Magnificent Mondays

Monday, the beginning of the week. The return to the blessed routines and structures that govern our lives. It brings with it a certain sense of peace and comfort, knowing that reality has settled and you're busy days are once again dictated by the steady tick of the clock. You, my friend, are just along for the ride. I love Mondays. I would love them even more if they fit their wondrous meaning for me. Unfortunately, shift work is a jumble of uncertainty and my "Monday" is often a Saturday or a Wednesday and there are days I feel completely lost. And yet today I find myself experiencing this day to its full extent. Jonathan is off, so for us it is really a Saturday, but he is sleeping. And if there is one thing I am realizing, it is that with children, the routine goes on. Caleb does not just "sleep in" for me on a Saturday. No, he is a like a little bird who chirps his dire needs to me until I am reduced to the state of awareness. Selah does not ignore her instincts to feed in the middle of the night. No, young children make every day a Monday. And those rare times where you take them out of their comfortable environment of routine and structure, the "joy" of your excursion is quickly replaced by anxiety.

Take yesterday for example. Jonathan had a benefit basketball game in Grand Forks. Greatly anticipating getting out of our sleepy little town, I could tell he very much so wanted me to come along. And so it was that I found myself getting up early so that I could get ready. Getting the children ready. Packing snacks. Packing toys. Making sure there were diapers and blankets and coats and hats, and the list went on. Finally ready, we were off. The real fun didn't start until we got there. We were a little bit early, so we walked around, trying to get Caleb to walk off some of his abounding energy. Time? 1pm. At 2, Jonathan got to leave the outrageous responsibility of keeping a 1 year old quiet and contained when there are bouncing balls flying at him... and go to warm up. Leaving me... alone. The routine? Shattered. Selah, having missed her nap, is crying if anyone even dares to look in her emotional direction. Caleb, squealing "daddy daddy daddy" is consistently running out to the court, anxious to be just like his dad. And so, with my daughter strapped to my front, my son kicking at my hip, and toys and food littering the floor, the game began. The commencing hours are really a little bit of a blur to me. I do remember having a thin sheen of sweat on my body the entire time. As I raced after Caleb, stressed over my screaming daughter, trying to keep a semblance of control over my little family... I realized that no other mothers of toddlers had brought their adorable children. Ah, to be home. Half time brought Jonathan into the back room, wondering with disdain and disappointment, why I wasn't out there watching him play. Needless to say, we got through it. I think my blood pressure was a little bit elevated. But during the second half, I simply allowed my exhaustion to show, and I had a number of willing helpers to aide my son in watching the game. Why couldn't that have happened in the beginning? And yet, during all of this upheaval, I heard for the FIRST time!!! My son call my name. Someone had lovingly picked him up before he ran into the middle of the court and he started crying... they said "oh, do you want your mama" and so it was that I heard my son giggle in anticipation as he cried out "mama, mama!" Never has my heart been so full as at that moment. So he does know who I am!!!! Arriving home, with tired kids and an injured husband, I felt satisfied and content. This is what life is all about. Defying the structure that keeps us comfortable and reaching out to accept God's little miracles that lie just outside of our comfort zone.

And so, despite the craziness and wonder of our Sunday, I must say that as I drink my coffee, listen to my kids play happily... I am SOOOOO thankful that it is once again Monday.

Rediscovering the Wonder

As I sit warm and cozy in my home, I gaze out the window to the blustery cold day. Snow drifts down in lazy circles before finding its final resting place on the earth below. My son sits beside me, in awe of the transformation taking place before his very eyes. The brown, dry ground is replaced by a vibrant white layer of snow, and all he can do is stare. And I practically vibrate in anticipation of the next day when I can show him firsthand what snow really is.

