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.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
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.
Tired Fulfilled Mom
With two kids under the age of four, this article resonates so much to me.
'THIS IS WHY MOMS ARE SO DAMN TIRED'
by: Mommyhood
Do you know what I mean by on? It means my senses never rest. My brain never stops from the moment my eyes open until the moment they shut. I’m answering questions, calming arguments, explaining, listening, talking.
My sensory receptors don’t get a chance to chill out even for a second. My ears are always listening, my eyes are always watching, my mind is always processing.
There are stimuli around me always.
'THIS IS WHY MOMS ARE SO DAMN TIRED'
by: Mommyhood
It was about 7:30 in the evening, close to bedtime for all, when my daughter grabbed a can of playdough and asked me to help her make a dinosaur. “Not tonight,” I replied. “Mommy has met her quota of building and playing for the day. Let’s do it tomorrow.” It wasn’t that I had a particularly active day. I certainly didn’t do anything too strenuous or taxing on my body. I just did the things I normally do on any given day: make breakfasts, lunches, pick up toys, do a load of laundry, color, read, play and well, mother. Nothing too difficult, right?
But I feel this way every night at about the same time.
Every night by the time the sun starts to set I hit my limit and yesterday I realized why: I am always on.
But I feel this way every night at about the same time.
Every night by the time the sun starts to set I hit my limit and yesterday I realized why: I am always on.
My sensory receptors don’t get a chance to chill out even for a second. My ears are always listening, my eyes are always watching, my mind is always processing.
There are stimuli around me always.
I know there are plenty of other jobs that demand this sort of vigilance every minute. But when you mother around the clock, the only minute of quiet you might get each day is the few minutes between the time they fall asleep and your eyes shut. Even then we tend to sleep with one eye open, listening for middle of the night cries and wake ups to use the potty. It is rare that I go more than two nights in a row without one of them waking me up.
And I’m not complaining – I adore them and there is no other job in the world I’d rather do – I’m just explaining. I’m telling you why moms are so damn tired everyday, even though it appears we’ve done nothing extraordinary with our day.
This is why you need a break.
This is why you need a break.
Moms, this is the reason why you need to say yes to a Saturday afternoon babysitter or a sleepover at Grandma’s house. Your body and soul needs to be able to stop mothering every once in a while.
Yes, you’ll think of your kids while they’re gone and probably worry about them, but you won’t have to keep your ears open to baby cries or hover over someone as they attempt to pour their own juice. You can sit in the quiet for longer than 15 minutes.
I’ve come to realize I can be a better mother when I get a break from being one. And that’s OK. It’s necessary to understand these things about yourself. To know your limits and how to refill your cup because no one else will do it for you. (My friend Rachel has another great take on why moms are so tired.)
So dads and husbands, if you’ve ever wondered how your wife could fall asleep on the couch every night at 8:45, this is why.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Somebody Needs You
What a nice read. I have to agree, there are those days when it seems to never end but when you look back after, those long and tiring days suddenly seem brief and trivial. When I had my firstborn, I felt exhausted all the time. I felt bounded by his needs all the time. I absolutely had no time for myself. And now that he is a toddler with endless energy, things are still pretty much the same-still dead tired from running after him, but I am slowly beginning to understand my role in his life. I recognize the fact that he is growing and needs me now more than ever. Now that I have my second child, things are more different. Perhaps being a mom for the second time around has made me more at ease and confident to take on the mom role. My experiences has made me stronger-more ready and equipped to handle absolutely anything. While hubby and I are contemplating whether this will be our last one already, I am putting all of my personal needs in the back seat for now so I can give them all of my time and savor each moment when they need me the most.
'Mommy, Somebody Needs You'
by: Megan Morton
Ever since we brought our new daughter home, her older brothers have been the first to tell me when she is crying, whimpering or smelling a little suspicious. "Somebody needs you," they say. I have no idea how this little saying started, but at first it sort of annoyed me. I could be enjoying a quick shower... "Mommy, somebody needs you. The baby is crying." Or, sitting down for a second, quite aware that the baby was beginning to stir from a nap.... "Mama, somebody needs you!" OK! I get it already! And not to mention that the newborn's needs pale in comparison to the needs of two little boys. Somebody always needs a snack, a band-aid, a different sock, ice cubes in their water, a NEW Paw Patrol, a stream of snot wiped, a hug, a story, a kiss. Some days never seem to end, and the monotony of being "needed" can really take its toll. Then, it all started to hit me, they need ME. Not anybody else. Not a single other person in the whole world. They need their Mommy.
