Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, there was a girl. She loved to cook. She loved to eat. Se loved to dine.

When the girl got married, she lovingly cooked dinner for her husband, nearly every night. She delighted in making grocery lists and menus. She tried new dishes and experimented with different ingredients every week.

And dare I say, she was a fabulous cook? Her meals were delicious, rich, and enjoyable. And each stir, chop, baste and broil -- done with love and care. Not only did she love the food she worked with, she loved serving it and watching others enjoy it.

She enjoyed eating too! Soon, she became schooled in wines and how to pair them with food, and she delighted in pouring a glass to sip and savor while eating a lovely meal with her husband or whomever she had cooked for.

The secret that the girl kept to herself (most of the time), was that cooking was never work for her; never did it feel like a chore. When life got her down, or minor stressors of the day wore her out, she cooked. When she was sad, or feeling lonely, she cooked. When she was bored, or needed a creative outlet, she cooked.

In about 9 years, this "foodie" girl would be a mother to 4 young children. She'd always longed to be a mommy, to have babies with the love of her life; and she was living her dream.

But a love for cooking and babies do not coexist. They simply cannot. She did not know this. She still tries to make menus, between scoldings and naps. But most of the time no menu is made; and new recipes are no longer a luxury. She abides by what is tried and true. Even so, no meal is made and eaten laudably. The little diners voice their concerns and discontent without hesitation. They are not intrigued by delicate herbs, and they don't seem to appreciate the sear of the meat. Don't they know, color is flavor? Or is color instead poison, and she was the one who had been misinformed?

Once upon a time, wine was an intentional addition to a meal. Now, a glass is poured while the cooking ensues, as the baby pulls her legs and cries to be held. She doesn't take the time to swirl and smell, instead she sips...sips...sips some more, and cuddles the baby after the pan is deglazed and the butter is no longer spatting. Cooking has become a mixture of stress and fear. Fear of kids getting burned, stress that the meal will burn while she races to save the baby from consuming the cat's food, more fear as the little ones make loud noises upstairs and she worries for their safety as the food sizzles and she must choose between overdone root vegetables and her children.

She still loves to cook. If you ask her, she will say so. But cooking is not what it used to be, and neither is eating. She serves all, makes a quick plate, then there is a call for drinks, and she gets the drinks too. They don't care whether their milk pairs well with their pasta. She finally sits, maybe nurses her baby while gingerly balancing a bite over her child (fear -- is it okay to eat hot food over a baby's head?) and into her hungry mouth.

Her husband, the love of her life, is always pleased with the meal, but often adds extra salt. And she wonders if it was because she had to fish cat food from the baby's cheek when she would have otherwise been testing the dish for flavor. But all is well, because she always gets a kiss, and a thank you, and a compliment. He knows it's harder now, than it used to be. He remembers, too, the romantic meals with ambiance and eye contact. But he's grateful that she still cooks, and she still tries to get creative when she otherwise might be calling for take-out, because she knows something...

One day the kids will be grown, and cooking will be easy and maybe fun again, and romantic meals may not be so hard to come by. And the babies will be gone. And there will be no more complaints from picky palates; but there will also no longer be silly giggles, and baby snuggles, and washing little hands, and a sense of accomplishment when they all liked dinner and ate it. And life will be quiet again. And cooking will be fun again. But the kids will be gone.

And the Once Upon a Time Girl will be older, and the story of the past will be the story of how once dinner was complicated, and cooking was a struggle, and babies were under foot, and life was crazy and equally wonderful. And she will miss it. So all the mess, and stress, and fear, and ungratefulness, and under-seasoned entree, and balancing of baby and bite, it's all worth it.

Because this is her life, this is her dream come true.

Three Girls and The Boy

We call him "The Boy." Even the girls do it now.

After three beautiful baby girls, I never thought we'd have a boy. If you read back in my blog entries, you will find a post on my "gender disappointment" upon finding out we were having our third daughter, Ivey. Our crazy, wild, amazing Ivey-girl. We love her.

Still, it took some finesse, convincing my husband we could have one more. Just ONE. Four kids would be it, I promised. Still, Ivey was well past her 3rd birthday when we conceived. A four year gap wasn't what I'd had in mind, but having the girls smooshed into existence within a three-year time frame was busy. Very busy. And tiring.

