Chronicling life is really hard. Because from a writing perspective, I feel like these weekly chronicles ought to be witty, themed, lively — but sometimes–most times–life doesn’t happen in themed weekly installments peppered with side-splittingly funny mishaps and poignant take-home lessons, it just sort of evolves uneventfully. Sort of like how our heavily anticipated metamorphosis-in-a-jar ended with a pitifully small cocoon that yielded a frenetic grey moth. Not at all what we hoped for or imagined at the outset, but fascinating and good nonetheless.

This week was just sort of an uneventful evolution of days. We fed the ducks (twice). (Insatiate little creatures, aren’t they? Impatiently HONKing for more all the while.) We played at the park every day. We walked three out of five mornings. We exhaled a huge sigh of relief for the innocence and naivete of youth when an unsuspecting Henry found his parents in a rather (ahem!) precarious position one morning, and, never one to let things slide by without inquiry, asked with crinkle-nosed curiousity, “Did mom go poop?” (Don’t ask; we don’t know why he did.) No, Henry, as long as I have my wits about me, that is maybe the only thing you never have to worry about me doing in front of your father.

There wasn’t a whole lot we did in front of the father this week; Nate worked an inordinate number of hours. And, as a result, Henry ate too much Chef Boyardee and watched Dragon Tales too many times, and went out in public like this:

While his too tired mom wore too many “hats.” At the end of one too-late night, an over-worked and too-long-gone dad walked through the laundry room door with the left overs of his too-big serving of pasta from the Cheesecake factory, and gave it to his too hungry wife, who could not have shown too much excitement and gratitude for REAL food!

“For me?” I asked, a smidge incredulous.

“Yeah, wasn’t that charming of me, sweetie?”

“Yes!” I rejoiced, as I removed the plastic lid. But one bite was all I needed to be sure that I didn’t want anymore. Cajun has never been my culinary cup of tea. “Shucks! I don’t really like that,” I lamented, wishing I did.

“Yeah, I didn’t either,” he came clean, instantly lowering his status on the charm-o-meter. “I mean, which Cajun thought it would be a good idea to sprinkle dirt over their food, anyway?”

His comment was hysterically funny to me, partly because it was late at night and the tired jollies were setting in. And partly because lots of things he says, that wouldn’t be funny to anyone else, are funny to me. I’m not sure why. Maybe because we’ve spent the better part of eight years (courting and married), evolving together. And our life, and our love, have become an ongoing dialog — humorous because of allusions to our shared past, meaningful down to the minutiae because of this accumulation of common experience, familiar to the point where without a word, we know — she is fragile, he is tired, she’s overwhelmed, he’s discouraged. The accumulation of uneventful days, in weeks that are neither themed nor witty, amounts to an intangible that is very significant. An intangible which, when asked on our Friday night walk,”If you could be doing anything right now, what would it be?” made Nate answer, “tonight, I’d want to be right here with you guys.”

I was thinking more along the lines of eating gelato on an evening stroll through Venice (hence the picture at the top of the post,) but One Dollar Hot Fudge Sundaes, after a walk in the muggy darkness of a southern evening, made for a pretty delectable, (and much more affordable,) plan B.

I have a weekly habit on my personal blog, of writing a “Happy Post,” where I focus only on the lovely things in my life. I guess you could say it’s an exercise in gratitude and optimism. This week the “Grateful Path” was strewn with obstacles that I think are too familiar in the parenting universe to keep to myself. Here’s a wiff of this week’s installment:

