You're Two and I Love It: 50 favorite things about my toddler

Everyone always talks about how toddler years are so hard. And I feel it. But there are so many precious, wonderful, adorable things that happen now, things that will end and never happen again: the way they're learning to talk, their tiny voices, the way they extract joy from the simplest experiences. There is so much to love. So in honor of the Love Month, I'm picking 50 of my favorite things about my toddler. Enjoy!

1. You have giant, squishy cheeks
2. Your main job in the world is to play
3. You laugh at everything
4. You don't judge me
5. You give slobbery kisses
6. You are still small enough to pick up if you are having a tantrum
7. You have baby soft skin 
8. You are turning into a little boy
9. You approach the world with an enormous, contagious wonder
10. You want to try out everything 
11. You are still learning to talk and it's so cute
12. You are getting smarter by the day
13. You think cars and trucks are awesome and you shout them out when you see them
14. You think I'm hilarious
15. You don't make fun of my dancing
16. You don't have personal space 
17. You forget really easily 
18. You are easily distracted from bad behavior
19. You sleep 10 hours a night and take a 2-hour nap
20. You're starting to become a little person
21. You're still kind of a baby 
22. You let me read you bedtime stories
23. You still drink out of a sippy cup 
24. You still sleep in a crib - but you can climb out
25. You have the best giggle and it always makes me laugh 
26. You wear big boy underwear with superheroes on it
27. You don't think my breath stinks in the morning
28. You like cuddling 
29. You love people 
30. Your haircut is terribly cute 
31. You are so good-looking, I can't stop staring at you 
32. You say "Hi" the cutest way possible
33. You love being the center of attention 
34. You are great with people 
35. You are really fun to be around  
36. You're hungry to learn
37. You're curious
38. You're a great dancer
39. You always forgive me, even when I don't ask
40. You are sad when I leave
41. You are happy when I come home
42. You blow kisses to anyone, except strange, weird people
43. You love play and being happy
44. You got the best of me and Josh
45. You make sweatpants look adorable
46. You think life is awesome
47. You don't have shame about anything
48. You don't live with regret
49. You like yourself, the dog, your mom and dad, grandmas and grandpas, and all the other important people
50. You know how to make other people happy 

Weekend Happenings: A Rustic Pink Vintage Baby Shower

I hosted a shower for one of my very dear friends this weekend. She is the first of my close friends to have a second baby, and this one is a girl so I am thrilled to give myself the title "Aunt Sarah" so I can have official access to purchasing all the pink, fluff and tullage a girl could want.

My lovely friend modeling a rubber ducky with an attitude.

Let it be known that I am not the cute, crafty mom that blogs about showers and parties and crafts. In fact, I don't even like cooking or baking. Fortunately, three of my friends helped me with food so all I had to do was whip up Mama Jean's amazing coffee cake, and I was done. That way I could focus on the part of the shower I enjoy most: decorating and design.

I throw showers and parties for friends fairly often, and although it makes me a little crazy in the process, I do enjoy gobbling up design blogs to see what other people have done. I always end up with a million ideas at the last minute. Like the idea to make party favor bookmarks from lace, ribbon and my Victorian scrapbook paper. Too late for that idea - not enough time, but maybe next time. 

I'm imaginative, but I'm also on a budget so I opted for the mostly pink fabrics and textures I already had around the house. I wanted to have a little Victorian touch to the rustic chic already in our home. Here is a tour of what I came up with:

Picking fabrics and textures is always fun, especially when your friend's baby girl is involved.

I don't really like games at showers or parties. The fun always feels forced, contrived and inauthentic. It's a bad feeling. Instead I like to pick activities or crafts for guests. I had a Barbie princess puzzle laid out on a table for guests to work on. I also picked this idea below as an activity for guests and way for them to give my friend a happy wish or prayer for the baby.

I call it The Blessing Tree, a combination of ideas I found on the blogs, specifically this idea from Baby Lifestyles. I am quite proud of this so feel free to steal the idea. I found a few small branches with some character in the yard, and used tulle to help them maintain position in the vase. Then I cut out leaves and birds from Victorian-style scrapbook paper and used clothes pins to clip them to the branches. 

Guests were directed to "write a prayer, wish or blessing for the baby" to be used to decorate the baby's room. I'm really excited for this to materialize in the decor of the room, although we're not totally sure how we will incorporate it yet. 

I will definitely be using The Blessing Tree at other showers though. Such an easy, pretty and fun idea.