And as much as I wanted him, a son, a boy for my husband, a brother for my daughters... AS MUCH AS I LONGED FOR IT... I knew there would always be something else, who knew what, that I would also want, that I would beg for, that I would be sure would make me truly happy. It's a horrible, but all too familiar cycle that we humans insist on putting ourselves through.

I didn't want to admit I could really think that way, but I knew it was true. And before we had or attempted to have our little fourth being, I knew I had to be okay with a girl. Not just okay, but ready, willing, wanting another girl. I would not go into this pregnancy like the last one. I would not allow myself to grieve a girl.

And so I prayed. Prayer is often not for the One we pray to, as much as it's a way for our own hearts to settle; a way for us to love Him and so love ourselves. A way for us to show willingness to be changed.

So I prayed that I would have a baby. Not a boy, or a girl, just a baby. God knew my heart. I could not deceive Him, even if I'd tried. And my wants changed.

I became grateful. I saw my girls, and the joy they brought, and the love they shared, and the differences they each brought to our world, and I knew I'd be happy with another. Another PERSON. People are mysterious, and amazing, and unique, and that God has allowed us to make them just blows my mind.

But this time, we had that boy. And you know what? He isn't the end-all. I'm not "complete" with him  because he's a boy. I love him so much that it hurts -- because he's my baby.

And part of me is a little angry at the stranger in the grocery store for making that insightful, albeit thoughtless,

comment: "Three girls and one boy! You finally got your boy!"

Although I know it's just a sideways congratulations, I always take a peek at my 7-year-old, just to make sure she's okay. I never, ever want my girls to think we had to just deal with them till we got a boy, or that we kept trying till we got what we really wanted all along. I want them each to understand how loved they are, all of them, Declan too. Not for being boys or girls, but for being our children.

And believe it or not, when I now see a newborn baby girl, I miss it. I miss my baby girls. They will always hold a special spot in my imperfect heart because it was those girls that made me this mom. My little loves. My gifts. And now my little bonus gift is here, and life is not complete or perfect, it just goes on. And parenting continues, and newborns steal our sleep, and frustrating days still come and threaten sanity.

But we are a family. And I like it here.

Being Mother Gothel

My 5 year old, Emmy, loves Rapunzel. The movie Tangled is her absolute favorite. She's been obsessing about her October birthday with a lot of chatter surrounding her costume for Halloween and which new Rapunzel dress she wants to buy from the Disney store. She knows her stuff.

That's why I knew she had thought very carefully about this proposal she made me last night: "Mommy! For Halloween, you should be Mother Gothel! You would be a great Mother Gothel!"

With trepidation I invited her to tell me more about her great idea...

"Because, when you're mad, you look like her and you're just like her!"

Remember, she's very excited about this. Not at all trying to insult me, just trying to find the perfect Halloween costume. Bless her little heart.

But I'm a little horrified. Just a little. And sad that my daughter thought I could easily impersonate the evil villain-mother in her favorite Disney movie.

I tried to be really excited about her wonderful plan, but inside I was a a little upset. Obviously.

I went through a process of anger, then defensiveness, then acceptance. Of course I'm Mother Gothel. She's the only present mother in that whole film. Its mother Gothel who's in the thick of it! She may only keep Rapunzel around for her youth-inducing locks, but Rapunzel is not hurting for anything that I can tell. She has art supplies, baking ingredients, pretty dresses, and who is buying all the hair brushes and de-tangling hair products?? Mother Gothel, that's who.

So lets look at this realistically. Aside from having very selfish motives, are Mother's reactions really all that terrible?

I would probably get mad too if my daughter ran away with a guy she just met.

I would probably have an annoyed expression if my daughter asked me the same question over and over again, expecting that I would have changed my mind after saying "no" a zillion times.

I would also be reduced to a shriveled, writhing heap if my daughter chopped off all her beautiful long hair.

Just kidding on that last one. But it wouldn't be the best day ever.