I’m going to pretend that I didn’t change four poopy diapers today. I am seriously thinking about axing fiber and putting Henry on a strict diet of cheese and bubble gum to see if we can’t slow things down in the GI region.
I’m also going to pretend that I didn’t change his outfit five times today and that he doesn’t eat like Shrek at every meal.
I’m going to pretend that I didn’t spike a sippie cup on the floor after the second spilled glass of water soaked the rug in front of the dishwasher. That might jeopardize the “Holy Mother” esteem in which you all hold me and I couldn’t bear such a fall from your grace.
I’m going to pretend that Henry didn’t spill the entire bottle of hand sanitizer all over the passenger seat of the car. This one I’ll take partial responsibility for; I did leave him in the car, (doors open,) while I brought the Costco loot into the kitchen. Ok. Fine. I might have sneaked in a quick e.mail check while I was in there too, but I didn’t see any harm in letting him pretend to steer the car and honk the horn for a few minutes; the garage is right off the kitchen, and I left the door open so I could see him the whole time. You can draw your own conclusions about my maternal neglect. All I’ll say is that sometimes you transgress the laws of conventional wisdom when you’ve been with a two year old for days on end, and you’re craving alone time like a hormonal woman craves chocolate, and there’s still an hour and a half ’til nap time. Please note, however, that the spill was a blessing in disguise, because the car was a little wiffy after Henry’s CostcoHotDogLunch, but as soon as that anti-bacterial gel hit the upholstery, the processed pork smell vanished like magic and in an instant, the car was filled with the stringent stench of Ethyl Alcohol. Mmmmm!
I’m going to pretend that Henry didn’t shatter, (and I do mean shatter,) a bowl that didn’t even belong to us on the hearth while I was talking to a very inquisitive Norma about piano tuners–a subject that I know just a smidge less than nothing about.
I’m also going to pretend that when I asked the fourteen year old girl, sitting next to Henry in the back seat of my car, to help him eat his ice cream civilly, that she actually helped him instead of laughing hysterically while he smeared chocolate cream all over his head, face, arms, legs and car seat the whole ride home. He couldn’t have been more brown if he had been dunked in a puddle of Elmer’s and dragged around a baseball diamond. I regret not capturing the spectacle on film.
And finally, I’m going to pretend that after the bath that was necessary to remove the chocolate paint job there was a diaper in the house and that I didn’t have to put Henry back in the wet diaper that he had been wearing (SAD! and GROSS!) and go to the market at 9:34 p.m. for diapers because we were completely out.
I’m going to pretend all of those things didn’t happen so I can begin my weekly blessing counting. Oh brother dear…Where? To? Start?
I think I maintained a pretty impressive sanity level considering the aforementioned series of events, which, by the way were in no way embellished for dramatic effect; this post could pass a polygraph. The sippie cup incident was the ugliest it ever got and judging from his delirious laughter, I think Henry interpreted my outburst as, Mom’sASillyHead! more than, LookOutShe’sGonnaBlow!
Smiling because Henry pooped on the potty. Yeah, in addition to the four other bowel movements. I’m serious as a heart attack about the bubble gum diet.
I’m smiling because I’m in my bed, which bed is a Texas-sized helping of pillowy fluff and fluffy pillows. And if you can believe it, even at the end of a day like today, I love my life. I’ve never felt so miserably inadequate and so tempted to swear as I do in the face of motherhood, but I’ve also never felt so whole as I do when the last words of our day are, “I luf you mommy.” And our lips meet in one staccato little kiss through the bars of his crib. Goodnight, Henry. I’m smiling in my bed because I can’t wait for tomorrow. With you.

Why are you smiling?

Dear Henry,

I have to let some of this adoration that I feel for you out of my system. I fear that if I don’t I will burst open tomorrow, or maybe even tonight, in my sleep. I wish I could pause time to preserve this phase of innocent wonder that you are running through on squishy, square feet. When I watch you dunk your chubby fists in your yogurt cup to get those last, hard-to reach bites, or dump your bowl of fried rice over your head, or christen your toothbrush in the toilet, or pick your “boogies nose,” or come out of the closet with my underwear on your head, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to teach you all the things you need to learn to function as a “normal” member of society. And then I look around, and I realize that I don’t want you to blend too seemlessly in with the “norm.” I realize that what I should be concerned about is whether or not I am learning all of the sterling little lessons that you have to teach me in this utterly guileless phase of your existence.

Sometimes when I get really upset with daddy, forgiveness comes more quickly when I think back to the stories that Nana has told me about him when he was a little boy. It’s really hard to stay mad when I imagine him wearing his sister’s red polka-dot dress or excitedly doning his cowboy boots for first-grade. I don’t know what your adolescent years will be like, but I want to give permanence to a few of the endearing things that you do right now just in case I need a pleasant reminder from our past to endear you to me when you’re seventeen. And maybe these silly and soft memories might peel back your rebelious regalia at some point, and remind you of the fact that you are, at your core, good, sensitive, and kind. And that you are tethered up so tightly in your mama’s heartstrings that strangulation is always an imminent threat. So let me try to tell you, Henry, how and why you are so lovable…so dear.

It is the way you ask for me, very frankly, from your crib when you’re ready to get up, “Hey mama! Me ho-joo! OK?” And when you or I sneeze, how you say, “Besh-oo Henry. Besh-oo Mama,” a little confused about who gets the blessing, the sneezer or the blesser, you just bless both of us. It is the way you announce and claim all of your bodily functions, “TOOTIE!” “Bewp!” “Go Poo Poo!” (though I do hope you’ll stop that at some point in the near future,) and even warn me of dad’s, “Daddy tootie!” Daddy Bewp!” It makes me smile when I hear you congratulate yourself on a structure well-built with your Mega-blocks, “Goo-job Bud!” you declare satisfactorily as you snap those last pieces together. A masterpiece every time! It is the armful of stories you bring me every night, and the way you ask me to, “weed it, books.” And your stubborn insistence to eat everything with a fork–sandwiches, grapes, yogurt, cheese slices. No matter the food, you “Need it, byew (blue) fowk!” It is the way you greet every day with smiles and enthusiasm, pointing out the little pillow that’s been in your crib every night for the past year, the one that you pointed out yesterday morning and the morning before, and the one before…like you’d never seen such a nice, soft, wonderfully, snuggly little “pee-yow” before. And how you do the same thing when you “heow dat bowdie!!” (hear that birdie) and “see dat fowows!!” (see that flowers) and feel the “Shu-shine” and “heow dat Aew-pane” (hear that airplane) — how you notice them all with the same inquisitive wonder and delight that you did the first time you ever saw a birdie, an airplane, a flower. It’s the way you stroke my hair at night and, “shhhh mama,” when we snuggle before bed. And the way you love your blankie–like I loved mine, and ask for it three times as soon as you’re buckled into your car-seat, “mangee, mangee, ma-a-a-a-ngee!” And the way you run out of your room, with it clenched in your fist exclaiming, “found it, mangee!” like it had been buried in a pile of rubble for a decade, but was, in reality, only in the other room for a few minutes. It is the lovely way you give this world the benefit of the doubt, greeting every store clerk, customer, pedestrian and passer-by with a contagious smile and genuinely exuberant, “HIIIIIIIII!” I hate to imagine the day when someone will break the trust that you so willingly give and that one broken promise at a time, lenses of skepticism will form in front of your honest little eyes and you will be forced to observe the world from an appropriately “safe” distance with your guard up. I wish you could maintain the perfectly innocent and optimistic filter through which you sift your experience. The other day I was walking into the bathroom with a “product” that moms need during a certain week of every month, and when you heard the wrapper crinkle in my hand, your eyes went ablaze with excitement and you squealed, “Pop-a-cle!!” Oh Henry, I wish it were a popsicle, I really do. I wish everything in life were as innocent and sweet and good as it is to you now.

