Snow Days

I tend to find snow days frustrating. The few hours that the kids are in school are often the only weekday hours when I can count on getting something done. But I have found, on these days, that if I can relax and let go, giving in to the day, I am often rewarded by something only slightly short of the miraculous. If I can reframe my thinking early on in the day, and make the conscious decision to neither ask for, nor expect anything in particular, I find that some beautiful surprise is always waiting for me, just around the corner. I've learned this lesson so many times in my life, from getting into a challenging yoga pose, to making it through an awful traffic jam, but I still struggle with getting into this mindset. I still get caught up in my to-do list, or my selfish wish list for the day. Fortunately, I managed to mentally put everything aside today, and just enjoyed the day. Here are some of the beautiful moments I was rewarded with:

We had treats this morning after our adventure getting to music class.

Mattie learned how to play Uno.

And won.

A few quiet moments with Theo, the way only I get to see him.

Some time in the snow.

Jack created an I Spy collection.

Sixteen homemade soft pretzels. (I wasn't fast enough with the camera to capture more than the last three!)

And then, the babysitter came. Happy snow day everyone!

Raising to the Challenge

I had the pleasure to join two new moms' groups this year. The first was for new moms in general, where I happened to be the only non first-time mom in the group. Then later, I joined a second time mom's group, where I was the only mother of more than two in the group. At the first meeting of both groups, I introduced myself as a mother of four. Each time there was a quiet, but collective gasp, followed by lots of "wows". But, what I remember most was the look in the other mothers' eyes. They were looking for reassurance, for me to tell them, to promise them, that things would get easier. And it certainly does change quickly after those first few weeks with a newborn. But, I won't lie. I don't really think it gets easier. Theo, at 8 months, is the easiest child to parent in my house, and he has been since the day he was born. He doesn't talk. He doesn't run away. He doesn't fall down, limp on the floor wearing no clothes when we absolutely have to walk out the door in 60 seconds or less. He doesn't hit his brothers. He doesn't get detentions. He doesn't flood the house. He doesn't run out in front of traffic or forget to look when he's crossing the street. He's cheerful and happy, almost all of the time. He thanks me, with smiles and cuddles, for all of my hard work. And, he never misbehaves. Parenthood is a marathon, the likes of which I've never known. Part of the reason that it doesn't get easier is that it never stops. Every day my boys challenge me anew in ways I could never have dreamed of. Trying to figure out how to discipline a child in such a way that he is rewarded for good behavior, and punished for the bad, yet somehow gets from it what he needs to grow up to be happy, healthy and kind is so infinitely harder than trying to figure out whether your baby is tired or hungry, even at 2 o'clock in the morning. Parenting a child through their worst moments, when the bad things they do outnumber the good 10 to 1, with patience, fairness and love can bring me to me knees the way no sleepless night ever could. And the weight of guiding those babies to be happy, well-adjusted adults grows much, much heavier before it grows lighter. I don't know when it gets easier, or if it ever does. I'll keep reassuring the new moms I meet. I think they need it. I know I need it. I still have those new mommy moments myself. When I meet a mother whose children are grown, I can almost feel myself staring deep into her eyes for the same reassurance. If you're one of those moms, just promise me that it does.

A Penny For Your Thoughts

I have wondered, on more than one occasion, whether I might have a sign on my forehead that says something like, "Tell me what you're thinking, please. I really want to know." It started back in February of 2001, on a trip to Disneyworld with Ted. I was about 4.5 months pregnant (with Jack) at the time. I was in that awkward stage of pregnancy - too big to fit in regular clothes, but not big enough yet to need maternity clothes. While waiting in line for a ride, a man standing behind us with his children asked me when I was due. Ted was shocked. He didn't even think I looked pregnant yet. And he was sure that I didn't look obviously pregnant enough for a stranger to comment on it. But, it happened, just like that. And it hasn't stopped since.

