss you so much even though I see you every day.
But it is. And I do.
I miss you.
Even though we live under the same roof, share a bed and a life, and try like hell to get some alone time every now and then, there are days and weeks and months when life gets in the way. Either you’re working long hours or I’m working long hours, or we’re both working long hours. We’re busy parenting and adulting and taking care of all the things. Tiny little humans who call us Mom and Dad clamor for our time and attention. Bosses and clients and deadlines call to us from our computer screens. Parents, siblings, and friends need and deserve our attention as well. We are pulled in a million different directions by a million different things and by the end of the day, it is all we can do to not to fall asleep on the couch while watching five minutes of Jimmy Fallon.
We know that our marriage is at the center of this little family of ours, and so we do our best to make time for each other. We plan date nights and stay up late watching a movie together. We splurge on the occasional kid-free vacation — a night here or an indulgently long weekend there. We “talk” via text and emails throughout the day. We check in with quick “how’s your day going?” and send each other silly memes on the days when the other could use a pick-me-up. We’ve learned to make not just the hours, but the minutes, count.
And still, there are times when I miss you.
There are days when I miss the long conversations about everything and nothing at all. When I miss lazy Sunday mornings in bed. When I miss being able to start a sentence and finish that same sentence without tiny voices interrupting us with “Guess what, Dad?” and “Mom, can I have…” When I miss taking the train home from work together and reading books together and going out for brunch together.
There are days when I miss seeing you and touching you and breathing the same air as you. When I miss knowing the simple details of your day, like what you ate for lunch and how long your commute took. When I miss the sound of your laugh.
There are days when I miss you.
You spend long hours doing hard and good work to provide for and take care of our family. You answer client emails and lead conference calls. You write legal documents and stand before judges in a courtroom. You put out fires and fight the good fight. And then you run to catch the commuter train so you can watch the second half of our son’s baseball game. You play with our younger son and ask him about his day. You spend a few hours breaking up fights and reminding the kids to brush their teeth, before sitting down in front of the computer for a couple more hours of work after the bedtime routine is finally done.
I, too, spend long hours doing hard and good work to provide for and take care of our family. I shuffle kids to school and the swimming pool and eye doctor appointments, fitting in work obligations between it all. I help with homework and check backpacks and remind the kids to brush their teeth, before sitting down in front of the computer for a couple more hours of work after the bedtime routine is finally done.
We are both doing hard and good work to provide for and take care of our family in our own ways.
Sometimes it feels like there are cosmic forces at work trying to keep us from spending too much time together. Just when life settles down in your world, it heats up in mine. Or vice versa. One weekend I’m out of town, and then you’re out of town, and then family comes to visit. Just when the two of us seem to have things under control, some kind of emergency or last minute social plans will flip life upside-down again.
None of this is unique to us. This is, after all, what it means to be an adult, to be a parent, and to be a spouse. We are surrounded by people clamoring for our time and attention. We are pulled in a million different directions. We are asked to be everything to everyone. And as much as we want to focus on each other, as much as we need to be each other’s one and only, sometimes doing what is right for the family and the tiny humans who call us Mom and Dad take priority.
And we miss each other.
But maybe the missing each other isn’t a bad thing. Maybe the missing each other is actually a good thing?
It is in the missing you that I remember the passion and romance of those fresh-faced and starry-eyed days. It is in the missing you that I become acutely aware once again of how much I need you. It is in the missing you that I know without a doubt how much you love and care for our children and our family. It is in the missing you that I am reminded that you are still my one and only.
So until the next date night, the next stolen kiss, the next movie night — until the next long weekend away, the next indulgent vacation, the next snuggle on the couch… Until then, I will miss you because I love you — even more than when we were fresh-faced and starry-eyed newlyweds with all the time in the world.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
My Current Season
I have been posting articles that I have easily related with regards to my motherhood journey. But if there is one that strongly resonates my thoughts and feelings, this article has to be it. I applaud the author for being able to capture motherhood into words so well. She couldn't have said it any better.