These last few weeks have been hard with daddy gone so much. The stress of nearly-single parenthood has stratched me so thin in some moments that you’ve seen my really unflattering spots–up close. I feel like I should apologize for those moments and grovel for your forgiveness, but I don’t even have to. You don’t make me do that like adults do when we offend each other. You’re ready to “nuggow” with me in the instant that I stop scolding–no grudge, no silent treatment, not a hint of resentment or a memory of the miff. Perhaps I can teach you about numbers and colors, but you have taught me about love that is too big to count and life that is more vivid than rainbows.

It’s all these things and a hundred hundreds more, Henry, that make you so dear to me…that bring real live tears to my eyes when I come to terms with the fact that this delightful little stage will end. And now that I’ve put all these tender feelings out in the ether, I only feel nearer to bursting than I did before. But I’ve learned something about this near-to-bursting sensation, and that is that I’ll never actually burst, but that my heart has this wonderfully elastic quality that allows me to love and adore beyond my wildest imaginations of what I ever thought possible before there was you.

Love you forever…

Mama

Coming home from a trip is bittersweet. For me, for most trips, it’s mostly bitter. It’s bitter because I love family and they are usually the reason for our trips, or the company with whom we travel. Saying goodbye to them and not knowing when I’m going to see them again is very disconcerting for a homebody like myself.

This trip’s end was bitter for all of those reasons AND because we dragged and hauled and hoisted all of our bulging luggage through the DFW airport, (which is probably only slightly, if at all, smaller than Rhode Island,) only to find that our car was NOT where we parked it. You can imagine the choice words that escaped our lips as we three weary travelers discovered that the spot where we intended to leave our car parked for seven days was in fact a “One Hour Parking Towing Enforced” zone. This series of seriously unfortunate events led us back to the terminal to place a call to the Parking Enforcement Coalition in an effort to begin the vehicle reclamation process.

You might also imagine, that after four hours of seat-belt constricted travel, Henry, who had just peed through every layer of his clothing, was itching to ride a round on the baggage carousels, try out the airport wheelchairs, and stick his hands in the flap-covered openings of every vending machine. Trying to avoid direct contact with his wet garments and keep him contained during the anticipated haggling with the towing company, we resorted back to the restraints of the carseat. Just as Nate was dialing “2″ to choose an option from the ultra-frustrating automated menu of choices for stranded towing victims, a trickle of inspiration and wisdom seeped into my skull like molasses. I draw the comparison to molasses advesedly because the “ah-hah!” came together very gradually.

My thoughts: Wait…We came in underground…by the baggage claim. This is the check in area. This isn’t where we came in. That may not have been where we parked. Our car could still be here.

“Nate!” I beamed. “I don’t think this is where we came in. Remember, we had to ride the escalator up to get to the check-in desk?”

He hung up hesitantly. I could tell that he desperately wanted to believe me, but he maintained an aura of skepticism. (He’s good at that. He’s an auditor.) We hauled and hoisted and dragged all of our bulging luggage and our now dry, but slightly orphaned looking, child (we fished through the suitcase to find him a very uncoordinated, but DRY, combination of: Green Nike Sweatshirt and TwoSizesTooBig Red Tartan Plaid Pajama Bottoms,) and descended the escalator, literally praying to find our car on the lower level of the parking garage. And……….. (i hate excessive punctuation, but sometimes it’s necessary………………………………)

We DID! I could almost swear to the fact that there were unseen legions serenading us with the Hallelujah! chorus in that moment. Nate’s hoodwinked purchase never beamed like it did in the bowels of the DFW parking structure before the eyes of two tired travelers breathing sighs of utter relief not to have to part with precious cash to liberate an old pile of mileage-laden metal from the local impounded-car-yard.

Life just continued to brighten as we arrived home to find all of our valuables, (all four of them,) were still in place, and that we hadn’t been burgled or otherwise violated while we were away–something I always worry unnecessarily about while we’re gone. But we did have one unpleasant surprise waiting for us at home. Our house stinks. Bad. Do you know how to get rid of a lingering, wiffy house stench? Please tell. I’ve tried candles and carpet granules, but to no avail. I hate to admit to the Internet that I have a stinky house, but I do. I also hated to admit to eating cake for breakfast, but I did.
But while we’re on the topic of shameful admissions, I’ve got one more. I love to hate to admit that while I was very disappointed and worried about the possibility of our car being trapped in the local tow-yard, somewhere in the back of my slightly warped, blog-loving mind, I was kind of tickled that it was happening to me. Because, let’s face it, tales from the tow-yard make very meaty subject matter for blog posts.