So really, what mom hasn't at one point or another felt a little like Mother Gothel? Having those reactions doesn't make us the villain, it makes us the mom. I know we'd like to think we will always be calm and in control and would never behave like a Disney villain, but chances are, if you're a parent, you will find your limits tested. You will find that some days you're identifying with the villain, and sometimes with the loving, beautiful queen with a generous soul and a kind heart.

This week I may remind my sweet Emmy of Mother Gothel; but next week I'm betting I swing around to Fairy Godmother status.

Probably.

Make Something Monday

It's summer (yay?), and like any mostly organized mother of 4, I've called upon the Pinterest gods for help. And The Lord God. Pinterest gives me practical suggestions, and Jesus gives me peace for my soul. Also a win. Anyway, here's the gem of a "schedule" I found to help guide me while the kids are home all day expecting me to entertain and amuse them:

                                           

Have you seen those schedules that plan out every minute of every day, starting at 8:00am and ending at bedtime? Yeah, I didn't "pin" anything like that. It's summer, not prison. 

So I started this weekly guide on Monday. It was "Make Something Monday" and I had already told my eldest about my plan to do this daily rhyming schedule thing, so it was a go. Because this kid forgets nothing. I've had past hopes that she would, but alas, no such luck.

For Make Something Monday I decided to set myself up for failure and teach my 4, 5, and almost 7-year-old girls how to do the basic knit stitch. As you can imagine, this did not go as planned. I started each girl out with a ball of pretty scrap yarn and a set of bamboo needles. It ended with me telling them just to squish the yarn in their hands and feel how soft it was. Then my 5 year old decided to pretend to knit, and she enjoyed that for about a minute. And in the end I had dowloaded a pattern for a small chameleon lizard because someone decided her green yarn reminded her of Pascal from Tangled and I should knit her one.

Then, just because I didn't want Make Something Monday to be a complete fail, I made this:

                                   

I ate that missing piece of course. It was the only way. I have to test these things. Also, please cover your chocolate cake when you put it in the refrigerator. As you can see here, I didn't do that. Probably because my infant was crying, or I was eager to eat cake, or for some other reason I'm not sure of. Later on I did cover it, because it had started to dry out (obviously).

Stay tuned for "Take a Trip Tuesday," it's sure to be epic!

Hormones, Womanhood, and Living

It's about to get real up in here. (said in my very white-girl vernacular)

When I was 12 I started my period. (told you)

It was horrifying. I refused to leave the house for a week. I curled up in an arm chair and wondered how women lived like this. I was ready to black-out my schedule every month that this evil beast made its appearance.

But my mom, God bless her, did something very wise -- and very difficult, I'm sure.

She looked at me, her crying, writhing-in-pain-and-hormonal-hell-daughter, and she told me I had that one week. I had that week only to cancel my lessons and activities, to hibernate and avoid all earthly contact. She gave me one week to succumb to my misery and feel sorry for myself for being a female.

But when that week was over, I had to live. Even if I felt terrible, or "gross," I had to get up and do stuff. I had to follow through with commitments and be normal anyway.

I hated her at the time.

But I think back to that often. She did an amazing thing. She probably wished she could shelter me from it all, I know I would if it were my daughter. But instead she taught me that being a woman meant that sometimes you'll feel out of control, hormonal, sick, whatever. And when you do, you take a moment, let yourself feel bad about it, and then get over it.

Now that I'm a mother, and currently a pregnant one, I've been realizing how much that lesson really taught me. It's not all about periods anymore; now it's more often about feeling depressed, or incompetent, sick, or just tired.

"Just" tired?? Ha, what a joke.

(When I wasn't pregnant) I would take a moment in the evening and have a glass of wine. Or a pint of ice cream. Or ignore the dishes and curl up on the couch with a good movie.

I would, and do, acknowledge that life is hard, being a woman, or a mother, or just a person, often leaves you wanting. Feel it. Give yourself a moment. And then move on.

Because people need me. People need you. The world needs us to live in it.

Here's what I don't want you to take from this: I don't want you to think that when you feel like crap, you just have to get over it. That's very destructive, and we as women are really good at inflicting that kind of harsh judgment on ourselves.

What I'm saying is, love yourself and acknowledge how you feel. It's very real. But don't stay there. That's not good either.

