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.

While You Were Out

While Milo was baking bread with Nonna and fixing the humidifier with Nonno Mayli and I had a photo shoot. In between naps, snacks and reading, of course.

What I Love About You

I love how you stretch your arms high above your head, arch your back and purse your lips.

I love how you stare at me so intently with your dark brown eyes as though trying to place me as though we've met before.

I love how those same eyes look as though they're laughing at some secret joke that only you are privy to.

I love how sweetness and calm emanate from you making me breathe deeply and pause for just a moment.

Each developmental milestone is the same for each baby and being through all of them once before made me question whether they'd still hold their magic. I catch one of your smiles and I know that they do. I love your smiles and am filled with a spark of joy each time I see one.

I love how you tolerate your older brother and his high energy and noise. You never flinch when he runs by, yelling and screaming. You have started to smile when he kicks open your door and shouts "Hi Mayli!!!!" when you wake in the morning.

I especially love your facial expressions like the one where you crease your eyebrows when I'm trying to make you smile. It's like your saying, "is that all you've got?" or "that's not funny" or "are you crazy lady?".

I love that you sleep. What more can I say?

I love it when you latch on when we're lying in bed and you're so close and so noisy with your gulping and sucking. I stroke your soft, velvet head and close my eyes.

You have shown me that having a newborn can be sweet and lovely and peaceful. That, I love.

I love how you're reforming me. Pulling me closer to God with a desire to read His word so I can better teach you. Pulling me closer to myself and what it means to be a woman, strong and free from the traps of guilt and self loathing. Really believing that I'm a daughter of God and that alone makes me good enough to be loved, to be heard, to be seen.

I love that you chose to come to earth and I love that you were sent to me.

And that is what I love about you.

All in a Day's Work

Nothing makes me feel like am an amazing mother more than watching my child do chores. (Except for maybe hiding quinoa in his oatmeal). Supposedly adult success can be attributed to whether or not a child did chores from ages 3-5. My kid is getting a head start.





I was unable to get a picture of him bringing in the groceries and putting them in the fridge. Too busy barking orders.
PS - I just realized he's naked/semi naked in many of these pictures. He's potty training. I typically do dress my child. Sometimes.

Grieving the Perfect Day

It was perfect.

The way he grinned as I poked my head in his room to say good morning. I sat on the edge of his bed as he earnestly told me how daddy was at the Book Choo Choo (Indigo) buying him a helicopter in his grey car. I gently let him down explaining that daddy was at the office but we could go downstairs for cheerios!! We held hands, our morning ritual, as we walked to the steps. I watched him get to the bottom as I waited to receive the go ahead to come down.

We played choo choo for a while. Using the coins from our piggy bank he paid to get water or cross the bridge. He gave me pennies while he clenched the toonie firmly in his hand.

Then he abruptly stood up and said, "cheer" and went over to the couch. Using the guidance from his fire truck choo choo I pulled out the cheerios, milk, bowl and spoon. Then began our morning routine. Me, sitting down first and then Milo, sidling up and plopping his bum in my lap. I held the bowl while he slowly ate the cheerios, frequently distracted by the allure of Umi Zoomi and their math powers.
We sat like this for over an hour. His legs crossed over mine, relaxing and laughing at the funny parts.

Then back to the trains. He wanted to do a photo shoot and we took turns taking pictures of each other with my iPhone. He even let me hold Big Dog.






I asked him if he wanted to go to Book Choo Choo but surprisingly he said no. So we stayed home and went to the basement and while I put toys in boxes he came behind me and threw them around the basement. I worked on the recycling instead. Less tempting to throw I guess.

I talked with Maria as he played and when he was ready we came upstairs and he finger painted with water colors. I made a pizza and then we sat on the couch once again, familiar and at ease, munching on pizza.

Then he went for a nap and I could hear him driving his truck into his wall and talking and probably looking out the window for at least an hour. At 6pm I found him on the floor, curled up with his bum in the air. I couldn't resist texting a picture to Hunter despite the cost.


And that was my perfect day with my perfect companion. It was so simple and sweet and I was acutely aware that it might be one of the last before he becomes a big brother and I am no longer a mother to one child.

