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.