The job no one prepared you for...

Usually when I write a blog post, I do so over a matter of days or even weeks. (Truthfully, I have at least five posts that I started last summer and intend to finish someday.) I write a beginning or a basic outline, then fill in details and complete sentences over time. Or I write the first half, get distracted, and don't write the second half for a month. After I've finished a rough draft, I wait a few days, then proofread, change a few things, and then post. That's probably why I post so infrequently.

But occasionally, usually after a night of very little sleep, the whole post just comes out at once. This is one of those times. If you find typos or if this post makes no sense... I'm not surprised. Also, maybe don't read this if you're not a mom yet but hope to be someday. You've been warned.

My two children and I have a particularly nasty cold. (My husband Dan is still healthy, and I'm more than a little jealous.) Lucas (almost three years old) has been sick for over two weeks. He's definitely improving, but he has a lingering cough that still wakes him up at night. I got sick a few days ago, and then four-month-old Calista really came down with it yesterday. By last night, she was miserable. I tried for over four hours to get her to sleep. She would doze off in my arms, but as soon as I would put her down, she would wake up coughing and then cry. I tried her crib, her rock and play (which props her up at an angle,) running a humidifier... nothing helped. The only place she could sleep was in my arms. So I finally gave up and let her sleep in my arms. All night long. I'd love to be able to tell you some pretty lie like, "and I cherished every second" or "These fleeting moments of holding my little darling will be gone all too soon, and I know I will miss them with all my soul, so I just gazed at her sweet face, overwhelmed with love and emotion, while a single tear rolled down my cheek." But the truth is that in the middle of the night, I sent Dan (who was working overnight) a text that said:

Dan and I had dinner at a restaurant with some friends the other day. They have two young children under two years old, so combined we had a total of four kids under age three. The other mom and I were talking, and she confessed that she was finding motherhood to be much harder than she'd expected. "You have a nephew who's older, right?" she asked, "So did you kind of know what to expect?"

It's an interesting question, because before I had Lucas, I totally thought that being an aunt to my sister's son gave me the inside scoop on what it was like to have a baby. My nephew was born when I was 15 years old, and I babysat him a fair amount. I have vivid memories of my tiny nephew crying. I would cradle him gently in my arms, nestle his little head under my chin, and pace the floor while crooning in a sing-song voice, "I'm never going to have kids. No, I'm not. No, I'm not. I love you, I love you, but I'm never going to have kids."

Clearly I needed to work on my lullaby skills.

I waited a full 14 years after his birth to start having children of my own, and when I was pregnant with Lucas, I honestly thought I was Prepared with a capital P. Of course it would be hard. Sure, I'd be tired, But I had experience. I wasn't going in blind like some moms. I knew what to expect.

Poor, naive Bethany.

Not the same thing. At all.

It turns out that there's really no way to be truly, fully prepared for what it's like to have little lives literally dependent on you for survival while you're sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and sure you're screwing everything up. I'm sure there are levels of preparedness. Someone who's worked as a nanny for ten years is likely more prepared for motherhood than someone who has never held a real baby, for example, but it's still hard. And I think it's important to know is that it's hard for everyone. That all the other moms aren't just sailing along, doing the easiest job they've ever done, while you're hiding under your covers crying and eating chocolate.

I tell you this because I know moms who genuinely fear that they are the only one with these struggles. The only mom who has no idea what she's doing. The only mom whose toddler throws twenty-minute-long tantrums. The only mom who is really, really cranky after she's been up all night. The only mom who periodically sends her husband or best friend text messages that say "I'm going to run away and join the circus." So I want to be sure that you know that it's a tough job. For all of us.

Don't get me wrong - there are moments that are so wonderful that I cry. (Although, to be fair, I cry a lot in general.) Lately, Lucas has taken to telling me, "you're the sweetest girl in the whole world," and "you're the best mommy in the whole world," and, "I pick you, Bethany." (I'm not entirely sure what that last one means, but it sounds sweet when he says it.) But it's tough. And when you see other moms (me, for example) post pictures like this on Facebook:

you might be tempted to think, "She has it all together. This is a totally accurate portrayal of her life: two smiling, cooperative children posing sweetly on a floor that is not covered in Cheerios in front of toys that are actually put away." But the only reason you would think that is because I didn't take the time to caption the photo as follows: "This picture was taken on day two of the plague. It was sandwiched in between Lucas screaming for a tissue and spilling cough medicine all over the floor. The Cheerios are on the living room carpet."