There are many, many great things about having my sisters in town, not the least of which is having four extra hands to help with Henry. However, sometimes knowing that there are other mature, responsible, supervising helpers in my life, I get a little laxed about things like diaper changes and my knowledge of Henry’s whereabouts, trusting that he’s probably safe and squared away with either Kate or Halley. The manifestations of my heedless mothering are pitiable. Like a few evenings ago, we were all ready to leave on our evening walk and it suddenly occured to me that I hadn’t changed Henry’s diaper all day. I was pretty sure that someone else had, but just to be sure, I asked everyone as we were strolling away from the house, and was mortified to discover that we were all making the same errant assumption that someone else had done it, when in fact, no one had! Poor soggy, stinky, totally saturated little Henry had been sitting in the same soggy, stinky, totally saturated little diaper all. day. long. And the most heart warming/wrenching part of it all was that as I was changing him, he kept apologizing, “I’m sow-wy,” in a barely audible little moan. No! No! No, Mr. Soggy Britches, there’ll be none of that; I am sorry!

I am also sorry to relay this next example of my derelict mothering. Please don’t report me to child services, I’ve got enough to sift through on my legal plate with the YouRanARedLight!Here’sASeventyFiveDollarFine! notice that came in the mail yesterday. Red light cameras bedanged! Anyhow, there were like 47 things going on at our house yesterday evening: Nate was just getting home from work, changing out of his dress clothes, he and Kate getting ready to run in the pouring, pouring rain, Halley was praddling around in her usual cheerful manner, Henry was making rotations from one person to the next and trying to sneak into the bags of b-day goodies which we were trying to keep secret until the celebration. I was making pizza for dinner (with homemade crust which means I was monitoring the progress of yeast, which is something that I enjoy about as much as I enjoy a papercut,) and was also trying to whip up a batch of birthday cup cakes for Mr. Wonderful, who is now officially 2 (and has a little gold button to prove it. It says,”I’m 2.” And now that I think of it, I’m going to have him wear that out in public so I don’t have to answer that oft-repeated “how old is he?” question to every store clerk, gas pump attendant, and librarian in Plano–I’ll just direct their attention to the button. Thanks to Grandma Nan for sending it!) Getting back to the house of chaos, which, after Kate and Nate left for their run, suddenly became atypically quiet. In case you didn’t know, quiet means trouble when there’s a toddler around. I asked Halley where Henry was and she said that she thought I had him. Moment of panic. Mental slideshow of anticipated messes I might find upon ascertaining Henry’s whereabouts: unrolled toilet paper, a half eaten tube of chapstik, mascara smeared all over the bathroom walls, all of the pages torn out of my Bible, or maybe it would be as harmless as a mouthful of chewing gum–yes, let’s hope for that, I thought, as we searched the premises. It took Halley and I several fretful minutes to locate him. We looked in every room and closet in the house before Halley suddenly caught a blurry glimpse of him through the front window. It was reassuring to know where he was, but his exit strategy remained enigmatic. Front door–locked. Back door–locked. Garage door–locked! How did he get out of the house, I puzzled? And then we saw this:

Suddenly Henry’s escape route was very clear and we renamed him Houdini on the spot. Apparently amidst all of the chaos, he managed to slip away, completely unnoticed, push the screen out of his bedroom window, (which I had opened to try diffuse the wiffy chain-smoker’s-motel-room stench that vaguely lingers in his quarters,) and headed straight for the pond-sized puddle at the end of our culdesac. By the time we found him, he was soaked from head to toe. Soaked–like he couldn’t have been wetter if he’d been submerged in the bathtub, which caused me to wonder how long my child had been playing, completely unsupervised, in the middle of the street, in the pouring rain. This just seemed so unlike Henry. He’s never been a really physical child, except for the fact that he has learned to climb up into his crib this week. But he still can’t climb out of it. He doesn’t usually climb up into precarious places. He’s an awfully clumsy runner. He gets nervous about sitting up on the counter if he’s not holding on to me. He doesn’t take toys from other children aggressively. So climbing out of a bedroom window seemed wholly uncharacteristic of the child I’ve lived with for the past year and three hundred and sixty four days. Just then, a little voice came into my head that said, “Welcome to the twos!” and I realized that maybe I’ll be living with a whole new Henry this year.

Every Friday morning, (except for the precious few when a household emergency and excessive amounts of standing water prevent us from going,) Henry and I meet a group of other moms and tots at the park for play group. We laugh, frolic, soak up the sun for an hour…and the kids seem to like it too. Fortunately, we’re usually not the only cluster of adults at the park; the other, more responsible parents notify us when our children are stuck in precarious positions on the monkey bars, pushing each other down, or stealing their childrens’ belongings. We’re too busy talking about the “weightier matters” to adequately supervise our children. Our topics of conversation run the gamut of feminine issues from home repair projects gone awry to slightly funny, but mostly stomach-turning, stories about children eating their own feces (or worse, that of animals in public parks.)