The Blessing Tree 

Here is the Victorian paper again, this time with the baby name written on it. These are spin-off of a super cute baby girl shower theme, again from Baby Lifestyles.

In the bathroom, I classed up the towels by providing individual hand towels for guests with a small basin to disgard used towels. And there's the Victorian paper again. It goes with everything!

I love this glass lantern/cage my aunts and mother-in-law bought me for my wedding. I use it for decorating for the seasons and to display simple decor for parties and showers. Here I rolled dried flowers in pink tulle and placed it in the lantern. So easy. 

"Put a bird on it" door hanging. I love this too. I used these birds at a bridal shower earlier last year and repurposed them with a branch as a door hanging with the baby's name written on the birds. Also used the Victorian paper and extra branch from the yard at the top.

And here is my friend, opening one of her many gifts. She is very loved! Can't wait to meet this little girl. She is going to be one amazing little woman, just like her mom.

What the Waiting Is For

I was thinking about my daughter the other day. 

I don't know her yet. She hasn't been born. But for Christmas, I bought her a pink polka-dotted tutu from JCPenney. It seemed appropriate. I practically lived in mine the year I was 6. 

There's also an antique pink rose headband waiting for her, along with a plush, white crochet coat hanging in her closet. And she hasn't even been conceived. I'm expecting her though.

As I gave John a bath the other night, I remembered that not very long ago, he too was just a dream. Three years ago in December 2009, I wrote about waiting for something I really wanted, and the wrestling with God that inevitably followed when I took a risk and hoped for something. 

Is God good while we wait? 

What is the waiting for? 

Why does waiting feel so empty?

Why is hoping so risky?

Photo cred: http://viraeya24.tumblr.com/

These are the questions we ask when we want something and are forced to wait, and I've realized, we often give up without really asking. The longing hurts too much. What if God doesn't come through? What does that say about God? What does that say about me?

I hate to say it, but that's what I did this time. With John, I didn't know if I could get pregnant or not. I never had before. I prayed and lamented and cried and begged. I wanted a child, and I only knew one person who could get one for me: God. 

This time, I've been more hands-off. I've disguised it as a laid-back approach to conceiving, but it's really lack of faith turned apathy. I've been afraid to hope. 

I wrote about it in the dream blog. I tell my friends about it. I even buy her clothes. But I don't talk with God about it. I don't plead anymore. Too much to lose. I remember it hurt, the sting of wanting something I was helpless to get for myself, only to wait and delay again. I would rather just pretend I don't want it. Maybe she will surprise me. 

So what do I really want? And what am I willing to do to get it? 

My friends and I are reading through Donald Miller's Storyline book, and these are the ultimate questions of our lives: 
Who am I? 
What do I want? 
And what am I willing to do to get it?

The Civil Wars were playing in the background while John splashed in the tub, and the album arrived at To Whom It May Concern. I wasn't paying too much attention to the words until this song. I pulled John out of the tub and wrapped him in his towel, and hugging him close, I listened. 

Maybe it's not just me waiting. Maybe she is waiting for me. 

Maybe this is how God makes our hearts and lives ready for the things we want. He makes us want them desperately. And the desperation, the longing, is what forges in us the humility and character and beauty to care for the gift.

Beautifully, hauntingly, the Civil Wars sang, reminding me a dream is just as real as the thing itself. I was holding living proof there in my hands, soaking wet and squirming.

"Why are you so far from me?

In my arms is where you are to be

How long will you make me wait?

I don't know how much more I can take

I missed you but I haven't met you..."

So I swung him around in his fluffy brown towel, and we danced across the hardwood as I kissed the tiny face of the boy who used to be a dream. 

What's a thing or person in your life you have now that only used to be a dream? 

For most of us, it's relationships: a partner, a child, or even simply a sense of belonging or knowing one's life purpose. What do you have now that was only a daydream not long ago? 

It's encouraging to see that dreams do take shape and come to dwell among us. I need to remember this pattern so I can gather up my courage to dream some more.

New Year's Vis-olutions: Learning to Dream Bigger

I know it's already Wednesday, January 16. And you think I forgot to talk about vision, goals and resolutions for the New Year. But I did not. I was quietly refining my hopes and dreams in my head and in conversations with God and with Josh. Because this is scary, grand and wonderful stuff here. And I don't take it lightly. 

