Waiting

I waited and waited.

Like a passenger at a bus stop. But this bus stop had no bench, or roof or walls. It was open, naked, exposed to the elements. And I stood there. Under the storm waiting for Him to come like promised.

At first I was sure He would arrive. He had always arrived before on time, especially when I had difficulty. Sometimes He came even early but this time was different. I could tell it was different because the hurt was deeper and the crevice inside me was wider. I was being broken wide against my will.

I called Customer Service relentlessly. I prayed and prayed, railing against His incompetence. Outraged at His alternative schedule. Flabbergasted at His seemingly clueless understanding of my situation. I mean, didn't He make the world? Didn't He make the cosmos with it's billions of stars and planets and billions of people? How could He not make my baby sleep? How could He not make me happy? I'm sure it would be as hard for Him to fix me and my life as it was for me to breathe and yet, He made me wait.

And that was the hardest part of all.

Knowing that He had the capacity to show up but knowing that He chose not to.

Suffocating in feelings of abandonment, I began to doubt all of the times He had come before when my heart was shattered or my mind was down. I wasn't sure if those past times when He arrived were real or something I had imagined. Had He really offered me peace and calm when a boyfriend broke my heart? Had He really given me love and assurance when I no longer loved myself? Was I going crazy? Because I was no longer sure.

But I didn't leave that bus stop. I could have turned and walked away and let Him find me. Instead I pivoted myself and positioned myself so I would have a perfect view of His arrival. I chose to belive that all of those times in my past were true. He had come before and He would come again. All I had to do was wait as the torrential downpour drowned me. He would come.

And slowly, I could see Him coming. Like the faint headlights in the far, foggy distance, I saw Him. Sometimes He looked like a friend, bringing a meal. Sometimes He looked like my husband, holding me, listening to me, helping me. Sometimes He was my brother, or sister or sister in law or parents offering exactly what I needed at that particular time. Sometimes He looked like my therapist or my support group or doctor. Often he looked like a baby and then like a toddler with dark chocolate eyes who had the gift to buoy my heart with his smile. This toddler filled me with joy like nothing in my life had ever before. The joy was so big, so expansive it felt like it would burst from my belly.

And, yet, He had still not fully arrived with His miraculous, comprehensive healing. Even though I saw Him winding His way towards me it still took so long. Years. And just when I thought I would always be broken and always be hurt and resentful, I realized that I had to go out to meet Him. And then I saw Him up close. He looked like a baby. Soft, round, and squishy, also with dark, chocolate eyes, and somehow she had the power to make me grateful that He did not arrive when I had originally scheduled.

"When [Jesus] had heard therefore that [Lazarus] was sick, he abode two days still in the same place where he was...Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died...[and]Jesus wept...And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth" (John 11:6,32, 35,43,44).

Like Her

Sometimes I find myself longing to be near her. I imagine quietly opening her door, softly padding across the floor and silently lying down next to her crib. The carpet, plush yet somehow also rough, against my cheek, my hand brought up to my chest.

She's in there, the dark espresso crib and I can hear her breathe her small little breaths. At a distance, these breaths make me wonder whether or not she's really breathing but I can hear her when I'm this close. I wouldn't dare place a hand on her, in fear of waking her up, but I can imagine her warmth and doughy heaviness, sweating in my arms.

I think that if I'm near her maybe some of her peace, her calmness, her ever emanating sweetness would somehow rise from her like a breeze and fall gently on me. I would inhale and she would seep into my pores and maybe it would make me smile widely, eyes crinkled, when I see the faces of my loved ones. Or maybe I would begin to kick my feet and wave my arms at the sight of good food or green grass. Maybe I'd grin and catch my breath when a heavy wind blows my hair in my eyes and catches me by surprise.

And maybe, hopefully, I would finally beam with a pride that is untainted by judgement when I stand up on my own or climb a difficult stair or begin to clap my hands.

Today

It had the makings for a perfectly awful day. I was routinely awakened by a crying baby every four hours, which once in a while would not be a problem but it has been going on for so long. Well, not forever, just a couple of weeks but regardless, chronic sleep deprivation sucks and I can't seem to catch a break or at least a six or seven hour stretch of sleep. On top of that Hunter is gone until 9pm almost every, single night and I miss him and it exasperates my tiredness.