The sooner I can accept that being Mommy means that I never go off the clock, the sooner I can find peace in this crazy stage of life. That "Mommy" is my duty, privilege and honor. I am ready to be there when somebody needs me, all day and all night. Mommy means I just put the baby back down after her 4 a.m. feeding when a 3-year-old has a nightmare. Mommy means I am surviving on coffee and toddler leftovers. Mommy means my husband and I haven't had a real conversation in weeks. Mommy means I put their needs before my own, without a thought. Mommy means that my body is full of aches and my heart is full of love.
I am sure there will come a day when no one needs me. My babies will all be long gone and consumed with their own lives. I may sit alone in some assisted living facility watching my body fade away. No one will need me then. I may even be a burden. Sure, they will come visit, but my arms will no longer be their home. My kisses no longer their cure. There will be no more tiny boots to wipe the slush from or seat belts to be buckled. I will have read my last bedtime story, seven times in a row. I will no longer enforce time-outs. There will be no more bags to pack and unpack or snack cups to fill. I am sure my heart will yearn to hear those tiny voices calling out to me, "Mommy, somebody needs you!"
So for now, I find beauty in the peaceful 4 a.m. feedings in our cozy little nursery. We are perched above the naked oak trees in our own lavender nest. We watch the silent snow fall and a bunny scampering across its perfect white canvas. It's just me and my little baby, the neighborhood is dark and still. We alone are up to watch the pale moon rise and the shadows dance along the nursery wall. She and I are the only ones to hear the barn owl hooting in the distance. We snuggle together under a blanket and I rock her back to sleep. It's 4am and I am exhausted and frustrated, but it's OK, she needs me. Just me. And maybe, I need her too. Because she makes me Mommy. Someday she will sleep through the night. Someday I will sit in my wheelchair, my arms empty, dreaming of those quiet nights in the nursery. When she needed me and we were the only two people in the world.
Can I enjoy being needed? Sometimes, sure, but often it is tiring. Exhausting. But, it isn't meant to be enjoyed every moment. It is a duty. God made me their Mom. It is a position I yearned for long before I would ever understand it. Over a three-day weekend, my husband couldn't believe how many times our boys kept saying, "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy!" "Are they always like this?" he asked, not able to hide his terror and sympathy. "Yep. All day, everyday. That's my job." And I have to admit that it is the toughest job I have ever had. In a previous life, I was a restaurant manager for a high volume and very popular chain in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. A Saturday night at 7:30 p.m. with the expo window overflowing with dishes, a two-hour wait and the electricity inexplicably going out has got nothing on a Tuesday, 5:00 p.m. at the Morton house. And let me tell ya, South Florida diners are some of the toughest to please. But they are a cake walk compared to sleep-deprived toddlers with low blood sugar.
Once upon a time, I had time. For myself. Now, my toenails need some love. My bra fits a little differently. My curling iron might not even work anymore, I don't know. I can't take a shower without an audience. I've started using eye cream. I don't get carded anymore. My proof of motherhood. Proof that somebody needs me. That right now, somebody always needs me. Like last night...
At 3 a.m. I hear the little footsteps entering my room. I lay still, barely breathing. Maybe he will retreat to his room. Yeah right.
"Mommy."
"Mommy." A little louder.
"Yes," I barely whisper.
He pauses, his giant eyes flashing in the dim light.
"I love you."
And just like that, he is gone. Scampered back to his room. But, his words still hang in the cool night air. If I could reach out and snatch them, I would grab his words and hug them to my chest. His soft voice whispering the best sentence in the world. I love you. A smile curls across my lips and I slowly exhale, almost afraid to blow the memory away. I drift back to sleep and let his words settle into my heart.