'The Heaviness of Motherhood'
by: Marielle Petkoff
Before having kids, everyone always tells you to enjoy having the freedom to not have to worry about anyone but yourself. It’s hard to fully understand what they’re talking about. Taking care of yourself is all you’ve ever really known, after all. Sure, you have people that you care about and love and even worry about on a daily basis, but it’s not the same as having kids.
Motherhood is so heavy.
From the moment you find out you’re expecting, you literally begin to carry the weight of that child.
They place that squirming, squished-up infant on your chest for the first time and in that instant, your life is changed forever. The feeling is permanently ingrained in my memory. The moment my firstborn entered this world, I felt the heaviness. The connection, the responsibility, and the weight were overwhelming. Despite all the books I had read, forums I had browsed, and blogs I had bookmarked, I felt utterly unequipped, unprepared, and totally undeserving of the perfect little human placed in my hands.
It’s like God literally takes a piece of your heart, gives it chubby hands and scrunchy lips, and places it outside your body for you to care for. It’s extraordinarily wonderful — and indescribably terrifying. No matter what situation is thrown your way, from that moment on, you’re suddenly expected to know how to deal with it. It’s as if birthing a child gives you magical insight into how to raise one. It’s a lot of responsibility, and it’s hard, so hard. So hard. You love that little piece of your heart so much, but you almost can’t bear the weight of knowing you can’t undo this, and that it will never stop — not on the weekends, not on vacation days, and not even on sick days. There are no breaks.
You think back to the freedom of your child-free life and suddenly understand why people called it “freedom.”
Once you become a mother, things that used to seem so easy become so much work, like trying to leave the house on time or running a few “quick” errands. Things that used to feel like basic everyday tasks now feel like luxuries, like having more than five minutes to make dinner, folding and putting away the laundry, or sleeping from night until morning. Things are different when the responsibility of another human being lies on your shoulders, when someone else’s needs come before your own, when the world you once knew suddenly ceases to exist permanently.
It’s almost like there’s a timer in your head, ticking, ticking, ticking. Every time you try to get away or take a break from mothering, it taunts you. You can’t escape it. You try to take a day to yourself, to go away for a week or even just a few hours, but the ticking never stops. You can’t even leave your child with a babysitter without hearing it.
When the party starts going longer than expected, it gets louder. You watch the clock, wondering if your kids are still okay and if you can sneak out without being noticed, pushing yourself to stay cool for just 10 more minutes. Or five more minutes. Or, okay, now, you have to leave now. They probably need you. Your kids need you. You can feel the weight, pulling you back, pulling you home to them. The longer you try to get away or ignore it, the louder it gets. You look at the people around you who don’t have kids, remembering what it felt like to be them, to have the freedom to stay late after the party or to make last-minute plans.
The weight of being a mother is heavy, indeed. Some days, it feels like it’s squashing you, requiring more strength and energy than you possess. The constant and unending responsibility seems like more than you can bear. It’s a lot to carry.
But that’s the thing about lifting weights, it leads to change. The change doesn’t happen overnight; it’s not instantaneous. But slowly, over time, you begin to transform. Each day you get a little stronger, until one day, you wake up and realize you hardly feel the weight at all. The weight has become easier to carry. It becomes second nature, a part of who you are. You carry it with you without even noticing it’s there. You have transformed into a stronger, more capable, more selfless version of yourself without even noticing.
Motherhood is so heavy, but you’re strong enough to carry it.
'The Heaviness of Motherhood'
by: Marielle Petkoff
Before having kids, everyone always tells you to enjoy having the freedom to not have to worry about anyone but yourself. It’s hard to fully understand what they’re talking about. Taking care of yourself is all you’ve ever really known, after all. Sure, you have people that you care about and love and even worry about on a daily basis, but it’s not the same as having kids.
Motherhood is so heavy.
From the moment you find out you’re expecting, you literally begin to carry the weight of that child.
They place that squirming, squished-up infant on your chest for the first time and in that instant, your life is changed forever. The feeling is permanently ingrained in my memory. The moment my firstborn entered this world, I felt the heaviness. The connection, the responsibility, and the weight were overwhelming. Despite all the books I had read, forums I had browsed, and blogs I had bookmarked, I felt utterly unequipped, unprepared, and totally undeserving of the perfect little human placed in my hands.