A Case of the Blahs

One day I said to my husband, "I feel so blah." And he proceeded to tell me that was not a word.

Because I love to show how right I am, I quickly procured a dictionary to show him that "blah" is a real word (duh), and it is "Used to refer to something that is boring or without meaningful content; also depression."

Of course, in that instant my case of the "blahs" was cured, because being right makes me feel meaningful once again.

But truthfully, that's sad, isn't it? I hate that word. I use it, but I hate it.

At no time do I want to feel my life is boring or devoid of meaning. Because it's not. Really. As much as I'd like to have a boring day, it eludes me.

Also, how much more "meaningful" can your life get when you're raising little people who are learning to be humans?

Well....

Here's the thing. (I'm sure I'm the only one who struggles with this.)

Are they enough? Are your kids enough to get you out of the "blahs"? You're a mother, you're a doctor, you're an advocate for all things right and good. You're a gosh darn Superhero.

Is it enough? When you're having a moment and you wonder if your place in the world really matters, and you look at your job, or what you do on a daily basis, is it worth it? Are you fulfilled?

Believe it or not, your kids know. They can see when you're depressed. They know when they aren't enough for you. I know because I've seen the sadness in my kids eyes in that moment. It's heartbreaking.

So I'm going to say what I've said to myself on many a "blah" day:

Get of the damn couch, woman!
Stop Googling crap that doesn't matter!
Stop watching the news if it makes you feel that bad!
Eat a healthy lunch for once, you're too good for fast food! (Don't hate yourself that way!)
Get a hobby! You can do it! Oh, you have one? Then work on it! (i.e., knit, sew, write on this blog, do yoga, etc, blah blah blah)
Do something for someone! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! (At this time I usually send my husband a loving text, email a friend something encouraging, or take pictures of my kids and then show them how cute they are. They love that.)


Now it may seem like I yell at myself a lot... it's not a lot, but yes, it does happen. Because it's not fair for me to demand my kids be my all. They are not in my life to fulfill me, or put me in a better mood, or make me feel like my life matters.

That's up to me. That's MY job. I control myself, my attitude, my behavior, and I solve my problems. My kids deserve a mom who takes care of herself, both mentally and physically. They don't deserve a mom who takes her unhealthy habits out on them.

Now go and be Super.

I love my life, but I still need to cry

Well, it's been a roller coaster of a weekend.

My super awesome friend Megan came to visit (I love you my NBFF!!), that was a big "up" point.

My sisters and I had coffee, and I can always count on them to listen or bring me back to my sane place.

My husband is really cute, and is very sweet to me.

My kids had a sugar-rushed, friend & cousin-filled Easter, so they're pretty stoked to be alive.

****

Here's where it gets tricky. How do I, a very blessed woman, have a bad day? I mean, a REALLY bad day? Or weekend? Or week?

All it takes is one thing. One thing that everything else pivots upon. Something you've staked your happiness in, and wished for, and prayed for... and then it's gone. It's a "just kidding" moment. I used to work with this girl who would always say, "That's NOT a funny JOKE" when things didn't go her way. I often use her tone when speaking to God on days such as this.

It's hard not to get trapped in that thought process. Do you then feel sorry for yourself and crawl into a hole? Or do you get up and take pictures of your kids eating candy and smile and enjoy life anyway?

I choose life. I enjoy my family and everything I have, right this minute.

But.

It doesn't go away. There's still that thing that upset you, and it has to be dealt with, wrestled with, offered to heaven in exchange for something better perhaps...

Don't ignore. Do what you need to do. Cry in the shower. Weed the hell out of your garden. Shave your entire body. Knit a sweater.

Just don't scream at your kids or forget to eat. Neither is healthy, nor helpful. (Speaking from experience here)

As women, mothers, wives; it's really hard to deal, isn't it? We count our blessings and often decide we don't have any right to be sad. We push through because we don't want our kids to see us upset, or we don't want anyone to pity us. We're strong! We pushed babies out of our vaginas and we feel like we can take anything!

True, but there's strength in admitting we need a hug. Or a time out. Or a glass of wine and a minute to think. There's strength in a prayer for help. Or an admission that you're not okay.

Take the help, relax into that hug, and wait for an answer. I'm right there with you.