One day that little boy will be a big man. There will no longer be any sweet words whispered to me in the wee hours. Just the whir of the sound machine and the snoring husband. I will sleep peacefully through the night, never a worry of a sick child or a crying baby. It will be but a memory. These years of being needed are exhausting, yet fleeting. I have to stop dreaming of "one day" when things will be easier. Because the truth is, it may get easier, but it will never be better than today. Today, when I am covered in toddler snot and spit-up. Today, when I savor those chubby little arms around my neck. Today is perfect. "One day" I will get pedicures and showers alone. "One day" I will get myself back. But, today I give myself away, and I am tired and dirty and loved SO much, and I gotta go. Somebody needs me.
'Mommy, Somebody Needs You'
by: Megan Morton
Ever since we brought our new daughter home, her older brothers have been the first to tell me when she is crying, whimpering or smelling a little suspicious. "Somebody needs you," they say. I have no idea how this little saying started, but at first it sort of annoyed me. I could be enjoying a quick shower... "Mommy, somebody needs you. The baby is crying." Or, sitting down for a second, quite aware that the baby was beginning to stir from a nap.... "Mama, somebody needs you!" OK! I get it already! And not to mention that the newborn's needs pale in comparison to the needs of two little boys. Somebody always needs a snack, a band-aid, a different sock, ice cubes in their water, a NEW Paw Patrol, a stream of snot wiped, a hug, a story, a kiss. Some days never seem to end, and the monotony of being "needed" can really take its toll. Then, it all started to hit me, they need ME. Not anybody else. Not a single other person in the whole world. They need their Mommy.
The sooner I can accept that being Mommy means that I never go off the clock, the sooner I can find peace in this crazy stage of life. That "Mommy" is my duty, privilege and honor. I am ready to be there when somebody needs me, all day and all night. Mommy means I just put the baby back down after her 4 a.m. feeding when a 3-year-old has a nightmare. Mommy means I am surviving on coffee and toddler leftovers. Mommy means my husband and I haven't had a real conversation in weeks. Mommy means I put their needs before my own, without a thought. Mommy means that my body is full of aches and my heart is full of love.
I am sure there will come a day when no one needs me. My babies will all be long gone and consumed with their own lives. I may sit alone in some assisted living facility watching my body fade away. No one will need me then. I may even be a burden. Sure, they will come visit, but my arms will no longer be their home. My kisses no longer their cure. There will be no more tiny boots to wipe the slush from or seat belts to be buckled. I will have read my last bedtime story, seven times in a row. I will no longer enforce time-outs. There will be no more bags to pack and unpack or snack cups to fill. I am sure my heart will yearn to hear those tiny voices calling out to me, "Mommy, somebody needs you!"
So for now, I find beauty in the peaceful 4 a.m. feedings in our cozy little nursery. We are perched above the naked oak trees in our own lavender nest. We watch the silent snow fall and a bunny scampering across its perfect white canvas. It's just me and my little baby, the neighborhood is dark and still. We alone are up to watch the pale moon rise and the shadows dance along the nursery wall. She and I are the only ones to hear the barn owl hooting in the distance. We snuggle together under a blanket and I rock her back to sleep. It's 4am and I am exhausted and frustrated, but it's OK, she needs me. Just me. And maybe, I need her too. Because she makes me Mommy. Someday she will sleep through the night. Someday I will sit in my wheelchair, my arms empty, dreaming of those quiet nights in the nursery. When she needed me and we were the only two people in the world.
Can I enjoy being needed? Sometimes, sure, but often it is tiring. Exhausting. But, it isn't meant to be enjoyed every moment. It is a duty. God made me their Mom. It is a position I yearned for long before I would ever understand it. Over a three-day weekend, my husband couldn't believe how many times our boys kept saying, "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy!" "Are they always like this?" he asked, not able to hide his terror and sympathy. "Yep. All day, everyday. That's my job." And I have to admit that it is the toughest job I have ever had. In a previous life, I was a restaurant manager for a high volume and very popular chain in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. A Saturday night at 7:30 p.m. with the expo window overflowing with dishes, a two-hour wait and the electricity inexplicably going out has got nothing on a Tuesday, 5:00 p.m. at the Morton house. And let me tell ya, South Florida diners are some of the toughest to please. But they are a cake walk compared to sleep-deprived toddlers with low blood sugar.