Thinking back on my life, I realize that winter was never one of my favorite seasons. In fact, I remember being only 6 or 7 years old and when all my brothers and sisters would be itching to go outside, I would have much rathered sit inside with a book to read. Even last year, my motivation to venture out-of-doors was greatly diminished with a four-month-old son. I didn't want him to get too cold, it was too much work to get him dressed up, it was too difficult to push the stroller through the snowbanks... the excuses were seemingly endless. And so it was that I spent much of my time warm and cozy within the confines of my comfortable little home. This year, everything has changed. My son is no longer the content little boy he once was. Instead he is vibrant and full of life. Every morning he begs me with a look of hopeful eagerness in his eyes, "ousi???" (that is outside for those of you who do not understand the great and wonderful speech of a child). And all of a sudden, I feel a tingle of that same anticipation. There is so much to show Caleb! So much he hasn't seen. All of a sudden, my little baby has grown into an exploring toddler, my little sponge ready to absorp all I am willing to teach him. And as we stoop down to examine a leaf, or some grass, or this new fresh landscape of snow, I am beginning to 'rediscover the wonder' of this incredible world around me. How many times have I walked past the bugs on the sidewalk, or ignored the birds flying overhead???? Not anymore, my son makes sure I don't miss these little miracles that happen everyday. Everything is new, everything is interesting, and it drives me out of my comfortable "nest" and into the cold, blustery world where there are countless things to discover together. And so it is, that Selah, too young to notice or care, is bundled up each and every day and taken out with her brother. She sits bound to my chest as she stares in awe at the world around her. She gasps and blinks with the gusting wind, she squints at the glowing sun, and I know that she too is learning about this marvellous world around her.

And so, despite my inbred desire to curl up on the couch and read a book, my kids give me the motivation and desire that all have failed to instill within me... and I am finally able to defy that inner instinct in favor of the "wonder" of the world outside my four walls. Happy discovering!

Kids, kids everywhere

"We want more kids" says Angelina Jolie, mother of 6. "a big family is the best gift you could ever ask for or imagine" says some unknown famous family with 7 children (read in a magazine somewhere). And all I can think of as I read these ridiculous excerpts is: "well sure you love having tons of kids, you have a nanny! All you have to do is take them to the park and see their smiles and then pass them off when they are bothering you. Not too shabby indeed." Having all those children on your own... that is another issue. I sit here, drinking my coffee in one of the VERY few moments of peace and quiet I have in my day. Add some more kidlets and those moments will be virtually non-existent! My life with two under two is crazy enough as it is!

And yet, as I was in Walmart not too long ago, I saw a mother with 8 children, all under 10 (ahhh!). The 6 year old was holding onto the 3 year old. The 8 year old was holding the one year old. They were waiting so patiently in line with a cart heaped to enourmous and unbelievable heights. And I thought to myself... I could see myself with that many kids. That is not to say we are going to have eight children, but it sparked a flame somewhere inside that cannot be quenched, I want a big family. Every morning the kids wake up, I am exhausted and a little bit grumpy, but as soon as I see their smiling faces at the sight of me, it brightens my day. Selah cooes and laughs and talks to me, Caleb gives me a big kiss and I think to myself, 'What better way to spend my time and energy than investing in these incredible kids' lives???' And so, despite the fact that I am living off sleepless nights and harried mornings, I force myself to stop, sit down, and thank God for these incredible little blessings he has placed in my life. I would not trade a minute of my craziness for someone else's calm.

Well, my moment of silence has officially ended. My daughter is crying, my son is adoring her with his pokes and loving 'whacks' and my house is a nightmare. So until my next peaceful 'time out' I bid you farewell!

Surviving Sunday

Church. A simple word, and yet one that strikes fear into the heart of most mothers with toddlers. Can't relate? Allow me to expand on this topic...