But birth is the trump card of maternal conversation; once it’s brought up, nothing else stands a chance. I’m not a “betting man,” but if I were inclined to wager, I’d put my husband’s 401K on the fact that when one of a group of women so much as alludes to childbirth, a lengthy exchange of delivery stories is sure to ensue. It’s been the most popular topic of conversation at three of the last four playgroups I’ve attended, and this Friday was no exception. It started with a discussion of the VBAC controversy, which led to a mighty slew of horrifying tales from the obstetric operating room. Stories that were, for someone facing the very likely possibility that all of her births will be C-sections, more frightening than the most sinister ghost story ever told. Tales of epidurals that wandered to places they had no business being (i.e. armpits), of intense claustrophobia setting in on the operating table, of spinal taps that impaired mobility for an entire calendar year after delivery.

At the conclusion of this horrifying exchange of birth stories in our proverbial “Red Tent” my friend, Sarah, who couldn’t be sweeter if she were made entirely out of Necco Wafers, who has also never had a C-section, sighed serenely and said (sitting next to her six month old baby), “Oh you guys, all this talk just makes me want to have another one so bad!”

And then there was, at the opposite emotional pole…me. Reflecting back on my own labor that started with an IV, followed by an epidural, (both very large needles for someone who all but faints at the first mention of phlebotomy,) then a catheter, and twelve hours of literally body-trembling labor (accompanied by a 102 degree fever), dilation that ceased mysteriously at nine centimeters, and ended in an emergency C-Section, which C-section though promised to be swift, dragged on for forty-five panic ridden minutes and ended in the very laborious extraction of a nearly nine pound man-child. (End mental reverie–back to playgroup…) There I was, head swooning with those kinds of recollections of Henry’s birth, knees growing increasingly less stable, remembering that we are trying to duplicate that experience, or at least the result of that experience, with a second conception. As though speech were a phenomena completely beyond my cognitive control, I felt my lips fuddle out the phrase, “The adoption option has never felt so right.”

However. I know, not just nebulously and hypothetically, but very personally, that there are women out there who would give their favorite pair of shoes and probably some of their less vital organs to bear their own biological child. So, I think it’s time to pen some tender thoughts about Henry to remind myself that motherhood is totally and utterly worth every push and pain and poke of birth. Henry, I give you this week’s top ten reasons why we love you and will consider giving you a sibling if we can just have the assurance that he/she will be something like you:

1. You have a newly discovered affinity for strawberries. You love the red page in the Colors book because it has a strawberry on it and you love the strawberry banana yogurt cup because it too bears that beautiful crimson berry on its label. My favorite demonstration of your love for strawberries, though, was when you insisted on holding the little carton of berries on your lap the whole time we grocery shopped, reminding me periodically of something I had reminded you, “nee-a payfer-em firss.” That’s right, Henry, we need to pay for them first.

2. You sat very obediently on the floor yesterday afternoon and watched me paint over the red wall. Your only peeps were periodic exclamations of awe at the magical transformation, “Oooooh, woooooowwwww!” you marveled in your breathiest voice of unadulterated wonder, “Like dat paint!”

3. You toddle up to me when you get sleepy, blankie in hand, thumb in mouth, and lean your body weight clumsily against my legs, and say, “wanna me ho-joo,” your attempt to repeat the words that I always ask right before I pick you up, “want me to hold you?”

4. Every night before you go to bed I ask you if you’re ready to go ni-night and without a moment’s hesitation you say, “nuggow mama bed.” So we chase each other into my bed, squealing and giggling, and nestle into the big, fluffy covers and lay our heads on the big pile of superfluous pillows. Then, when we’re all cozied in, you call for dad, “hey dad! come nuggow uff us!” (come snuggle with us.)

5. Today we took three little boys to church with us because their mom had to work. I laughed for a solid minute when I heard you say, “Hey guys! Gottem Boots on!” and looked back to see that you had one pant leg pulled up and your leg fully extended to show off your spiffy black cowboy boots to your new friends.

6. When we get in the car, you can see my waterbottle in the cup holder from your vantage point in the car seat and you say, in a thick New York cab driver’s accent, “hey mom, need it wooter-bootle.”

7. But underneath that gruff Big Apple cabbie exterior, you are sweet and soft as a jet puffed marshmallow. I know this because I walked into your room the other day and found you kneeling on the floor with a stuffed dog in your lap, gently putting your sippy cup in its mouth, coaxing, “wink it water. Wink it, doggie.” I also get glimpses of that softness when I plug in my blow dryer, which you have learned is quite noisy, and you quietly slip out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind you. And when we drive in the car and I get a youthful wild hair to crank up the volume when an old Ace of Base song comes on the radio, you shout over the ruckus, “hey mom, turn dat down.”

8. In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve developed a pattern of speech which consists of addressing everyone with an attention-getting, “hey!” “Hey mom, need it (fill in the blank.)” “Hey dad, wanna (fill in the blank.)” “Hey guys!” “Hey birdie!” “Hey…anyone who will listen to me! Hey! Hey! Hey!”