Once upon a time, I had time. For myself. Now, my toenails need some love. My bra fits a little differently. My curling iron might not even work anymore, I don't know. I can't take a shower without an audience. I've started using eye cream. I don't get carded anymore. My proof of motherhood. Proof that somebody needs me. That right now, somebody always needs me. Like last night...
At 3 a.m. I hear the little footsteps entering my room. I lay still, barely breathing. Maybe he will retreat to his room. Yeah right.
"Mommy."
"Mommy." A little louder.
"Yes," I barely whisper.
He pauses, his giant eyes flashing in the dim light.
"I love you."
And just like that, he is gone. Scampered back to his room. But, his words still hang in the cool night air. If I could reach out and snatch them, I would grab his words and hug them to my chest. His soft voice whispering the best sentence in the world. I love you. A smile curls across my lips and I slowly exhale, almost afraid to blow the memory away. I drift back to sleep and let his words settle into my heart.
One day that little boy will be a big man. There will no longer be any sweet words whispered to me in the wee hours. Just the whir of the sound machine and the snoring husband. I will sleep peacefully through the night, never a worry of a sick child or a crying baby. It will be but a memory. These years of being needed are exhausting, yet fleeting. I have to stop dreaming of "one day" when things will be easier. Because the truth is, it may get easier, but it will never be better than today. Today, when I am covered in toddler snot and spit-up. Today, when I savor those chubby little arms around my neck. Today is perfect. "One day" I will get pedicures and showers alone. "One day" I will get myself back. But, today I give myself away, and I am tired and dirty and loved SO much, and I gotta go. Somebody needs me.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Superhero Mom
I found another good article about motherhood. Hmnn..I think this blog is turning into a compilation of articles about motherhood, which I cannot help but post because it exactly mirrors my sentiments. When all the kids are grown up, it will be nice to have something to look back on and reminisce on this roller coaster ride called motherhood.
My child is here, but my body is still not my own
by: Katherine Dykstra
One afternoon as I nursed my son in the glider in his bedroom, I felt a stabbing sensation and looked down to find that the nail on his pointer finger was implausibly sharp –the tiniest awl driven into my chest just above my right breast.
The pain was more acute than the burning milk blisters on my nipples and more immediate than the dull ache that had inhabited my upper back since I’d begun spending all my time curled around my baby’s body — the star to my crescent moon.
I did not unhook his finger from my skin. I did not move. I barely breathed. For the first time in what felt like days, Arlo’s eyes were closed — giraffe lashes shut against petal-smooth skin — and I would bleed out from the chest before I would wake him. His pinning me in place like a bug was the beginning of a realization that my body, despite the fact that his was no longer inside of it, was still not mine.
As I’d prepared for Arlo’s arrival (as if anyone can really prepare), I was told that after I gave birth my life would change in every way. I was told that my love for my child would shock me, that my relationship with my husband would be tested, that I’d be surprised by those friends who would support me as a mother and those who would disappear. But not one person mentioned that motherhood would be the greatest physical challenge I’d ever been presented with.
I was reasonably fit pre-pregnancy. I went to spin class a couple times a week; I did yoga. I live in New York so I walk everywhere. But I also spent whole evenings on the couch, and have a weakness for ice cream and dinner out and one more glass of wine. I was someone who could not gracefully pull herself from a swimming pool, stand up without pushing off from the ground. Still, though I might not have been described as athletic, I did not think of myself as weak.
The assault began with the nausea that had me staring dog-eyed at my computer willing myself not to vomit when Arlo was but multiplying cells and DNA. It continued with the incredible feeling of stretching and growing, of his body inside me rolling over, fists and feet socking organs that had never until then been touched, and it culminated in labor. The feeling that overwhelmed me in the moments after I gave birth was not one of love or of calm — though I felt those things. Instead, much more intensely, what I felt was astonishment: “I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I did it,” I murmured, dazed, to my husband, as the doctor pulled needle and thread, the metallic scent of blood, my blood, in the air.