I got nervous because resolutions always make me nervous. What do I want to change? Everything. I want so many areas of my life to improve. But that was the wrong place to start. And I always think too small that way. 

I decided to try something different this year, ask myself a new question. Below is an excerpt from my journal. his is basically a (clear) stream of consciousness on what I want my life to manifest, and what I hope for in this year, and in the next five years. As I wrote, my mind expanded. I let myself think bigger, dream wider. 

[photo cred: http://suhasagban.com/]

So for today, these are my goals, my vision and resolutions. I am going to be using Ron Edmonson's Life Plan steps to work out the details, but here you have it. This journal excerpt reveals what I want to be when I grow up. 

"I've been trying to figure out what I want to change, what I would like to be different in this next year. It's hard to start there. I guess I will start with the Miracle Question. 

What if I woke up in the morning and everything was perfect. What would it look like?

I would wake up in the morning EAGER to spend time with God. He would would meet me there. I would pray, worship, write, encounter him, and get great ideas.

I would not leave for work until 7:45 because I have a local office where I can go work on my book. I am writing a book and keeping my blog up to date. I have social media to manage part of the day. I have meetings. I have a trip to plan. 

My blog is successful. I find my niche and people are listening, getting impacted, lives changing, regularly having ah-ha moments. And they come to read because they know they will find hope and inspiration. They hear wisdom and get new insight. It's easy to write because I know what God is saying people need to hear. It's not a stretch anymore. 

And I dress like this. And look like this. [www.vi.sualize.us]

I would return home for lunch where I would have time with my family. 
OR

I would hunker down in theWELL prayer room and spend an hour with God.

I would come home between 3 and 4 to play with my kids - because my work day is done - and get caught up on their day. We would do basic life things: laundry, play and get ready for dinner. 

I have a meeting that night, but it is energizing: a conversation with pastors, an outreach to the poor, an art showing or concert. But God is present, always present, and I never want to miss it.

In the evening, I have quiet time with Josh and more time in the IHOP prayer room web stream. I end the day with the peace and presence of God, just like I started it. 

Our money is not tied up in debt (school loans or credit cards) so we can do awesome things with it: we buy wells for villages around the world, we send children to school, we back missions and justice movements around the world that we want to see thrive. We support the ending of abortion and the ending of human slavery. We sense the power of our finances and instead of choosing to eat out often or do frivolous things, we see that our money can purchase the freedom of a 10 year old girl in Cambodia. Our priorities are right on. 

Trips to the grocery store or restaurant are consistently intriguing. God shows up because I bring him with me. It's fun to see what he does. He heals, he speaks prophetically, people give their lives to Jesus.

theWELL is a fun place to be because the Spirit of God is evident. There is a thriving Prayer Room working towards 24/7 impact, with multiple ministries springing up from the burdens on people's hearts: partnering with other churches to reach out to the poor, single parents, family ministry, powerful counseling ministry, children who come Sundays and get powerfully impacted by the Word, by the Spirit and meet God. People who come to theWELL regularly encounter the presence and the Word. They are prophetically ministered to. Healings happen often. We staff the Prayer Room with little difficulty. 

theWELL is responsible for the development of the arts in the city. First Fridays is well attended with a good reputation and extends to the secular world as a ministry. People come because they know they will meet God, and the artistry is second to none. Amazing artists, musicians and writers spring up in the community and come to be near the creative God who is the source for all the best ideas. Some of them hear crazy stories of what goes on and they come. They are changed, and they stay, or are launched intentionally into their callings around the world.

Transformational art. [Work by Jazzy Chun Earl]

The Army of God's people volunteer in this day. Our church is well pastored, well cared-for, and volunteers are easy to come by. There is a strong purity and holiness among God's people. They know truth and easily identify deception. Division has no hold and leaves easily. Same with witchcraft, manipulation and control: out before they even get a hold. And bitterness, hatred and murder will all bow in the presence of Jesus, never taking root or causing trouble.

Missions is active and strong. The church does not know how to keep quiet. Stories of God's movement open doors. Everyone who is part of theWELL has a story to tell, and everyone wants to serve, innovate, be on adventure. It's easy to organize mission trips locally and across the globe. Prayer and missions are intrinsically tied and everyone in theWELL knows it and serves the cause."

Coming soon...

Developing your vision: If you're stuck and don't know how to create a life vision, or you don't even know why you're here on this planet, try these tips on for size. Check back later for more on this.

How Does She (Not) Do It?