9. You ask us to read “Chrysanthemum” every night, but you call it “san-te-mum.” And every night it’s the same drill, dad opens up to the title page and reads, “Chrysanthemum. By Kevin Henkes,” at which point you hastily close the book and ask for your tried and true favorite, “Owen,” which we read in its entirety every night.

10. Some things about parenthood are very patience-testing, like when you left a Henry-sized hand-print on my freshly oil-base-paint-coated table this weekend, (which we had to wash off with horribly odoriferous terpentine.) But for the most part life with you is a perpetual reminder that “children are an heritage of the Lord.”

Oh Henry, there just isn’t a way to describe how sublimely pleasant you are. It’s like describing the delectable-ness of peanut butter to someone who’s never tasted it; you just can’t appreciate it until you taste it melted over warm toast. It’s just impossible to know the goodness that is Henry ’til you’ve smelled your morning breath, heard your night-time-nuggow voice, and the sing-songy way that you say, “ye-e-a-a-h!” to any suggestion that sounds appealing to you.

Ok. If I can have a half-as-good-as-Henry-guarantee on your siblings, then the only question left to ask about number two is, where do I sign?

Some days I feel like my blog reads more like a jar of frosting than real life. Yesterday afternoon I wanted to share the unedited truth about my day without pulling the, “ButThat’sOkLifeIsGoodAndI’mHappy,” drawstring to wrap it up tidily at the end. I wanted to leave things raw and real–to say, “I struggle. I yell. I work myself into knots of anxiety about things that I have no control over. I want to run out of my life for a few, or several, days.”

And here’s why:

Henry only napped for 45 minutes–not even enough time for me to shower, dress and apply make up–let alone make progress on the grant I’m supposed to be writing. It’s not just the lack of personal time that’s so bothersome about a short nap, it’s the inevitable whining and obstinance that ensues for the remainder of the afternoon–as it did yesterday. Add to that the fact that Henry also dumped half a bag of corn chips, mostly crumbs, onto the pantry floor. And that he found my mascara, (which I take full blame for, having left it in his reach, but bear in mind the difficulty of keeping every tool, gadget, toothbrush, bag of chips, cosmetic, glass, electronic device, marker, pen, CD, and chemical out of the reach of a very curious and determined toddler and you’ll understand the likelihood of one hazardous item being left exposed.) And with that mascara, he transformed himself into a tribal warrior. I know, he’s cute. And there is an element of sweetness to him wanting to do what I do, but by this point in the day all I could see it for was a mess of wasted mascara.

And then he pooped his pants. But his dirty backside didn’t deter him from mounting his steed (a.k.a the arm of the sofa) and taking a very spirited ride–so spirited in fact, that it squished poop out of the sides of his diaper. All. Over. The couch. At the end of this messy, flaky, poopy, mascara schmeared afternoon, that started with a very short nap, I was supposed to supervise a youth activity at church. And since Nate was working late, I’d have the pleasure of taking Henry. By this time I had lifted (or lowered, I’m not sure which is appropriate,) myself to suffering status that would excuse me from all responsibility. A day like this merited pity, lounging, a long bath. Intoxicated by my own self-sorrow, I was ready to call my friends from church and tell them that I just couldn’t swing it, but I called my husband instead, and begged him, in a really pitiful plea of desperation, to leave work and finish his projects from home so I wouldn’t have to take Henry to church with me. That would just be too much at the end of this really, really hard day in my very, very burdened life.

He came home. I went to church. I came home. And I complained. About my day. About my life. About everything. Your long hours at work. My lack of support. The church–it just demands too much of us. We need to get away. “Simplify! Simplify! Simplify!” It was an impressive blend of hysteria and exhaustion.

“Do you want to hear something really sad?” He asked in response.

“Ok.” I thought maybe he would bring up a sad detail of our lives in an empathetic act of commiseration.

He asked me if I remembered a certain coworker of his. I did, the pregnant one who commented about how adorable Henry is. I don’t make a habit of forgetting people who are complimentary of my child.

“Well, she came into work today with a totally new hairstyle, shorter and died kind of auburn red.”

“Did it look good?”

“Well, I told her I liked it and she said thanks. Then, just to make conversation, I asked her when her baby was due and she told me they were going to take the baby in April. I thought that was weird, ’cause I was pretty sure that she was supposed to be due in June or July. I must have let on that I was confused ’cause then she explained that she was just diagnosed with breast cancer and that she started chemo last week and that was why they were taking the baby early. And the reason for the new hairstyle…it was a wig. She said the hair started falling out slowly, but that she woke up yesterday, totally bald.”

The silence hung so heavily in the air it felt like my shoulders were drooping beneath it and so were my complaints; drooping, withering, and disappearing with the sound of Nate’s voice.

But I was going to tell the world about those struggles, and it was going to be raw. I wanted to run out of my life.

And now I can’t. I don’t want to run. I want to be permanent. I want to last–even if I never finish that grant proposal and have to live out my days surrounded by tribal warriors in a pile of tortilla chip crumbs.

I love the little coincidences in life that draw me, for a reflective moment, out of the dizziness of the daily grind. I had one of those moments this week when I happened upon the missing piece of my son’s puzzle in the refrigerator.