In the months that followed, dozens of times a day, I got up and down off the floor while holding Arlo. I lifted him from his crib, from his carseat, from his bath. I went without sleep, food, drink. I carried his stroller up and down the subway steps. Coming home from the grocery store was its own special challenge. I trudged the three blocks to our apartment with the diaper bag slung over one shoulder, plastic bags of groceries in either fist pulling my arms taut, Arlo on my chest in the front pack. There, at the gate that secures our building, a gate I had trouble pulling open before Arlo was born, I juggled the bags, finagled the key from my pocket, and somehow got it into the lock without dropping it or banging Arlo’s head against the door, heaving it open, every muscle screaming.
I don’t carry him in the pack anymore, but somehow as a toddler it’s even harder. He hits me when he’s excited, tugs on my hair, pulls off my glasses, grabs at my necklace. As he climbs me, his little feet find organs from the outside in the same way he did when he was on the inside. He runs from me, struggles out of my arms, throws himself bodily on top of me.
One punishingly hot July afternoon, long before I got pregnant, a friend and I were walking down the boardwalk by the beach in New Jersey. A family with two children approached from the opposite direction. The kids were whooping with joy and running this way and that as the mother called out to them, “Straight line! Steady pace!” She looked like a pack mule with bags hanging off all her appendages, a stroller before her. “That looks so hard,” my friend said. I was carrying my own bag; I had a towel thrown over my shoulder. There was a blister working into the bottom of my foot, drops of sweat on my upper lip, and a singing in my bladder that would need to be addressed shortly. These few things seemed all I could handle in that moment. What this woman was doing didn’t look hard; it looked impossible.
When I was five months pregnant, I met a mother who told me that the big secret of parenthood was that the moment one has children one becomes a super hero. “Bam!” she said, dead serious. “Just like that.”
I’d laughed at the time, but now, a mother myself, I see that she was right. Part of the reason we are able to meet these challenges is bundled up in that shocking love we feel — we are able to do things we never thought we could because we want to make life comfortable for our children. But we are also able to do them because we get stronger as our children grow. When Arlo was born, he was 7.15 pounds. I have picked him up dozens of times a day, every day, since then, and now at nearly 24 pounds I still lift him. I got faster as he learned to walk and then run, and more lithe as he has learned to throw and kick and grab. Being a mom is its own training.
I also realize now that the feeling I had after giving birth was more than astonishment, it was one of power and of strength, it was the same feeling I get when I wrestle the gate open, lift Arlo down from the jungle gym, hold him over the bathroom sink so he can wash his hands while not crushing his legs with my body nor allowing him to get ahold of the toothbrush holder, the toothpaste, our face wash. I will continue to nourish Arlo with the stuff of myself until he is 18 years old, longer if he needs it, and I will be stronger for it.
There is also a flip side to the continuing bodily assault — the incredible physical sweetness: for me it’s the softness of the bottom of Arlo’s feet, the spring of his doughy thighs, the warm swell of his stomach, his downy head, the back of his neck. It’s his breath like butterfly wings on my shoulder when I rock him to sleep. It’s his hugs — he rests his head on my shoulder, relaxing into me, cupping my biceps with his palms. It’s his kisses — his wet mouth open against my cheek. “MMMaa,” he says, leaning back and smiling, knowing he has done something good.
My child is here, but my body is still not my own
by: Katherine Dykstra
One afternoon as I nursed my son in the glider in his bedroom, I felt a stabbing sensation and looked down to find that the nail on his pointer finger was implausibly sharp –the tiniest awl driven into my chest just above my right breast.
The pain was more acute than the burning milk blisters on my nipples and more immediate than the dull ache that had inhabited my upper back since I’d begun spending all my time curled around my baby’s body — the star to my crescent moon.
I did not unhook his finger from my skin. I did not move. I barely breathed. For the first time in what felt like days, Arlo’s eyes were closed — giraffe lashes shut against petal-smooth skin — and I would bleed out from the chest before I would wake him. His pinning me in place like a bug was the beginning of a realization that my body, despite the fact that his was no longer inside of it, was still not mine.
As I’d prepared for Arlo’s arrival (as if anyone can really prepare), I was told that after I gave birth my life would change in every way. I was told that my love for my child would shock me, that my relationship with my husband would be tested, that I’d be surprised by those friends who would support me as a mother and those who would disappear. But not one person mentioned that motherhood would be the greatest physical challenge I’d ever been presented with.