The morning was cold and gray, the sun not yet up, and yet it was that my son decided to begin his morning "scream fest" at 6:30am. Mentally gathering the strength to survive "Sunday at the Spooners" I rolled out of bed to begin our daily rituals. Having read about the routine of the day in my previous posts, I will spare you the gory details. However, let it be known that doing even menial tasks in the early morning seems nearly impossibly. I try to fit in a shower, dress the kids, feed the kids, change the kids, all in a timely manner. And before we know it, it is 9:30 and time to begin our trek. Getting Caleb dressed and ready to go, I shoo him out to the porch so that I can get Selah strapped up in peace. So far so good. Gathering our many armloads of baby gear, we finally trek out the door, ready for whatever the day throws at us. It was then that I discovered that all of our shoes, I mean ALL of them, had been eloquently thrown off the porch by my adoring son. Sighing, with Selah in the carrier, I try akwardly to bend down and retrieve the mess before the neighbors start "talking" about the appalling state of our front lawn. Getting this task over with, we began the tedious walk to church. Of course, with Caleb's new found walking capabilities, it took us nearly half an hour of investigating every blade of grass, pebble, etc. and of course, stopping to announce that we had heard a car or seen a bird. Sigh... patience anyone? Finally arriving at our destination, we manage to find a way into the building and are bombarded with the welcoming joy of our little church. Feeling the effects of the morning, we find a place to sit and out comes the food to keep caleb relatively quiet...

It didn't take long for his "joyous singing" to cause us to leave to go to the nursery. And here I stayed throughout the rest of the service. Being right in the midst of nap time, I desperately try to keep two screaming kids happy in the tiny room at the back, counting down the minutes until we can leave again. Sound familiar? Finally, we hear the last song being sung, and I packed up the kids, rushing to the door before it got too crowded and I couldn't make it through. And that, my friends, is my weekly church experience. Each week I am left wondering why I braved it to go out at all. I don't hear the sermon, I don't get to participate in fellowship, the only plus side is that it gets us out of the house and the kids sleep better for me in the afternoon. Kind of sad isn't it???? Despite my lack of participation in the service however, I can't help but feel a little bit refreshed. Did I say refreshed???? After that fiasco? Yes, I come home feeling a little bit of the presence of God. And lately I feel as though he has been telling me that he will honor my committment to come each week. And even if I don't feel like it is worth it, God blesses me anyways. So there it is, my reason for going each week. God is so good to us and the few weeks I feel that "it isn't worth it" are the weeks that I feel depressed and lonely sitting in my little house as I watch the smiling faces walking to church.

So, we will go. Braving weather, thrown shoes, and screaming kids... if only for a taste of the presence of God we will go. And one day, when my kids are a bit older, or we go to a church where there is a nursery... I will have the opportunity to worship alongside a congregation of believers once again.

Victorious Parenting... does it exist?

I am beginning to wonder if there is such thing as retribution, you know, what goes around comes around????? All of Caleb's early life was like a ride in the park. He didn't cry, he slept through the night when he was only 12 weeks old (12 hour stretches even), he would wake up cheerful and play in his crib for sometimes a full hour before he wanted to be picked up, and all was well. Other parents would demand to know how I managed to maintain such an easy-going boy when they were battling their little ones for every little thing. I knew it was by nothing I did or didn't do, Caleb just fit the mold of the "perfect little baby". Last night Selah slept through the night for one of the first times in her young life... and hows this for irony???? Caleb got up at least 4 times screaming at the top of his lungs. He no longer sleeps in until 8, even though he is exhausted and not getting near enough sleep, he is battling me on every front he possibly can. He wakes up screaming as though the sky is falling instead of smiling and happy. I suppose this is a normal age and stage in a toddlers young life with teething and simply being contrary to the best of his/her ability. But it doesn't change the fact that I am exhausted and frustrated.