At 20 months, Henry isn’t confined by the formalities of organization and logical sequence–the puzzle piece was forgotten in the instant he discovered the brawny sense of satisfaction derived from shutting the refrigerator door! But there was good humor and clarity for me, as I was shoving aside bottles of mayonnaise and jars of pickles, searching for the cream cheese and found, instead, a little green pentagon, moist with condensation–I may as well have found a smile. For a few moments, as I returned the little token of happy-go-lucky-ness to its proper place in the shape puzzle, I appreciated the disorder that Henry adds to the order I spend so much time and energy trying to preserve.

In an effort to make order of my study a few weeks ago I unpacked our books and organized them on the shelf. I also unpacked a piece of art that I ordered just after my husband and I got married. It’s been sitting in its box, wrapped in plastic, floating on a cloud of packing peanuts ever since it was delivered, because of the “no holes in the wall” policy that was in effect at the apartment we lived in while we were in school, we never could hang it up. Now that we own our home and can put holes in the wall at will, I decided it was time to unveil the painting. After I emptied the boxes, I broke them down and took them out to the recycling bin in the alley behind the house. Not knowing if the packing peanuts were recyclable, I just propped the painting’s box up against the regular garbage can to be taken with the rest of the trash. A day or two later, a blustery wind storm blew in, tipped the box over and sent hundreds of packing peanuts tumbling through our back alley. I shamefully admit the fact that I didn’t get up first thing the following morning to clean up the mess that I was responsible for. No, instead, I let the peanuts blow, and scatter and wedge between blades of grass for three whole days, never admitting that I was the dim-wit who left an open box of packing peanuts outside during a windstorm, though I always intended to clean them up.

But one day as my husband and I were pulling out of the driveway, I said, “you know all those packing peanuts that are all over the neighbors’ yards?” And he said, “yeah, I’ve been wondering who did that–it’s really inconsiderate to just leave them laying around like that. What an eyesore for the neighborhood!” And then a look of disbelief-meets-realization spread over his face and I sheepishly confirmed his suspicions, “Yeah, those are our packing peanuts.” I told him what I had done, explaining that I never imagined that they would end up strewn all over the neighbors’ yards like that.

The process of plucking and raking and gathering was tedious, but I had some tremendous laughs the afternoon we cleaned them up. I was using a rake; my husband was walking around with a grocery baggie picking them up by hand–we looked like a pair of inmates doing community service. For those of you who have never gathered stray packing peanuts, they are like hummingbird feathers–when the slightest little hint of a breeze came up, our piles of raked peanuts went sailing! Raking up peanuts doesn’t have quite the same charm that raking autumn leaves does–the peanuts lack that hearty, organic crunch that makes raking leaves so invigorating and festive. All this is to say that in an attempt to make order of my study this week, I completely disturbed the orderliness of my neighborhood.

In spite of our best efforts to maintain order, family life is, at times, marvelously disordered. What can be expected when toddlers, teenagers and adults convene under one roof? Although puzzle pieces end up in the fridge and packing peanuts sail through the neighborhood, and the family formation seems like a clumsy coincidence, it is, in reality a matter of perfect order that we’re grouped together as families. Day, by day, by disorganized day, we sow portions of love, loyalty, humor, and unity. And in some ordinary moment we realize that from our frequently disorganized, common experience, extraordinarily durable bonds of love have emerged and bound us so tightly together that while we might be more organized independently, we would be less—significantly less—complete.

I talked to my friend last night, who I’ll call Danielle, (because that’s her name and I don’t think she’ll mind being revealed), and she was telling me how a bunch of our old friends got together last weekend for a girls’ night. I asked how everyone was doing and she said a few sort of expected things about each person until we got to Anne. But for Anne she said something that brought me to a mental halt. “Anne just looked hot. I think she looks better now than she ever has,” (”now” meaning at age 25, with a 9 month old baby.) It wasn’t that I had any trouble believing that Anne was at a pinnacle of hotness, it was the very forthcoming and sincere way in which Danielle delivered the compliment that caught me so off guard.

I seldom hear such unreserved praise from one woman about another and I think it’s because there is somewhat of a clandestine phenomenon that exists in the feminine community that keeps us from freely allowing and admitting that other women can be talented, smart, organized, creative, spiritual, even”hot.” I am becoming increasingly irritated about this underlying sense of competition that festers amongst us. I want to spray it with Raid and watch it shrivel, but since I know I can’t do that I’m going to expose it in all its cheeky pettiness, shouting from the roof-top of my blog, hoping that some sort of ripple effect will be set into motion that might change the way we (women) evaluate ourselves and each other. This is a realization of sorts, and a challenge to change what is.

I refer specifically to women because we never seem to worry about how successful or cute or clever or anything children are…in fact, we relish in their success. And the same when it comes to men–for the most part we don’t give two shakes about how handsome or prestigious or intelligent men are–unless we’re considering dating candidates. But even then, it is rare to feel a sense of competition for admirable qualities. When it comes to other women however, it is as if we are competing for crumbs from a limited loaf of good fortune, earmarked for females over eighteen. And so we do silly things like wait until people die to say nice things about them at their funeral. Or hand out the “insult variety” compliments, ie : “you’re so organized it just makes me sick,” or “look how tan you are, I’ll never be that tan!” I’ve done things like this myself (many more times than I care to remember) — held back a compliment or reduced a friend’s achievement for fear that her success might somehow diminish the amount of available good–leaving less for me. It is an out-and-out insult to whatever Universal Power you deem to be “in charge” to assume that there isn’t enough good to go around.