I'm not going to lie. Sometimes when I'm in self-pity mode, I wonder why more people don't ask me how I do it. 

I am a hundred things to many people, or at least six things to hundreds of people. My weeks are planned before I even get to them. I don't really do spontaneous anymore. Or I shouldn't.

Me and then some. [Photo cred: www.heddalettuce.com]

At home, I am mom and wife. Which means I cook, clean, encourage, teach, shout, whisper, laugh, snuggle, tickle, entertain, chase, battle and bathe. 

At work, I am a calming voice in crisis. I am the motivator, the creative brain, the journalist. I am the fixer, the one with ideas, the marketing girl and flyer designer, the sleep expert, the one of loves moms and babies.

At church, I recruit, schedule, prop up and cheer on our Children's Ministry and Women's Leadership Programs, which developed frantically and messily out of my brain from sheer necessity. And sometimes I get to preach too while I'm on my way to getting my pastoral license.

At night, I am a writer, a blogger, an aspiring author and big-thinker. I am only in the beginning of finding my voice and learning what I am all about, but I'm traipsing down the path, discovering things. Learning to like myself. 

Maybe I'm just like any working mom, but it feels like I'm doing a lot. Like there is always so much going on. 

But no one asks how I do it. No one wonders how I balance it all.

I wonder if it's because I'm kind of an obvious mess. When I talk to people after church, I'm in a hurry. And I'm chasing my son out of the corner of my eye. Maybe everyone can see that all the stuff that gets done is smashed together with as love and limited time. 

The anxiety of life has been getting to me lately. It's like I used to be able to outrun the "too much" factor, but I am definitely slowing down. Or it's speeding up. 

www.thenextwoman.com

I want to be better, grow, stretch, expand. I want my writing to improve. I want to know God more, read more, fit back into my size 4s, get more time alone, get more time with friends, figure out how to teach and nourish my child's mind and soul, have another child biologically and adopt, encourage my husband, write a book, be brave and pray for more sick people for healing, finally get to India and power up some rockstar kids and women's programs at church. 

But I only have 168 hours a week. 

I'm trying to do it all, and I'm not doing any of it that well. I have great intentions. I really do care about people. I crawl into their shoes fast. 

But sometimes I care too much. And my priorities tilt against my sanity. I forget how to take care of myself, to value the voice of God and quiet with my family, to stop the spinning and sit in the silence for a few minutes. I lose sight of what I want on my tombstone: "She loved well". 

I just want to put it out there that I'm doing a lot, but at the end of the day, what I really want is to love. To love God, my family and the people I'm with. So when I'm talking really fast and when I tell you have a new idea for a website or a new book idea, just know I'm on my way over here, learning to love. 

You can remind me of what really matters if you want, but I promise my soul will bring me back to it. Remember to love. Love is the point.

And this is how I'm doing it, in this messy, "me" way. 

If you're feeling sloppy and slow, like you know where you want to go but you're so far away, there's grace for you too. God's not in a hurry so let's not be either. 

Let's just keep looking at Jesus, talking to him, and getting his feedback on this life. He's so kind, encouraging and gentle. He's not going to rub your nose in your failure. And neither will I. 

Let's be nice to each other as we figure it out. 

A Slightly Insecure English Teacher

Sometimes I am the most insecure of women. Especially when it comes to parenting. 

It's so easy to identify where everyone else is sparkly and functioning, where other children excel and where my child seems to be lazily lagging behind. And it's got to be my fault, I assume, some dormant genetic flaw, some information I'm lacking, too much television, not enough carrots. 

My primary area of missing confidence in parenting is in my son's speech. He's mastered the garbled language from another planet just fine. The problem is none of us can understand it. But he seems to enjoy watching us attempt to teach him this speaking system we appreciate so much.

Around the house, I promote the use of English by holding up an object for him to see, repeating its name, hoping his spongy brain is starving for the information. 

"Book. This is a 'book'. Can you say 'book'?" 

He stares at me with squinted eyes, wondering when I'm going to be done making that noise so he can move on with his life. Sometimes though, he repeats the word straightaway, as if that was one of the words that came with his original programming. Or maybe a cognate from his native tongue. Either way, he occasionally zings it out and we make a big deal with clapping and whoops and the works. So I know he can do it. 

Is he slow-er or just defiant? Or something in between? I wonder to myself. But since he doesn't speak great English, I don't know.

The other day I held up an orange.  