Which brings me to another interesting point, victorious parenting. I use this label for those milestones (sleeping through the night, self-soothing, weaning, potty training, etc.) we all try so hard to help our babies achieve. If there is one thing I have noticed, it is that these little guys are too smart for their own good. My theory? They succumb to your will only until you think that you have won, then they daze and confuse you until you think that you are the one who is in control, when really they are now holding the remote. Take sleeping through the night for example. You finally get this down and they seem to follow along for a week or so, then they rebel. And instead of thinking the worst of your precious baby, you think the worst of yourself. Maybe they are growing and hungry? Maybe they are thirsty? What if they are teething? What if they had a bad dream? and on and on it goes, the second guessing, the guilt... and once again your "little angel" has won. Then there is weaning... what a roller coaster that is. I have been trying to wean Caleb off the bottle for a month now, we used to give it to him at night, then he started waking up in the middle of the night for his "fix" and we would constantly cave thinking he needed it. Realize our stupidity, we cut him off (which was actually easier than we thought). However, every now and then, usually when teething season is in full bloom, in exhaustion and desperation that he is going to wake up his sister, I find myself plodding to the kitchen at 2 in the morning, fixing another bottle. When does it end? It would be really great if they had some sort of electronic monitoring that could tell you what (if anything) was wrong with your child so you knew if you needed to act or if they were just pulling your leg... I am sure one day that device will exist. But until then, I suppose I am stuck with the old fashioned way... one guess after another.

Happy Guessing!

Life as a Mountie's Wife

The alarm clock (being my adorable little one year old) sounds off like a siren. Time to get up. I roll over and grunt, hoping that my adoring husband will take the hint and take care of our early-morning riser. Unfortunately, instead of feet rushing to do as I wish, I hear the unmistakable sound of the blanket shuffle as he turns his back to me in defiance of my simple request. Beginning my morning with a grudge of frustration, I sigh as loudly as I can as I throw the blankets aside and rise to fulfill my role as wife and mother. The feminist inside of me screams to be heard and as I listen to her Wiley whispers of injustice, I resent my "role" all the more. Growing up in a feminist world with feminist views and a cultural shift to "fairness" and "equality", I constantly find my perspective shifting towards the world in which I was raised. However, I have been reading a book lately called "Created to be His Help-Meet" by Michael and Debbie Pearle that wars with this ingrained viewpoint. As the wife of an RCMP officer, I find that this theory is tested at every angle, and I cannot say that I am yet at peace with what my role represents.

The reality, I am not like other wives, and my husband is not like other husbands. It is not an easy thing for most people to understand. We talk to other couples and hear how the dads help out with bedtime routine and bath time and feeding, etc. etc. etc. In our house, there is no schedule that Jonathan can be a part of. He works some days, and some nights, he is called out, he is sleeping. There is no method to the madness in our house, and there are days that it drives me nearly crazy!!!!! Don't get me wrong, he helps out when he can, but I feel like that is a rare occurrence when he is constantly "on the clock". And worse than my own frustrations, is the misunderstanding of our families and friends. "What, he doesn't help you do baths??? He doesn't know Caleb's intricate schedule?" etc. etc. etc. No, no he doesn't. He isn't around enough to know how things work in this house. And it is frustrating, yes, but it is our lives and we adjust and work around it. I am a relatively self-sufficient woman. I don't necessarily need Jonathan every waking minute to help me with the day-to-day running of the family and household. Why? How can it be???? Because I have never had him there for me to miss.

I know it won't be like this forever, and I know that there is a definite upside to this career that my husband has chosen. He works so hard for us. And despite the fact that I am left to do a bit more than the "typical family" I get stability in return. Does this stop me from occasionally resenting the load I feel like I carry? No. But it only takes a hot cup of coffee, my sons adoring smile, and a couple hours of reflection to put things back into perspective.

Hollow Halloween

Halloween, harmless fun or open door to something far more dangerous? Never before have I felt as conflicted about this holiday. I suppose never before has it been much of an issue without kids. This year, Jonathan and I both stated that we didn't really want our family to celebrate halloween. However, without making a concrete decision on this matter, I couldn't resist dressing Caleb up a little and letting him help me hand out the candy to all the little kids. Squealing in delight each time someone new came and staring in wonder at their crazy get-ups, I knew that it was time for us to make a firm decision and stick with it. So I did a little research on this much-loved holiday and what it represents.