I feel sad when I think of that. I feel a sense of grief and mourning because it is a death. A death of what we've known for the past two years and almost 11 months. No longer will it just be Milo and I hanging out at the mall or Heritage Park or pilfering off Indigo. It won't be the three of us singing "Head Shoulders Knees and Toes" at dizzying speeds during Family Home Evening. Everything will change. There are many unknowns.

For instance, will we still be able to cuddle on the couch and eat cheerios together? Will we go on dates to Ikea or the park? Maybe we will. Maybe we won't. I don't know.

But in this death there is an amazing birth, both literal and figurative. And it's all for the better. For example: I think I'll feel a little relief when Milo talks to his baby sister instead of to his stuffed dog. Or, in all seriousness, when I think of the extraordinary joy Milo has contributed to this world just by being himself, I can't help but think that it will be same with this baby girl. The world will be improved with her presence and life will be enriched in ways I can't imagine.

So, who can be sad when a death brings a joy like that?

Show Down

There was no way I could go up there.

Those McDonald's play structures are an abyss of plastic and germs and heaven forbid your kid gets lost in there because there is no coming out. Even worse in when your kid refuses to come down. I said, "two more times down the slide and we need to go". Well, he didn't want to go so he used that problem solving brain of his and decided to never come down.

Ten minutes later: "Come down Milo. Come down the slide" I'd call out. He'd just happily ignore me and continue playing with the wipers in the the elevated truck cab. Then he moved over to the helicopter and started spinning the propeller. "Come down Milo!" he'd just smile and continue on his way.

I started to panic. There's no way my 35 week pregnant body was going to get up into that play structure. There's no way a non-pregnant body could go up there. Trust me, I've tried.

So, he had the upper hand and that kid knew it. Twenty minutes pass and he still keeps ignoring me. What do I do? What do I do? It's thirty minutes now and I'm well aware that all of the other parents at that playground are convinced I'm a super push over. I text Hunter. "What should I do?" and he texts back "give him a spanking"! I text back, "he'll laugh at me!" and besides, how am I going to get at his little bum? He's hiding in a play structure 15 feet off the ground and I can't touch him!!!!

Then I did what every shamed faced parent does. Bribe. I repeated once more, "Come down right now!" and he replies, "NOOOOOOO" and I say, "when you get down do you want an ice cream"? Quiet. "YEAH!!! EYE!" (that's how he says ice cream).

I hear a pitter patter of feet and within seconds he and his dog have landed at the bottom of the slide. I wasn't sure if I should throttle him or laugh.

We leave the playground and I'm filled with conflict. I don't want to give that kid ice cream. Next thing you know he'll be whispering to my fetus, "hey, you want a tip? If you want ice cream just blatantly ignore Mommy. Works like a charm every time"!!!!

So I reneged on my offer. I said, "You were not good at listening to mommy" and he solemnly nodded his head. "You can have ice cream next time but not today" and he solemnly nodded his head once more.

So we left with both of our tempers intact but I sort of lied and definitely bribed to achieve that. I admit there is a smidgen of shame in my heart. But, I tell myself, at least we didn't have to stay for dinner.

Kids Are Like Wine, They Get Better With Age

No doubt he was cute. All 6lbs 14 ounces of him. He could fit from the nape of my neck to the top of my pubic bone and I could easily brush my lips against his warm, feathery head. And he would cry lots, and barely sleep but he was beautiful. And I thought, this is all there is.

Then he got older and he would stay up late and make all the ladies smile at wedding receptions. He would sleep more which some how made him infinitely more delightful and he would smile his smile and I'd swoon. I couldn't help it.



Then he was doing so many things. Sleeping for one thing. He rarely, if ever woke during the night and he started walking and making sounds and climbing into the dishwasher and clothes dryer (well, I may have put him there but he loved it)! I adored watching him pull things from drawers and cupboards,and removing rubber door stops with his teeth. He's so clever, that one.