"Or-ange. OR-ANGE," I enunciated loudly and firmly. 

"Why-et," he replied, holding his pointer finger to his mouth. "Ssshhh." 

This is not going well. But then, I didn't know he could say "quiet". Kind of. 

He must know I am craving the inner workings of his mind. I can't wait to ask him why the sky is blue or what God is thinking about. It's going to be great. I just want to get there already. 

[photo cred: www.medicmagic.net]

Some of his friends are tiny wordsmiths already, scampering about with really rewarding sayings like, "I love you," and "You're silly, Mama." 

Seriously? What do I need to do to get that from my kid? 

It really does seem like most of his friends traded in their baby planet language for English with ease, and John is the only left, hanging on, refusing to acculturate. 

My pediatrician did nothing to assuage my mommy fears when I confided my concern about his speech. I hesitated when she asked about whether or not he's up to 25-50 words in English, which was my bad, but I didn't really know for sure. She proceeded to recommend Infant Toddler Services for his speech. And she wants to see him in six months. Thank you very much, lady-who-does-not-have-any-kids. I feel like a mom-fail. And by the way, what if he was making the quota? 

So you see, I come by my insecurity honestly. And by honestly, I mean, I apparently still think my son's success in the world is in direct correlation with my success as a human. So please talk already, John, so I don't flunk life.

Yesterday I decided to step up my speech pathology game. I didn't call ITS yet, but I won't rule it out. I'm sure they would be helpful, but I am still holding out that I can teach him. 

So instead I Googled "help my toddler talk." I found several great resources, which I am listing here. For anyone who can't wait to hear their toddler's inner thinkings and wants to speed up the learning, here are a few ways to help draw it out. I'll be trying them out, and I'm sure within a few short months, John will start writing my posts for me. 

Help My Toddler Talk.com. This is a blog with tips. There is a learning calendar available for purchase, but the blog has a lot of good ideas.

Teach Me To Talk.com

ABC's of helping your tot talk from Parents.com. 

Helpful info on children's speech development - from a speech pathologist

The answer to my prayers for patience; or When I think I will take up drinking

The Siders' house has been the headquarters of a host of eclectic maladies this week. Which is another way of saying we got nothing done. Not the Christmas shopping or the home scrubbing. Just staying alive, feeding ourselves. That was enough.

Today was our big day to knock it out, all the things that had been mercilessly stacking up, waiting to happen. Josh promised to take the lead on the errands earlier in the week, but this morning he awoke stricken with the crud.

We laid low, hoping for the Dad to be cured so he could resume his duties, but soon it was clear I would be our family Santa. I decided to take John along. It would do him good after being cooped up all week. One successful trip to the bookstore assured me our Target stop would be manageable. Even enjoyable?

Wrong.

We made it through housewares and into the grocery section when he decided his heart was set on the chocolate donuts. Not understanding the concept of currency, theft and other legalities, he attempted to pry open the package to retrieve a pastry. Being a responsible parent, I placed them back on the shelf and played it cool while he tantrumed in his timeout next to the dinner rolls. This is normal, right?

We pulled ourselves together eventually, or at least he did. Until the part where I pretended to leave him near the frozen foods. (I should know better because pretending to leave never works. He just stares at me brazen-faced while he walks the other direction.)

I hoisted his twisting, protesting body into the air as the conservative lady with the snug bun and ankle skirt looked at me with pity, knowing I hadn't read her parenting book. We needed a stop at the restroom to avoid a call to the police.

He screamed and cried and pounded the door. More angry energy than I had ever witnessed from this kid. And there we were, in the germ-infested Target bathroom. I know we both felt trapped. And I was kept thinking someone was going to hear and think I needed law enforcement's assistance to control my child. Or at least to keep from injuring him.

Maybe 10 or 15 minutes later, after one call to Dad and an attempt to videotape the tantrum for proof of what I lived through, there was a moment of silence and I made the most of it.

Not that I should be gloating here, but his relative compliance afterward may signal a mom win. Or maybe it's too early to say.

As we snuggled up in bed tonight, I whispered to him, "You are my favorite and I love you very much. Even though you were a total punk at Target." He took it well.

I think this is what God says to us after our gigantic, selfish meltdowns. That even though we are totally self-obsessed and rude, he likes us anyway, and he will still make sure we have food in our tummies and gas in our cars tomorrow.

No other agenda to writing tonight except I just had to get this crazy day off my chest. I guess I can say this:

Parenting is weird. And it sure makes me appreciate God's patience.