Defined on the internet, Halloween (or all Hallows Eve) is when the spiritual world and the natural world become one. It has its origins as an ancient celtic festival (Samhain) in which the dead would threaten the living. The people would throw the bones of slaughtered animals on their bonfires and wear masks and costumes to mimic the evil spirits and appease them. The jack-o-lantern, another common and seemingly harmless tradition of this holiday, also has a dark representation. Believing that the head was the most powerful part of the body, containing your spirit, the Celts used the head of the vegetable to ward off evil spirits. "The name jack-o'-lantern can be traced back to the Irish legend of Stingy Jack,^[9] a greedy, gambling, hard-drinking old farmer. He tricked the devil into climbing a tree and trapped him by carving a cross into the tree trunk. In revenge, the devil placed a curse on Jack, condemning him to forever wander the earth at night with the only light he had: a candle inside of a hollowed turnip." (see website http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Halloween for more information.)

Needless to say, as I watched dozens of innocent little children walking around dressed as witches and goblins and ghosts, I couldn't help but feel a little hollow myself. I want to make it very clear that I do not judge anyone who chooses to celebrate this holiday or take their kids trick-or-treating. I have done it myself and completely understand. However, after reading these details, hearing about all the satan-worship and animal sacrifices that occur every halloween across this county, I cannot bring myself to participate in any way in the future. Perhaps I will carry on the tradition my parents instilled in me and hide out in our basement with a couple other families doing our own evening of family fun. Or maybe we will do nothing at all. Nevertheless, from here on forward I have finally come to a conclusion regarding our stand as a family, and I am sure that we will be no worse for it (although I must admit I will miss the excuse to pig out on candy).

"There's No Place Like Home"

"There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like home," this simple statement is quickly becoming my mantra. We have yet to leave home and come back all in one piece. Barely home from our vacation, bags still to be unpacked, Caleb begins weeping all over the house. He flops at my feet, weeping. He slumps in his chair, weeping. I give him a juice box, he laughs... and then weeps. He accidentally pulls out the straw, and the weeping commences. He squeezes the juice onto himself (normally resulting in a hilarious reaction) and weeps uncontrollably. There is no placating him. His nose is running, he runs around coughing and drooling and sneezing on everything and anything he can find. The germs are spread. Soon after... I wake up with a sneeze. 'Just allergies' I think to myself in naive stupidity. A Kleenex box later, and dehydrated from loss of fluid from my nose (all right, not quite that bad) I revise this statement. I surely have a cold. Then, yesterday, my little girl, supposedly immune to the infections of the world, starts weeping. Oh no. Her eyes are red rimmed, then the fever starts at full throttle, and my independent beauty turns into a cuddle monster. Ahhhh, the only one immune to the blessed result of our vacation is Jonathan, and envy is formed. "Not too bad' I console myself 'it could be worse'.

On Wednesday we went to the school for Roots of Empathy with Selah. Two grade three girls watched Caleb in another room while I went into the classroom with Selah. So far so good. The day went well. No uncanny episodes to recall. And home we went. The next day the phone rings and I am sweetly informed that the very class that my kids were in, has multiple cases of chicken pox. And worse yet, the girl who was sitting next to me has lice!!!!!!! Oh spare me. All I dreamt about last night was little white larvae crawling on our heads. YUK! Then yesterday was my bi-yearly dentist appointment. A simple cleaning. The hatred of dentist bred deeply into me, I sat on the chair hands clenched in anxiety with every movement of the hygienists hand. The past two visits I have been unable to have x-rays due to my "delicate condition" and therefore we decided to get them done this time. I soon hear those dreaded words... cavities. Four to be exact. The icing on the cake of my abominable week. Taking a deep breathe, I pack up my kids from the babysitters and come home. Is this really happening? Am I prepared to ever leave this house again? People call me a hermit, and for good reason. Every time I step outside these doors I come home with some new disease to call my own. And each time I vow to myself that it will never happen again. It is a vow as futile as a New Years resolution and soon after we are once again exposed. Sigh.