When I woke up the fatigue hung over and around me like a big, heavy fog and I really tried to not let my emotions get the better of me. Milo and I had fun making puzzles, we watched a little tv but then, da da da dun, the dreaded bathroom trip.

Holy heavens, that kid will argue and argue that he doesn't have to pee as he intermittently tap dances across the floor and then squeezes his legs together. Then I prod and prod and bribe and bribe just to get him to take off his pyjamas by himself and sit on the toilet by himself. By then he's about to explode and he sort of does because the pee comes shooting between the seat and bowl spraying the floor and step stairs that he rests his feet on. I have to physically grit my teeth and not scream. Clenching my jaw I remind him that he needs to point his penis into the bowl and that now he needs to clean it up with the cloth I'll get for him. Big melt down, on my part, diverted. And after literally 30-45min he has peed, washed his hands, brushed his teeth and is dressed.

Then Mayli. Oh sweet, sweet Mayli with her eyes that shine and her cheeks that jiggle. She's sort of driving me nuts. I've always known that I like my kids better when they sleep longer but I did not realize how irritating it is when they don't eat properly. She has become enamored with the world which I guess is a wonderful thing but it's not. Not when she's nursing. Slurp, slurp slurp, pull off, look around, smile, look around, chomp back on. Repeat. Over and over and over again. And finally, when the crazy circus show, otherwise known as Milo, becomes too hard to resist she permanently pulls off for that feeding. Then she makes up for it at night. At 10pm, 2am, 6am.

So, I needed an action plan that did not involve stuffing my face with Goldfish Crackers or causing my three year old to cry due to my yelling. So here was my plan:

I went to the gym. I scheduled Mayli's feedings for every four hours during the day cuz if she wants to eat like that at night she can do it at daytime too. I made sure Milo went pee in the afternoon before we watched a show. Not after when his tardiness makes me into a monster. And then we had a nap. A glorious, rejuvenating nap (well, for me, I'm not sure what he does in his room).

We bought seeds for our garden, played with the neighbor kids, chatted with daddy for 20min, ate dinner, fed Mayli solids (I should mention she rarely opens her mouth for anyone but Milo), and made puzzles again. And then the crowning moment of the day that redeemed almost every challenging aspect of the past three and a half years. Milo put his arms around my neck and said, "I love you mommy" and then he reached in and kissed my cheek. That is the first time he has ever kissed my cheek. I swooned. Then we went back and forth kissing each other's cheeks and giggling, culminating with him giving me multiple kisses and then spitting, "bleh, bleh bleh" and wiping his mouth. He ran off laughing and he exclaimed, "I made you laugh mommy"!

My heart felt buoyant. It skipped through the rest of the night as we did one more puzzle, ate one more cookie, went pee one more time (even though I wasn't convinced he actually had to) read our scriptures and prayed. And I thanked God for Milo, for his kindness towards Mayli, his support towards me by going to babysitting at the gym so I can train, and finally, for that kiss.

And what would have otherwise been a terrible, challenging day has become a memorable, sweet day and I hope that he'll feel like kissing me tomorrow.

What happens when Milo dresses himself. I may have helped him with the pants and underwear. The shirt's all him.

Motherhood Is...

Motherhood is acid on my soul.

I don’t want to play trains while the bad guys come and chase me but I look at him, my little three year old and I have an overwhelming desire to spare him hurt, to give my time. The desire is like drips of acid corroding my selfishness. Peeking beneath the selfishness is strength and I find that I am able to dig deep inside. I burrow past the fatigue, the boredom, the disinterest and I play. With an amused smile on her face, my newborn daughter watches as I take that yellow choo choo and my son and I zoom through the house, around the couch and we laugh.

My son is angry. He hits me, throws his shoes at my head. He is disappointed in my incompetence – I chose the wrong colored spoon for breakfast. A tsunami of rage fills my veins, and then I feel the acid, the need to teach and not to vindicate. It strips away my impatience, my anger and my yelling. I find I am able to hold him close as he screams and together we breathe.