So if you're having a rough day or week or... decade, please know that you're not alone and that it definitely doesn't mean that you're failing as a mom. You can do this. But if you find yourself Googling "circus job openings" at 2am, I promise I won't judge you.

A letter to my son, at 22 and a half months

On January 3, I got back from an eleven-day trip visiting various family members in three different cities. You haven't heard from me since then because I had a sick toddler who was trapped in the house because of the weather, and I've been recovering from traveling. Believe me when I tell you that I have some stories coming about our trip... especially because the first part of it was me flying alone with a toddler. Oh, man... there will be stories. But first, this is a letter I started at 5:30am ish the morning we left to come home. Lucas had a pretty bad cough for most of our trip, and he woke himself and me up at 4:15am with a coughing fit, and then couldn't/wouldn't go back to sleep. Dan was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, so I brought Lucas into bed with me, and we talked. For an hour. I was sleep deprived and not looking forward to a day of traveling and had a slight cold, but I actually ended up kind of enjoying it. So... here's what I was thinking while talking to my toddler in what should've been the middle of the night.

This picture was not taken the morning I wrote this letter. But you probably already figured that out.

Dear Lucas,

It's too early to be awake, and the first thoughts I'm having with my eyes still closed are "Please, please let him go back to sleep" followed closely by "Please, please don't let him throw up from coughing... again." Yesterday I was able to prolong a too-short nap by bringing you into bed with me, where you slept cuddled up against me for another two hours. But this morning that plan doesn't work. You are awake, and you want to talk.

You were such an early talker, and now you know so many words. Words that you want to use all the time. You narrate everything you're doing, prefacing each statement with your own pronunciation of your name: Ducas. As you wiggle happily in bed with me, you keep up a running commentary. "Ducas Mama sleeping!" (Even though we clearly aren't. Heads on the pillow is enough for you.) "Sleeping 'gether! Pillow! Blanket!" After you get tired of being still, you move all around the bed, cautioning yourself with "Careful, Ducas! Careful, Ducas!" every time you get too close to the edge.

You say "hungry-gy?" And when I tell you, no, it's not time to eat, it's time to sleep, you respond with, "Yep! Why?" (I'm pretty sure you don't actually know what why means yet, but it doesn't stop you from repeating the phrase "what? why?" on a regular basis.) You decide that the only way you can be comfortable is if your arms are around my neck and your entire torso is on my face, and when you pull on the headboard and then declare it to be "heavy," I am too muffled for you to hear me shush you.

And around 4:45 when I've finally given up on getting any more sleep before the alarm goes off at 5:20, it occurs to me that the older ladies who say "enjoy every moment" (in a tone that indicates that they've definitely forgotten what it feels like to be vomited on) might be on to something. Because - although you will hopefully not always wake me up at ridiculous hours - you will also outgrow the desire to be held in my arms for hours on end. And right now, before the sun or any well-rested human is awake, I can hold you as close as I want for as long as I want. Right now, I am your favorite person who ever lived. And when I remember that this is fleeting, I can enjoy it in spite of the lack of sleep.

I love you, "Ducas." I'm so glad I'm your mommy. But I think I should warn you that between how much you talk and how much I talk, there's a good chance that we might drive your daddy crazy.

Love,
Mommy

Feel free to click here out of sympathy for my lack of sleep.

Happy Anniversary to Us!

Seven years ago today, I said "I do" to the man of my dreams. There are a lot of cheesy things I could say about him and about us...

... and about our little family.

But mostly, I would just like to say: I love you, Dan. And I still can't quite believe how much I lucked out when you got down on one knee in the snow and asked me to be your wife. I have absolutely adored spending the first seven years of the rest of my life with you, and if I had it to do all over again, I'd marry you again in a heartbeat.

Photo credit: Jenni Grace Photography

A letter to my son, at nearly 21 months

At least three times a week, I think "I need to document this in the baby book!" And then I don't. So, here's a letter to Lucas... just so I don't forget how precious he is at this very moment.

11-12-13

Dear Lucas,

Oh my goodness, baby boy! Never in my life did I think that I could be so impressed by someone who can't even put on his own socks yet.