It’s like God literally takes a piece of your heart, gives it chubby hands and scrunchy lips, and places it outside your body for you to care for. It’s extraordinarily wonderful — and indescribably terrifying. No matter what situation is thrown your way, from that moment on, you’re suddenly expected to know how to deal with it. It’s as if birthing a child gives you magical insight into how to raise one. It’s a lot of responsibility, and it’s hard, so hard. So hard. You love that little piece of your heart so much, but you almost can’t bear the weight of knowing you can’t undo this, and that it will never stop — not on the weekends, not on vacation days, and not even on sick days. There are no breaks.
You think back to the freedom of your child-free life and suddenly understand why people called it “freedom.”
Once you become a mother, things that used to seem so easy become so much work, like trying to leave the house on time or running a few “quick” errands. Things that used to feel like basic everyday tasks now feel like luxuries, like having more than five minutes to make dinner, folding and putting away the laundry, or sleeping from night until morning. Things are different when the responsibility of another human being lies on your shoulders, when someone else’s needs come before your own, when the world you once knew suddenly ceases to exist permanently.
It’s almost like there’s a timer in your head, ticking, ticking, ticking. Every time you try to get away or take a break from mothering, it taunts you. You can’t escape it. You try to take a day to yourself, to go away for a week or even just a few hours, but the ticking never stops. You can’t even leave your child with a babysitter without hearing it.
When the party starts going longer than expected, it gets louder. You watch the clock, wondering if your kids are still okay and if you can sneak out without being noticed, pushing yourself to stay cool for just 10 more minutes. Or five more minutes. Or, okay, now, you have to leave now. They probably need you. Your kids need you. You can feel the weight, pulling you back, pulling you home to them. The longer you try to get away or ignore it, the louder it gets. You look at the people around you who don’t have kids, remembering what it felt like to be them, to have the freedom to stay late after the party or to make last-minute plans.
The weight of being a mother is heavy, indeed. Some days, it feels like it’s squashing you, requiring more strength and energy than you possess. The constant and unending responsibility seems like more than you can bear. It’s a lot to carry.
But that’s the thing about lifting weights, it leads to change. The change doesn’t happen overnight; it’s not instantaneous. But slowly, over time, you begin to transform. Each day you get a little stronger, until one day, you wake up and realize you hardly feel the weight at all. The weight has become easier to carry. It becomes second nature, a part of who you are. You carry it with you without even noticing it’s there. You have transformed into a stronger, more capable, more selfless version of yourself without even noticing.
Motherhood is so heavy, but you’re strong enough to carry it.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
This Season
I have been feeling under the weather for the past entire week. Sick and dead tired, it was a struggle to accomplish anything. I am just so happy that I have finally bounced back to good health. It is no joke to do mommy duties (and do other chores on the side) when you are not 100%. Aside from being sick, I somewhat experienced a "mommy burnout" (if you could call it as such) as well. All I wanted to do is zone out and rest. Both my body and mind literally shut down for a whole week. And this brings me to the article below that I stumbled upon. It is a meaningful read. It is such a good reminder especially in times when I just want to turn off my 'mom' switch. I have to constantly remember that I have to enjoy this season no matter how hard or challenging it is, as it will soon just be a distant memory that I will probably long for when the kids are old.
'The Changing Seasons of Motherhood'
by: Rebecca Eanes
I remember the season when I had two tiny ones under my feet all day long, and the days were long. The nights were often even longer. It was a season filled with wild emotions, exhaustion, unbelievable joy, discovery, and what felt like a never-ending marathon of diaper changes. I was very often bleary-eyed from another night of waking with multiple children or teary-eyed from seeing my firstborn son give his brother a gentle kiss on his head while he slept.
I captured a lot of miracle moments in that season, but I also wished too many away. I used to wish they were out of diapers. I used to wish they'd just sleep through the night. I used to wish for a bit of “me time.”
There were nights when I would lie down with them until they fell asleep, and I would be entirely present in that moment, running my fingers through silky hair as I told them story after story. Those were beautiful nights.
Then, of course there were other nights when I just wanted to be done. I felt frustrated that they couldn't go to sleep on their own, and I questioned every parenting decision I'd made up to that point. Those were wasted nights. I accept grace for those nights. I am only human, after all. What felt like the season that would never end suddenly did.