An Ounce of Prevention, or All the Things That Don't Happen

When John was born, he had the wobbliest head. I mean, that thing couldn’t stay in one place if it tried. It wasn’t trying, for the record. It was tedious work keeping the head lined up with the body, not too far to the right or left, front or back. All the veteran parents shout to the newbies, "Support the head! Support the head!" as if it might just tip too far and roll right off. 

There were plenty of times where I had control, where I knew where the head wanted to wobble so I secured my hand behind that tiny noggin, and there it stayed. Some days it got away from me though. A sudden spark through his not-quite-formed neurological pathways and jolt! There goes the head again.

One hand in front, one behind the head. Good mama. 

One day I was holding him on the couch, and he was doing the bouncy head thing like usual, but all of a sudden, his whole body flung backwards. It was all I could to keep him from crashing out of my grip and smashing his head on the coffee table. But I caught him, wobbly head, spazzy body and all.

And at that moment, I realized that I saved him from a solid head knocking, a significant, nasty ouch that never happened because of my alertness and adept parental response system. And you know what? He is never going to know about it.

There were countless moments like these, which changed as he grew. Like all the times I put a pillow down near the couch so he wouldn’t bonk his head on the furniture, or when I covered the underside of the coffee table with my hand as he crawled underneath so he wouldn’t end up with a goose egg on his forehead on his way out.  

He’s like a born stunt man with no training. Here we are, the parents, flailing after the kids, holding our breath and trying to prevent severe maiming or death. It’s exhausting. And he’ll never know how much breath I lost, the touchdown catch dives across carpet, down hallways or through the living room, all to save him from himself.

This little dude is hardcore. And he keeps me running. 

He only knows about the times he does fall, when the chair he is standing on is more tilty than normal, and off he goes. Or when he careens through the nursery and pops his head on the table. The ouch turns rainbow colors and swells up nice within minutes.

Weeping ensues. It’s tragic for all of us. I missed one. I catch a million "almosts", but this one was an "actual". 

But what of all the times it doesn’t happen? When I caught John’s wobbly head that day on the couch, I realized there are a million times where I almost get hurt or emotionally wounded, where a bruise or a major injury, even death, were sure to happen. And then Father God or his angels step in, puts a hand behind my wobbly head, prop me up while I’m stepping, and then I’m okay.

I don’t even know about these times though. It’s prevention, and prevention never gets the cred it deserves.

Who knows all the diseases you avoided by taking your daily vitamin and exercising 30 minutes a day? Who knows the car accident you avoided because you turned around to be sure the oven was off? Who knows the falls and bangs and near-death experiences you’ve narrowly escaped because your very capable Dad and his angels were toodling right alongside you, ready for another jerky moment where you lost control? Think of the stunts you still pull as an adult, you know, applying makeup or making phone calls or composing your latest novel…while driving. How many times have we been saved and yet we’ll never know? 

Yet it’s the wounds that do happen, as rare as they are, the rejections, the “No” answers to tearful prayer, the rude lady in line at the grocery store or the friend who hurt our feelings, the jobs we don’t get, the phone call that “it’s cancer”, sad, long nights where we’re alone. It’s all the stuff we don’t like, the wounds and pain we do feel – these we remember. Whether it’s his fault or not, God gets the credit for these things.

No, God never gets credit for the prevention. I think he should.

I wasn’t good at recognizing God’s protection before I was a mom. I blamed God for the bad stuff and didn't see all the preventing he was breathlessly performing with such skill. Now that I am a mom, I see it much more, or I simply assume it’s happening. “I’m alive, aren’t I? It must be working.”

I can see now that there are a hundred almost-bad things that could have but did not go down in any given day. Too many to count. I’ll never know about them, but I know God is good so I know he is keeping the almost from being actual.

So thank you, God. Thank you for the excellent protection job you’ve been doing. Thank you for keeping me and my family safe again and again and again. Thank you for your hand around our little heads and tiny, fragile bodies, preventing, preventing, preventing. I hope you get more credit for all the diving after us that you do. Thank you. 

It Would Be Easier Without the Crazy

Parenting is one of those things. It's impossible. 

Sure, there are days where I forget. Okay, not days - minutes. Me and the tiny guy are laying there giggling about something, coloring, imagining, where we both pretend I understand the Baby Swedish. It's fun then. 