You are hilarious and creative and oh so smart. Every time we're out in public, at least one person comments on how well you speak - how clearly you pronounce your words, and how many words you know. Out of all of the many, many words you say, some of my favorites are:

    "Sure!" (and when you're very emphatic, "Yeah-kay! Sure!" as in, "Lucas, do you want some cheese? "Yeah-kay! Sure!")

    "Huggin!" Said any time you want a hug, which is very often. You even love hugging me from your high chair with one arm while you feed yourself with the other.

    "Cryin." You always announce to me when you've been crying, even if it's a fake cry and you're doing it in front of me. It's like a play-by-play of your emotions. As your emotional mommy, I can appreciate that.

    "Toot!" You also announce when you, well, toot. It's kind of hilarious.

    "Misi!" Lucas for "excuse me."

    "Fun!" Any time you are having fun, you let us know. It's adorable.

    "Cited!" Lucas for "excited." Which you are, often! Like the other day, when you were on the phone with your grandma. She asked you what you ate for dinner, and when you said "noodles," she responded with "I'm having noodles, too." Your eyes got wide, and you said "Cited! Cited!"

You can count to ten, and I have no idea if that makes you advanced or not, because I refuse to look it up; I know I'm going to think you're a tiny genius no matter what the "experts" say. You love Elmo and kitties, lawnmowers (and pretending that any box large enough for you to sit in is a lawnmower), other kids, talking on the phone (for real or for pretend), and jumping. You are definitely a mamma's boy, but you also love your daddy like crazy and try to be like him in ways that make me laugh and smile a little bigger than my face can handle.

You love books. If you are quiet for long periods of time when left to yourself, it's almost always because you're looking at books (often while sitting in a box or basket.) I'm sure that this will get me into trouble someday because I'll assume you're reading when in reality you're throwing things in the toilet, but I love that you already love to read... just like mommy.

You (finally) enjoy bedtime, and you talk to yourself in your crib long after I put you to bed. You have more energy than you (or I) know what to do with, and you love to walk back and forth across the living room while holding my (and/or Daddy's) hand. You will reach towards our hands, say "walkin? walkin?" and then when we put out our hands for you to grab, you will speed walk and intentionally fall over while laughing.

Some days you make me realize that I really need to learn to have more patience, but I couldn't wish for a more lovable teacher. I'm so glad that I get to be your mommy, little love. I'm looking forward to seeing all of the amazing things you'll do in your life.

I love you. Always.

Love,
Mommy

Love Letters

Dan and I sponsor two girls through an organization called Compassion. Sorieth is 13 and lives in Honduras. We've sponsored her since 2007. Tina is 17 and lives in India, and we've sponsored her since 2009.

There are a lot of things I could say about how they have fewer possessions and opportunities than we do and less money. About how when we send them relatively small amounts of money through Compassion, they send back photos of themselves surrounded by all of the things they were able to buy with the money: a table and chairs, shoes, a new dress, food for the whole family, plates and bowls, sheets, personal hygiene products and an umbrella. I could tell you that for $38 a month - less than what you might pay for one dinner out with your family - you can pay for schooling, medical care and food for a child and make sure that they hear about Jesus. I could mention that Charity Navigator gives Compassion four out of four stars for financial health, accountability and transparency and that 84% of all the donations Compassion receives go directly towards their programs to help children in poverty (instead of towards, say, the electric bill or a CEO's multi-million dollar salary.)

But instead, I'd like to show you this:

These are just some of the letters we've received from "our" girls. (The binder on the left is filled with letters that I didn't feel like taking out, and there are more letters in a box that I have temporarily misplaced. Because I'm disorganized.) The letters tell us about their lives and ask about ours. They let us know that Sorieth and Tina were praying for Dan's medical school graduation, our move to Ohio, and a healthy pregnancy and a safe delivery for me and Lucas. They tell us that Tina got to ride a train for the first time and that she's enjoying her karate class, and that Sorieth's favorite song is "Little Duck Juan." And they tell us over and over again that something really simple like giving a few dollars and writing a few letters makes a huge difference in the lives of girls who were born into poverty. A recent letter written to us by Sorieth's mom ends with, "I thank you so much for being so special with my daughter, and I pray God to bless you abundantly. I love you very much. Until next letter, Mirian."