I realized recently that I can no longer pick up my youngest son. He's too big. Too heavy. When did that happen? When was the last time I sat him down off my hip? My oldest son is nearly half way to adulthood now. Wasn't he just under my feet, asking me to play trains while I was trying to feed his baby brother?
If you are in a tough season, I want to offer you some encouragement today. I know it feels like she will never be potty trained or that he will never sleep through the night. I know you wonder if he will ever stop hitting or start sharing. You lie down at night weary from the day, unable to rest because you feel guilty for yelling.
You wonder if you are doing anything right. You are. You're doing just fine because you care enough to wonder. This season will pass, and while I won't tell you to enjoy every second because that is pretty ridiculous. I will advise you to be intentional about being present and capturing as many beautiful memories as you can, because in no time at all, those memories are all you will have of this season.
I'm in a brand new season now – a season of cub scout camp outs and baseball games. My big boys don't need me to get them to sleep anymore. Some nights I kiss them goodnight and go to my own bed, grab a book, and think of how relaxing and nice it is to have some time for me. Oh, but there are other nights, mama. Nights when I lie there listening to them giggle with each other in their room, and tears silently fall to my pillow because they don't need me to get them to sleep anymore. They need me just a little less than they used to. And that's okay – that means they're growing, but I would like for them to grow a bit slower.
These days, I find myself making new wishes. I wish they were back in diapers. I wish I could still rock them to sleep. I wish I could still pick them up and swing them around. So, you'd better believe that when I'm sitting at that ballgame tomorrow, I'm not going to be watching my clock and wishing for bedtime.
I'm going to be watching my children intently, trying my best to commit to memory the gangly limbs running the bases and the smile I get when they catch a glimpse of me in the stands. I'm going to be present because I know this season of motherhood won't last long enough. The next time I blink, they'll be teenagers. And they'll want my car. Heaven help me, they'll want my car. Enjoy your babies today, mamas. Whether they're teeny tiny or all grown up.
Enjoy this time with them, because it all ends one day. Except the laundry. That really does last forever.
'The Changing Seasons of Motherhood'
by: Rebecca Eanes
I remember the season when I had two tiny ones under my feet all day long, and the days were long. The nights were often even longer. It was a season filled with wild emotions, exhaustion, unbelievable joy, discovery, and what felt like a never-ending marathon of diaper changes. I was very often bleary-eyed from another night of waking with multiple children or teary-eyed from seeing my firstborn son give his brother a gentle kiss on his head while he slept.
I captured a lot of miracle moments in that season, but I also wished too many away. I used to wish they were out of diapers. I used to wish they'd just sleep through the night. I used to wish for a bit of “me time.”
There were nights when I would lie down with them until they fell asleep, and I would be entirely present in that moment, running my fingers through silky hair as I told them story after story. Those were beautiful nights.
Then, of course there were other nights when I just wanted to be done. I felt frustrated that they couldn't go to sleep on their own, and I questioned every parenting decision I'd made up to that point. Those were wasted nights. I accept grace for those nights. I am only human, after all. What felt like the season that would never end suddenly did.
I realized recently that I can no longer pick up my youngest son. He's too big. Too heavy. When did that happen? When was the last time I sat him down off my hip? My oldest son is nearly half way to adulthood now. Wasn't he just under my feet, asking me to play trains while I was trying to feed his baby brother?
If you are in a tough season, I want to offer you some encouragement today. I know it feels like she will never be potty trained or that he will never sleep through the night. I know you wonder if he will ever stop hitting or start sharing. You lie down at night weary from the day, unable to rest because you feel guilty for yelling.
You wonder if you are doing anything right. You are. You're doing just fine because you care enough to wonder. This season will pass, and while I won't tell you to enjoy every second because that is pretty ridiculous. I will advise you to be intentional about being present and capturing as many beautiful memories as you can, because in no time at all, those memories are all you will have of this season.