I’m going to let Victoria Moran finish this post with thoughts that I think should be in every woman’s “Words to Live By” file–and I’m going to put them in mine.

“Let other women be beautiful. Let them have beautiful bodies and beautiful lives. The fact that anyone has either is evidence that the universe is eager to pass out perks. Your inner light will have a hard time making inroads in how you look and feel if you envy this woman’s image or another’s success, the love in this one’s life or the ease of that one’s. They’re supposed to have their blessings, and you’re supposed to have yours. You’ll have even more of them when you freely, openly, and without hesitation allow other women their good fortune.”

Henry and I had a really great afternoon together on Monday. We did all the charming things the parenting pundits say a mom and her little boy should do together. After a trip to the ice cream shop for a “Dollar Sundae,” we stopped at the library. We played in the puppet theater, we looked at books and did puzzles, and we made several trips up and down on the elevator (Henry’s idea.) He also made sure to let all the library patrons know that we were in the elevator by ringing the fire bell. When the doors opened to let us out, right in front of the service desk, both of the bookish, middle-aged librarians were peering over the rims of their spectacles, scolding me with their disdainful glances. “What?” I asked. “It was him,” I said playfully, pointing at Henry. I wasn’t irritated; not even a little bit. When we got home that evening we ate vegetables with our dinner. We read stories. We sang songs. I even brushed Henry’s teeth before bed (which I frequently forget to do,) and he went down without a fuss.

After making motherhood look so picturesque, I decided to start the “What Works” list. That night I was cheerfully perusing the internet for images of favorite story book covers, album covers, little pictures to illustrate felicitous motherhood. I should have known better than to act so presumptuously, my glossy-magazine-mothering lasted only one day. Tuesday morning Henry woke up grumpy. He refused his breakfast, except for a few nibbles of banana, and then asked for cookies and gummy bears all morning. When I took away my favorite Burt’s Bees chap-stick, (that I found him eating in the clandestine privacy of my closet,) he expressed his disappointment in no uncertain terms, with a Texas-sized tantrum on the closet floor. It seemed as though the Family Fates were conspiring to decisively burst my positive parenting bubble. The day epitomized the old joke: “Everyone who thinks they’re a good mother, please step forward…Not so fast, Emily Williams!” The reminders were relentless.

Later that afternoon we had to run out and get a few things at the store. Wanting to make the outing somewhat adventuresome for Henry, I opted for the cart with a kiddie car on the front so he could “drive” through the store, a real sacrifice seeing as how that child-friendly cart handled like a dump truck. I don’t know how he freed himself from the restraints of the seat belt, but by the time we were at the front of the check out line, Henry was out of the kiddie-car and had a Butterfinger in one hand and pack of Gummy Lifesavers in the other. In the instant I pried the candy from his fists he dazzled the other customers and the cashier with the supple flexibility of his back, his lung capacity, and his utter disregard for public conduct. “Would you like some help out with this today, ma’am?” the courtesy clerk asked. There was only one bag of groceries. “Sure, you take my kid, I’ll take the bag,” I said. “And could you ride home with me? ‘Cause I could use some help there as well.” All this from the woman who was ready to nominate herself for mother of the year the day before. I could feel the cramp in my neck, the one that I always get with stress, burning its way up my back.

What works? What in the world WORKS? I wondered, as I drove home to the tune of Henry’s sobs. Some days nothing works.

Later that evening, I was standing in front of my bathroom mirror surrounded by a heap of rejected outfits, getting ready to leave for a church function. Henry pulled my basket of makeup off the bathroom counter–mascara tubes, bobby-pins, eye liner pencils, lip gloss — crashed, bounced, and rolled all over the bathroom floor. I felt like someone was holding a blowtorch to the back of my neck. I was supposed to accompany 50 singers in twenty minutes and I didn’t even really know the song. My husband, who worked seventy hours last week, who said he would be home to babysit, had just called to say he was leaving work and traffic was crawling along the 75. And my favorite “Champagne” eye shadow was now a useless mess of sparkly crumbs.

“Stop it! STOP IT!” I yelled. Yelled.

Henry brought his right hand up to his mouth, palm facing out. That’s what he does when he gets his feelings hurt. And he sobbed. When his sobs finally mellowed into sniffles and whines, I realized that he was saying something. I couldn’t understand. By this time my rage had given way to painful sorrow. I felt like the poster-child for ineffective parenting. I knelt down in front of Henry’s face, “What?” I asked.

“Nuggow,” he said, still crying.

Snuggle.

Snuggle? With me, the woman who just berated your curiosity and screamed at you for acting your age, you want to snuggle? With me?

We sat and rocked long enough for me to kiss every inch of his little face and apologize over and over…and over again. And long enough for me to realize that love works. Even on the horribly desperate days when nothing else does.