The switch flips when he insists on watching various household items swim in the toilet, or when he performs the limp-noodle act in the street as I try to shout, cajole, lift his floppy, rebel body into the driveway. 

Yes, these moments reveal a sad truth about me. I am sometimes crazy.

I would like to be less crazy. I would like to be calm, a floaty, happy mom with lots of self-control whose children listen, or if they don't, she has a neat, prepped response for their folly. But as most people who parent will admit, if they're not lying, "I never knew how (insert negative character quality here) I was until I had children." 

For me, I didn't know the anger was there. Man, so angry. So irrational. (Uh oh, starting to sound like a two year old in a tantrum, right? Cue some empathy for the two year old.)

In my ongoing (ahem, never-ending) efforts to self-reform, I learn, read, listen and even shamelessly copycat people who are good at parenting. Whatever that means. Cause from what I can tell, most of our parent friends are as befuddled as we are. 

I also pray. Squeak out, "Help me have patience, please. Please. Help me respond with grace." And so far I think prayer has been the biggest miracle worker on my actual responses to the maniacal, death-defying stunts and general obstinance toddlers seem to choose. 

But how in the world do you do this parent thing? Not just do it, but do it well.

John might argue, perhaps this is the problem with my parenting. [Photo credit]

A year ago I read Loving Our Kids on Purpose, which flipped my world upside down with the premise that - get this - you cannot control other people. I wish it hadn't taken me 30 years to figure discover this, but hey, I'm here now.  

I love their philosophy: "You can't control anyone but yourself. If you find yourself getting angry and raising your voice with your kids, then you're giving your emotional control to someone who probably still poops their pants. And then you're in a bad situation."

Ah yes, the truth rings. But the personal reform takes a while. The acting right instead of acting wrong. The digging up of the old, crusty ways of yelling and demanding and trying to control and replacing them with the less offensive, happier ways of self-control. 

I need to read the book again. I just listened to the Loving Our Preschoolers audio seminar, which was all a great refresher. John is old enough for choices now, and he's going to be making a lot of them. They might be mostly timeout, but that will be his choice. Not mine.

A review of the thoughts for my benefit, and perhaps yours too: Choices. Attitudes. Mine is mine, and yours is yours. I can't change you; you can't change me. I am in control of me, unless I give it up. But that's no one's fault but mine. No one can take my choice from me. No one can take my self-control away. So empowering, isn't it? 

In a family, we can influence each other, protect each other, enjoy each other, but we can't control each other. The more I realize this, the happier mom/wife/employee/human I will be. 

When You Were a Teeny Baby: For John

I wrote this little poem a couple lines at a time for a few weeks after John was born. I imagined it with pictures, if I was ever that creative, and I could see myself reading this book to him, showing him how much we loved him and enjoyed him before he ever said a word or did a thing. I've had babies on the brain again so I went back to re-read my and my doula's versions of my labor and remembered this little treasure. I thought I would share it with you too. Enjoy.

When you were a teeny baby.

When you were a teeny baby

I liked to give you big hugs, even though my arms could wrap around you a whole bunch of times.

When you were a teeny baby

You weighed less than a watermelon and you were way cuter!

When you were a teeny baby

I used to give you lots of kisses, even when you were mad or crying, just because I could.

When you were a teeny baby

Your dad and I would just look at each other and say, “Isn’t he the cutest kid?”  We thought all the noises and sounds you made were so adorable.

When you were a teeny baby

You would lay on your dad’s tummy and look around the room with your big, blue eyes wide.  You especially liked the ceiling fan and lights.

When you were still in my belly, I used to pat you on your little bottom.  So when you were a teeny baby, I patted your little bottom and you seemed to like it.

When you were a teeny baby

You smiled when you were eating and going to sleep.  We loved your smile so we always smiled back.

When you were a teeny baby

We liked to watch you sleep.

When you were a teeny baby

I loved just looking at you, even though you couldn’t talk or hug me or do anything.

When you were a teeny baby

I let you fall asleep on my lap instead of putting you in bed because I wanted to be with you as long as I could.

When you were a teeny baby

Everyone said you looked just like your dad.  But you looked just like my baby pictures.  We don’t know who you look like yet, but everyone says you are very cute.  And they’re right.

When you were a teeny baby

You had a head full of dark, brown hair.  I loved your hair so much I never wanted to put a hat on you, even though it was cold, because I wanted everyone to see your adorable head.

When you were a teeny baby

Bear gave you lots of sniffs and licks.  He called them kisses, but we asked him to stop, please.