This month, Compassion is hosting "Blog Month," and they are hoping to find sponsors for 3,160 more children through blogs like mine. There are thousands of children who were born into poverty and who are waiting for help from someone like you. I'd encourage you to click the button below and help release a child from poverty in Jesus' name. (And I promise to return to my regularly scheduled randomness very soon.)

A letter to my son, at 17 and a half months.

I wrote this the other day and then didn't get around to posting it because Lucas woke up from his nap a very angry elf. I haven't really edited it, so, you know... grace, please.

8/4/2013

Dear Lucas,

We’ve had our fair share of tears, you and I, and I know there are more to come. I’ve had some moments in the middle of the night that I wouldn’t relive, even if someone paid me. I know it sounds better to say that I’ve loved every minute of motherhood, but the truth is that there have been moments where motherhood didn’t feel so great. Temper tantrums and sleepless nights and cranky days that I’m glad are over.

I wouldn’t rewind time, but there are plenty of moments that I’d love to pause it for an hour or so. Today you have a slight fever: not a legitimate fever that “counts” as far as the thermometer is concerned (99.6), but a fever that your mommy can feel when she touches your forehead and warm tummy. Even your daddy, the ER doctor, pointed out that studies have shown that mommies are almost always right about their children having a fever based on the warmth of their skin alone, and he’s more inclined to believe me than the thermometer. You seem healthy otherwise, besides being slightly more emotional than normal and a bit tired. I put you down for your nap half an hour early because you were too tired to wait any longer – so tired that we skipped the bedtime stories and went straight to rocking in our chair in the darkened room while I sang “Jesus Loves Me.” Your head was on my shoulder, and after tossing and turning, you found a comfortable spot – head on my shoulder against my neck, belly pressed against my chest, legs straddling my waist, arms spread wide, sippy cup still clutched in your hand. I thought you had fallen asleep, but when I finished the third verse and rocked you to the soft whir of the air purifier, your little voice asked “gi?” – your version of “again?” And I sang all three verses again slowly, while your breathing slowed and then turned to soft snores. I rocked you longer than I knew was necessary, and I briefly considered rocking you for your whole nap, but you sleep longer if you’re in your crib, and you need the rest. But as I rocked you, I thought that I would like to just pause the moment for a little longer so that I could savor the feeling of your twenty-four pounds relaxed against me while you slept.

Last night after a full and busy day with some friends, I took you out of the car, dressed in orange striped pajamas, and you asked for your daddy, whom you hadn’t seen all day because of a 12-hour shift at the hospital. He came to hug you, and then I said I would put you to bed, and you pushed against me with one arm while reaching for your daddy with the other and said “no!” So your daddy put you to bed instead, and my heart almost burst at how much I love you both and how much you love each other. I would’ve paused that moment, too. You wanting your daddy, and me watching the two of you walk toward the house with your head on his shoulder.

Although I don’t want to do them over again, I can even look back at the sleepless nights with something approaching fondness. There were a few times that I was so desperate to get every second of sleep I could that after the fourth or fifth or tenth time I got up to nurse you, instead of walking back to the bedroom I share with your daddy, I curled up on the floor of your room on a pile of blankets. I was miserable at the time, but looking back, I can’t help but smile at the exhausted mommy sleeping on the floor. At least once, when you were eight months old and teething, you slept on the floor with me, on top of a blanket and my arm, which had lost all feeling from your weight on top of it, but which didn’t seem worth the risk of waking you in order for it to have sensation below the elbow.

So this letter is me pausing time for just a minute so I can cherish all of your toddler sweetness. You Skype-ing with Aunt Ginny and cousin Jacob today and crying because Jacob (or “Juba,” as you called him) left the screen so you couldn’t see him anymore. You laughing a deep, can’t-breathe belly laugh at some of the things that you currently find hilarious – kisses and tickles and peekaboo and being chased and our little joke that we say at least ten times a day: me saying, “Lucas, I’m going to love you even when you’re big and stinky,” and you responding with an enthusiastic “Pee-YEW!” You kissing books and toys and my feet with a loud “mmmm-MA!”

Keep growing and changing, my baby love. But maybe slow down just a little, please. 

I love you with all my heart and then some.

Love,

Mommy