I'm in a brand new season now – a season of cub scout camp outs and baseball games. My big boys don't need me to get them to sleep anymore. Some nights I kiss them goodnight and go to my own bed, grab a book, and think of how relaxing and nice it is to have some time for me. Oh, but there are other nights, mama. Nights when I lie there listening to them giggle with each other in their room, and tears silently fall to my pillow because they don't need me to get them to sleep anymore. They need me just a little less than they used to. And that's okay – that means they're growing, but I would like for them to grow a bit slower.
These days, I find myself making new wishes. I wish they were back in diapers. I wish I could still rock them to sleep. I wish I could still pick them up and swing them around. So, you'd better believe that when I'm sitting at that ballgame tomorrow, I'm not going to be watching my clock and wishing for bedtime.
I'm going to be watching my children intently, trying my best to commit to memory the gangly limbs running the bases and the smile I get when they catch a glimpse of me in the stands. I'm going to be present because I know this season of motherhood won't last long enough. The next time I blink, they'll be teenagers. And they'll want my car. Heaven help me, they'll want my car. Enjoy your babies today, mamas. Whether they're teeny tiny or all grown up.
Enjoy this time with them, because it all ends one day. Except the laundry. That really does last forever.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Enjoying the Moments
I have been reading a lot of great articles regarding parenthood, some of which have hit close to home. Since I have little time to organize and write down my thoughts, I am posting all these articles here so that I can have something to look back and remember someday.
This is timely since I have been fixing Rafa's childhood photos for his avp. Looking back, we have definitely come a long way. The saying, "The days are long, but the years are short." definitely rings true. With Rafa already at 4 years old, this article is a reminder for me to just relish each moment with him, both the good and not so good included. It has been a delight to see him grow. Both my husband and I enjoy the stage where he is now. He is smart, super talkative and inquinsitive. We can slowly see his personality forming, along with his little quirks that make him unique on his own way.
'The Precious and Fleeting Moments'
by: Tricia McCormick
Every night, I cuddle my oldest tight and rock him. The whole time, my mind is analyzing how big he's gotten, how he barely fits on my lap anymore, how he's no longer my baby, how he's become a boy. Where does the time go? I wonder. Wasn’t it just yesterday that you fit perfectly into the nook of my arms?
This is timely since I have been fixing Rafa's childhood photos for his avp. Looking back, we have definitely come a long way. The saying, "The days are long, but the years are short." definitely rings true. With Rafa already at 4 years old, this article is a reminder for me to just relish each moment with him, both the good and not so good included. It has been a delight to see him grow. Both my husband and I enjoy the stage where he is now. He is smart, super talkative and inquinsitive. We can slowly see his personality forming, along with his little quirks that make him unique on his own way.
'The Precious and Fleeting Moments'
by: Tricia McCormick
Every night, I cuddle my oldest tight and rock him. The whole time, my mind is analyzing how big he's gotten, how he barely fits on my lap anymore, how he's no longer my baby, how he's become a boy. Where does the time go? I wonder. Wasn’t it just yesterday that you fit perfectly into the nook of my arms?
Sometimes I stare at him, trying to imagine what he will look like all grown up. And every time I am surprised by the aging face of the little boy staring back at me. He’s not so little, anymore. I tell him, “You’re getting so big! Why do you have to grow? Stay my little baby forever.” And he replies, “But I have to grow, Mommy. I can’t make it stop. I just have to grow.” I know sweet boy, but I wish we could.
These moments that seem never-ending. These moments of motherhood that are frustrating and hard, where I find myself saying, “I just can’t take it!” These are the moments taken for granted.
Because these moments will end. They will not last forever. I want to cherish these moments while he is still small—small enough to need me, small enough to still want me to hold him and kiss him and take care of him. For one day, he will be all grown up, and he won’t need me anymore. And I will find myself longing to do it all over again.
There will come a day when my home will no longer be filled with the sounds of children laughing. When all of the screaming and yelling will stop. Sooner than I think, it will become all too quiet for my comfort—a silent void aching for time to rewind.
I do not know yet how it feels to have them grow up, head off to college, or get married and start families of their own. But I can tell you, I have thought about this, and I both look forward to and dread this moment in life more than anything.
For now, I will sit and soak up these precious and fleeting moments. Because time is a fickle friend. And soon I will be left with nothing more than my memories.
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