When you were a teeny baby

Your clothes were so small, I couldn’t believe a human could fit in them.  But you did.

When you were a teeny baby

I loved you so much.  And I still do.

Sometimes Babies Are Rude

I just let my son borrow my phone. He asked, so I obliged. It's locked so all he can really do is make pretend calls while listening to the iTunes feature that pops up automatically, and take pictures of himself. (I’m always a little concerned about the fact that he could theoretically make an emergency call, but hey, every kid has to accidentally call the cops at least once in their lives, right?) So I’m sitting here being super benevolent with this $400 piece of technology, letting him run up and down the hall, and of course he needs to taste the phone, and let the dog have a lick too. And I’m tolerating all of these gross bodily fluids rather well. But then he’s trying to come over to the laptop where I’m writing, and he’s tapping on the caps lock and so suddenLY I’M WRITING LIKE THIS before I realize it, and I change it back. Then he sneaks in a bit of punctuation ‘’’’’’’’’’’’ before I notice, and then I pause, again, to try to distract him.

At this point, I’m feeling guilty because this is probably a sign that he needs a sibling or that I am not being the most attentive mother. But hey, it’s also a sign that my child is not terribly socially intuitive. In other words, rude. 

This morning we ate Cheerios for breakfast. Well, I did. I ate them neatly and didn’t spill a one. John, on the other hand, was inspired. He joyfully slapped and spun a Jackson Pollock with gusto, scattering the hapless Cheerios to the four winds. Soon, the tiny oat circles carpeted the kitchen floor. His attention span for clean up lasts approximately 34 seconds, so I would be the one cleaning it up. I’m sure it was intentional. As my brother and I chatted on Skype today, I gave him a survey of the kitchen floor. He laughed. “Babies have no morals,” I warned. He should know the truth. Sometimes I think, “Where is your mother?” And then, you know, I realize the obvious. That I am the mother, and I really should do something about these tantrums and selfish behavior that would never work on a playground or in a boardroom.

Yes, this is someone else's kid. But don't you love that this is a universal baby activity. [Photo credit: onenjen.com]

Babies are indeed rude. And sometimes, I get upset. A little flustered, frustrated, flabbergasted at the situations I find, we find ourselves in. Rightfully so, I think. There are a couple reasons for this. The foremost, I think, is that I’m simply not used to being treated this way by regular humans in my daily life. Usually my roommates do not run off with dirty dishes, stolen from the dishwasher, begging me to chase them. Most days I am not being assaulted with a spatula or attacked from behind for a hug or piggie back ride. But I never see it coming. Most people do not want to drink out of my beverages, stir the insides or pour them on the hardwood (laminate) and splash in them. It’s absurd behavior. I’m not used to it.

The second reason for my more frequent bouts with anger is just the inconvenience of it all. If I’m honest, sometimes it’s out of the frustration for the fact that I am stopping my perfectly reasonable activity to pull an electrical cord out of a mouth, prevent a nose dive off the couch into something thick, solid piece of plastic. Or try to reason with this little wonder about how that toothbrush is yours, not that dogs, and there should be no sharing.

First world problems, I know. But these moments of domesticity can try the most patient and peaceable maternal instincts. They bring out the deeply rooted anger and impatience we didn’t know was in us. Really. I had no idea I was an angry person until 1) I got married and 2) I had a child. Parents and married people always said this to each other and nodded knowingly in return. I stared at them from a distance in disbelief. “You people are really screwed up.” It was incredible they didn’t know they needed therapy.

But alas, it is true. The rudeness and absurdity and inconvenience of the mess is annoying and angering, but thankfully, I see my true self in it. I would have no idea of these character issues if it were not for my son, and my husband, here to point them out. Thank you, Boys.

The hardest, hardest part of all this is not the mess though. It’s realizing that I am the problem. Because indeed I am. My selfishness and small-minded laziness gets me in trouble. They are not pretty, the worst ugly sides of me. My impatience and anger are there in a moments notice when I need them, or rather want them, and where is my patience and grace? Well, I am only now starting to make a practice of using them. This refining process is slow and searing, but it is good. All these little deaths leading me into the reflection of Christ. I know it’s worth it.

{And perhaps because God loves a chuckle, and I know I do, I had to stop this blog temporarily here at the end to clean up milk from my cereal bowl that I spilled. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I was writing in the dark. Very funny, God. But I get the point.}