And then, it just got better and better with trips to Heritage Park, and play dates with friends and blowing unsolicited kisses. And I thought, wow, maybe he does love me. He even began to cuddle. Sitting long enough for me to be reminded of the early days. He was heavier and he didn't fit my torso but he was still all mine.



And now he's so big. He throws shoes at my head when angry and says sorry when he throws his train. He gives directions from the back seat while I drive and he insists I change my clothes if he doesn't like them. He yells, "Red stop!!" at red lights and "Green Go" at green lights. He laughs when cartoons fall down and when he pushes his trains off his bed. He is concerned when babies cry and he starts making a whimpering sound when Clifford the Big Red Dog is sad. He pedals his tricycle while yelling, "fast!! fast!!!" and he runs. Oh how he runs. I'm not sure if he can actually walk because everywhere we go he runs the same hop/skip, gallop sort of run that makes me wish I could freeze him as he is right now.

And I can say that since his birth the taste of him has become deeper and more full. It is tangy and sweet with the occasional, but rare, bitter residue and I can say that I've always loved him but I can also say that I love him even more now. Yes indeed, my kid gets better and better with age.

The Overwhelming Benevolence of Mark

It all started with a story around the dinner table.

I was recounting a trip down the cereal aisle at Superstore when all of a sudden Milo starts gesturing excitedly. I turn to where he was pointing and there it was. The pink, beautiful parrot in all it's sugary glory. Not just any parrot but the Fruit Loops Parrot. He had never seen it before, never tasted it before and yet he could not resist the alluring, multicolored, seducing box. I thought, "damn you, you evil marketers that manipulate and exploit children. Hope you enjoy hell. I will never succumb to your wiles".

Looks like I don't need to because Milo has uncles.

I shared this story at the family retreat, the weekend of Jun 16-19th and Mark, in his overwhelming benevolence, purchased a box and placed it on top of the refrigerator just waiting, biding his time to facilitate the box's entrance. Hunter and I warily ignored it but on the last day it was taken down, opened up and placed in full view.

Forget about croissant french toast, forget about fresh succulent fruit Milo saw it and it was as though they were the only two things in this world. "UHHH, UHHH" he yelled pointing to the creepy parrot and we knew we had lost the battle. We poured some out, hoping he'd find it repulsive and after the first bite he expelled: "ummm, ummm. Nummy". He couldn't forget about it all day. He had fruit loops for breakfast and lunch and a couple days later while going down that very same cereal aisle he stopped and pointed to his new found friend and said "mine, mine!!"

Desperately trying to avert a melt down I thought of many ways to distract him, but to no avail so finally I said "Sorry. You can only have it when Mark's in town. He has to buy it for you". And resigned, Milo turned away and I grinned, congratulating myself on my cleverness because I won the war.

ps- Hope you bring a box next time we see you Mark!

Gorgeous, Gorgeous!!!!

Several months ago we went swimming at the local Y we frequently haunt. I swam laps while Hunter and Milo splashed and zoomed down the slide. There were a group of women in the viewing area watching them and after a while they stopped Hunter and said "he's (referring to Milo, not Hunter. That'd be inappropriate) so cute! What nationality is he?" Hunter replied, "Italian and Chinese" at which point the ladies clapped their hands and exclaimed, "HANDSOME, HANDSOME! He's so HANDSOME!".

Well now, next time we go swimming we'll have another baby and if those ladies are there they'll exclaim "GORGEOUS, GORGEOUS!!" because this baby is a girl!!! Meet our little Mai Li.

If It's Worth Telling

My motto for this blog is that if it's a story worth telling it's a story worth writing. So where to start? Just the other night I was sitting in bed with Hunter almost falling asleep when I jumped awake and exclaimed "I forgot to tell you what Milo did today!".

Nonno and he were washing the BMW and while dad was leaning over to wipe Milo grabbs the nozzle, points the gun at Nonno and shoots. He sprays water all over him with a radiant grin. Nonno decided to finish washing while Milo napped.

I laughed and laughed marveling at his comic genius. How does a two year old know what's funny? How does he know how to tease? Sure, sure, he mimics and follows what we do but I've never sprayed him in the head with a hose. He did that all on his own. My little Seinfeld in the making.