Somehow, pregnancy seems to call attention to people. It makes them stand out in a crowd. I know I'm not alone feeling that way. So, I guess it's not surprising that this whole phenomenon started during my first pregnancy. Back then, the most frequent question or comment I heard was in regards to my due date, or how pregnant I was at the time. The second most common question was about the baby's sex. Once Jack was born, everyone wanted to know how old he was. Normal stuff, I know. But, by my third pregnancy, strangers' comments started to venture into the realm of curious, strange, and downright inappropriate.

Jack and Elliot were usually with me when I was out and about during that pregnancy. Even more than before, it seemed like everyone wanted to know whether I was expecting a boy or a girl that time around. I guess, for many people, when they see a pregnant woman with two sons, the first thing that comes to their mind is, "she must be trying for a girl." Would it be too strange - or at least too boring - if I just liked kids, enjoyed being a mother, and wanted to have another another baby? If I answered the boy/girl question, I set myself up to receive their judgment. Should I be happy to be having another boy? Would it be just as well, after all I already had all the boy stuff I'd need? Or, should I not feel badly, as it wasn't my fault. Given that, from about 18 weeks on I knew I was having a third boy, I didn't appreciate those comments very much.

I always related these stranger encounters to Ted. He found them much more humorous (and less invasive) than I ever did. I think he also suspected me of mild (in the spirit of good story telling) exaggeration. Then, one day, he had the luck to be with me for one of my strangest ones. We were out walking without the kids, and a truck drove by with the windows all rolled down and three young guys inside. I was about 7 months pregnant with Mattie at the time. They raced noisily by us, but not before they could yell "Let that baby out for God's sake," out the window. After that, Ted never questioned the veracity of my stories again.

Even now, not pregnant, I can't seem to avoid eliciting people's comments. My favorite, and most frequently asked question these days is, "are they all yours?" It's not like I have a dozen! Most of the time, these strangers are very well meaning. When I tell them that all four boys are in fact mine, they pay me a compliment. Today alone I was called both a hero and a saint (at Target, in the toy section, where all four boys were making a lot of noise, but behaving remarkably well.) Most people are polite enough to say nothing if their thoughts tend more towards criticism. I do get a fair amount of dirty looks though.

I find that I've mellowed out quite a bit over the years. People's comments don't get to me much anymore. I know how I feel about the demographics of my family, and I truly enjoy most of the time I spend with the boys. I enjoy their exuberance, their excitement, and the joy they find in most things. I feel younger and more exuberant myself when I'm with them. I know someday I'll wander the aisles of Target alone again; I'll go back to the old unobtrusive me. And I know that these years will "go by like that." I know because you've all told me so.

A Mother in Mourning

To my sweetest baby Theo:

For many mothers, the newborn stage is the hardest one. They look forward longingly, excitedly awaiting the time that their baby will sleep through the night, roll over, sit up, crawl, and walk. They go to bed at night dreaming of what new accomplishment the next day will hold. But not me. You will almost certainly be my last baby. And while I celebrate your arrival and birth into this world, I mourn the passing of each step, the marking of each stage completed. I hold on to each day, in the hope that somehow time will slow down, and you will stay a newborn just a little bit longer.

Yesterday you rolled over for the first time. I was sitting in the rocking chair reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to Jack and Elliot. Mattie was lying on the floor next to you. We all watched as you rolled on to your side many times, pausing in our reading to laugh and giggle as you got closer and closer to making it all the way over. And then you did it. All by yourself.

Last night I put you to bed without swaddling you, for the first time in your life. You took a few extra minutes to fall asleep, wiggling in an arc around your bed. But, then you slept soundly all night long. You showed me that you were ready to take that step, and move on.

It's hard in a house full of four busy boys to stop what I'm doing and just take in the moment. But, I try to as often as I can. I treasure every minute of your baby stages, knowing they will be my last. And so, as often as I can, I hold you just a little bit closer. I keep you in my arms just a little bit longer. I give you one more extra kiss on your soft face. I smell your sweet baby smell one more time. I let you nurse forever, and hold you asleep in my arms. I close my eyes and make a wish that this day will never end.