I was reasonably fit pre-pregnancy. I went to spin class a couple times a week; I did yoga. I live in New York so I walk everywhere. But I also spent whole evenings on the couch, and have a weakness for ice cream and dinner out and one more glass of wine. I was someone who could not gracefully pull herself from a swimming pool, stand up without pushing off from the ground. Still, though I might not have been described as athletic, I did not think of myself as weak.
The assault began with the nausea that had me staring dog-eyed at my computer willing myself not to vomit when Arlo was but multiplying cells and DNA. It continued with the incredible feeling of stretching and growing, of his body inside me rolling over, fists and feet socking organs that had never until then been touched, and it culminated in labor. The feeling that overwhelmed me in the moments after I gave birth was not one of love or of calm — though I felt those things. Instead, much more intensely, what I felt was astonishment: “I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I did it,” I murmured, dazed, to my husband, as the doctor pulled needle and thread, the metallic scent of blood, my blood, in the air.
In the months that followed, dozens of times a day, I got up and down off the floor while holding Arlo. I lifted him from his crib, from his carseat, from his bath. I went without sleep, food, drink. I carried his stroller up and down the subway steps. Coming home from the grocery store was its own special challenge. I trudged the three blocks to our apartment with the diaper bag slung over one shoulder, plastic bags of groceries in either fist pulling my arms taut, Arlo on my chest in the front pack. There, at the gate that secures our building, a gate I had trouble pulling open before Arlo was born, I juggled the bags, finagled the key from my pocket, and somehow got it into the lock without dropping it or banging Arlo’s head against the door, heaving it open, every muscle screaming.
I don’t carry him in the pack anymore, but somehow as a toddler it’s even harder. He hits me when he’s excited, tugs on my hair, pulls off my glasses, grabs at my necklace. As he climbs me, his little feet find organs from the outside in the same way he did when he was on the inside. He runs from me, struggles out of my arms, throws himself bodily on top of me.
One punishingly hot July afternoon, long before I got pregnant, a friend and I were walking down the boardwalk by the beach in New Jersey. A family with two children approached from the opposite direction. The kids were whooping with joy and running this way and that as the mother called out to them, “Straight line! Steady pace!” She looked like a pack mule with bags hanging off all her appendages, a stroller before her. “That looks so hard,” my friend said. I was carrying my own bag; I had a towel thrown over my shoulder. There was a blister working into the bottom of my foot, drops of sweat on my upper lip, and a singing in my bladder that would need to be addressed shortly. These few things seemed all I could handle in that moment. What this woman was doing didn’t look hard; it looked impossible.
When I was five months pregnant, I met a mother who told me that the big secret of parenthood was that the moment one has children one becomes a super hero. “Bam!” she said, dead serious. “Just like that.”
I’d laughed at the time, but now, a mother myself, I see that she was right. Part of the reason we are able to meet these challenges is bundled up in that shocking love we feel — we are able to do things we never thought we could because we want to make life comfortable for our children. But we are also able to do them because we get stronger as our children grow. When Arlo was born, he was 7.15 pounds. I have picked him up dozens of times a day, every day, since then, and now at nearly 24 pounds I still lift him. I got faster as he learned to walk and then run, and more lithe as he has learned to throw and kick and grab. Being a mom is its own training.
I also realize now that the feeling I had after giving birth was more than astonishment, it was one of power and of strength, it was the same feeling I get when I wrestle the gate open, lift Arlo down from the jungle gym, hold him over the bathroom sink so he can wash his hands while not crushing his legs with my body nor allowing him to get ahold of the toothbrush holder, the toothpaste, our face wash. I will continue to nourish Arlo with the stuff of myself until he is 18 years old, longer if he needs it, and I will be stronger for it.
There is also a flip side to the continuing bodily assault — the incredible physical sweetness: for me it’s the softness of the bottom of Arlo’s feet, the spring of his doughy thighs, the warm swell of his stomach, his downy head, the back of his neck. It’s his breath like butterfly wings on my shoulder when I rock him to sleep. It’s his hugs — he rests his head on my shoulder, relaxing into me, cupping my biceps with his palms. It’s his kisses — his wet mouth open against my cheek. “MMMaa,” he says, leaning back and smiling, knowing he has done something good.
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