He’s sick, vomiting across the room and I hold his damp, limp frame and cry. I rock him in the dark wishing I could somehow push all of my love into his sick body forcing out his illness. But, motherhood has consumed any illusion of control and I understand that in agreeing to become a mother I agree to expose my most tender, vulnerable parts of self to the harsh elements of the world. I reluctantly allow my children to face rejection, difficulty and tears because, deep in the innermost part of my soul, I know that it is what they need the most. So I let the acid bore holes in my doubt and fear. I begin to trust that God, with His miraculous power to heal and infinite capacity to love, will put back together what this fallen world takes apart.

Much like acid would do to metal, motherhood dissolves my faults. It makes my heart anxious, my eyes swollen and my knees sore. But despite intermittent discomfort and pain I have faith that what will remain of me will be divine and beautiful and joyful.

So, I look over at my daughter. I tickle her under her chin. She pulls her knees up to her chest and her laughter rings out in short chortling bursts.

I think I hear God.

My son smiles his radiant, effervescent smile as he races around the room.

I think I see God.

I pull my daughter close feeling her soft, warm weight in my arms, her feathery hair on my lips.

In gratitude I close my eyes.

Milo and I are sitting in his closet that he lovingly refers to as "his house". Our backs are pressed up against an enourmous stuffed rhino, with Book of Mormon pictures on our lap. I point to the one of Jesus visiting the people in the Americas. In my most teacher, sweet voice I say, "Jesus is visiting these people. He tells them He loves them. He really loves kids like you!".

Milo replies, "I no like Jesus".

Trying suppress the horror at hearing what every Christian mother hopes she'll never hear I ask, "why don't you like Jesus?"

"He not my favorite."

Pause.

"You my favorite mommy".

And what can I say to that? "I love you too Milo".

I hope Jesus doesn't mind.

Writing

span style="font-weight:bold;">Angels in Your Time of Need

It was the day I looked up at the beam in my basement and the thought "that would hold my weight" sprinted across my mind. I buried my head in my pillow, covered it with a blanket and sobbed. I sobbed because I had thought it and I sobbed because I wanted it. I could hear my 7 week old through two sets of stairs - a duet of hysterical crying. It took over an hour before we had both calmed down and I could go back to my room and pick him up from the 'safe place to cry'. His back was drenched with sweat and I was drenched with guilt.

It was that day that you called telling me you were praying for me and felt that you needed to share 2 Nephi 4:34-35. That answer to your prayer was an answer to mine. I spent the evening soaking in the tub, memorizing the words while you rocked, shushed, and paced. I let the powerful words melt into me and fortify me giving me a hope that over the past few weeks had been foreign. For the first time in weeks I felt that with the Lord anything was possible and with trust I could overcome my pain.

Then you came over and respected my need to hide my tears and pretend like things weren't bad. I don't think I fooled you. Instead of calling me out you took care of things while I took a nap I obviously so desperately needed. You did not know what was going on in my mind but you saved me anyway.

The day after you brought over healthy, chocolate haystack treats. Another deposit in your already large account of good deeds. They went well with the random offer to bring over dinner. You spontaneously called me and asked if I could use another meal. I had lost count by now but I had no shame and accepted, feeling grateful for a good friend.

And now, years later, when frightening, hopeless thoughts have been replaced with joyful, hopeful thoughts, I can see more clearly the time of my need and the way you, all of you, fulfilled a promise made to me that God would provide angels in my time of need. And thanks to you, I know now, what I had only frantically hoped for then, is that God keeps His word.

Independent Thought is Overrated

By 10am this morning I had been yelled at by Milo and hit with a plastic saw. After much negotiation (my part) and sobbing (his part) I managed to finally clean his poopy diaper.

There were tears about what to wear, what show to watch, what time to leave the house and no matter what I did I was unable to make him feel better.

Frustrating indeed.

And coming off a night that held the longest stretch of sleep at 4 hours I find that my capacity to deal with tantrums and different opinions is at a minimum.

Why can't he just do what I want all of the time?

It'd be so much easier if I'd given birth to a robot.

Well, maybe not the birth, but you know what I mean.