So until the next communicable disease hits our unassuming home, I bid you farewell. And hope to recover from this cesspool that is now our house.

Organzing Overload.

I begin my day as usual, with a glorious cup of coffee... all is well in the Spooner household. My son screams, and yet I remain calm and controlled. My daughter cries in defiance... and still my mind is at peace. And then I look around me, not at my whining kids, but rather at the state of my small abode, and I am instantly discouraged. I know I have written posts regarding "house maintenance" before, but it seems to be a constant battle that I can never seem to win. I work on one room of the house until it is perfectly organized, and somehow there is ALWAYS another area that is in complete shambles. Jonathan can't find his keyes because the front entrance is a mess, I can't find my cell phone because there is no safe place (away from little fingers that is) to hide it. And so it is, that no matter how hard I work, there is always more. And I must admit I am tiring of this seemingly unattainable goal. Is it possible????? I know it is. I go to my sister-in-laws house and everything is in perfect order, a place for it all, and their house is smaller than mine! How do they do it? I went shopping the other day and bought bins and baskets, hoping to reorganize our lives, and despite my efforts, there is just not enough space for everything. The sad truth is that the clothes that don't fit and the things we don't use, get bagged up and tossed in the basement. Accomplishing one thing and one thing alone... tidying my everyday space and leaving a disaster in my guest area. Perhaps the problem is not a matter of organization, but rather too many things. I could probably discard half of our belongings with no notice to us. Most of my clothes will never fit me again anyways, after two kids, I think the "size O" skirts and extra small shirts are out of the question. And yet still I am hard pressed to release my hold on these small rays of hope, that one day I may have my old body back. No, the reality is that I am a bit of a packrat, and now I am paying for this minor character flaw. I desire to be a person of cleanliness and organization and yet I relentlessy revert to my habitual behaviour. Where does my jacket go, or the diaper bag, or my shoes????? Wherever they manage to fall as I drop them on my way in the door. Sigh. One day, I hope to write a note about my ability to acheive this goal, but until then, I will concede to vent upon all my faithful listeners.

Toddler Trials

"Lord, give me the strength to get through this day." This is a typical, daily, even hourly prayer in my household. Recently I was reading the book, "Baby and Child Care," by Focus on the Family and it had a second portion to this prayer: "Lord, help me understand, appreciate, and marvel at this incredible creation You have loaned to me." How important is that second portion???? I feel like I am in survival mode, just trying to 'get through' these turbulent times in our lives. And I try to take time to sit down and enjoy the incredible kids that God has given me, but I am finding a concerning pattern since having Selah. Selah is quiet. She is simple. She cries when she is hungry, smiles and cooes, laughs and giggles, sits where I put her, and sleeps when I tell her to. That is that. Caleb is my monkey man. He gets into everything, runs all over my house in pursuit of new things to destroy, screams when he can't have his way, throws things, breaks things, and on and on it goes. It is too easy to compare, too easy to forget to marvel at my son. He is so incredible and each day brings new discovery, and yet there are days I am too tired or frustrated to notice or care. So for today, I committ to marvelling at my little boy.

Vacation Aggravation

It all started on a crisp monday morning. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, the leaves were dancing in the trees, and I was running through my house like a madwoman, trying to get our family ready to go. "SCREEEECH" a scream of anger and frustration echoed from down the hall. "Waaaah," my three month old daughter wailed from the other room. The suitcases lay open, mocking me with their still-empty demeanor, and in a frenzy, I rushed to do all that needed to be done. Do the dishes, take out the garbage, feed Caleb, change Selah, feed Selah, change Caleb, pack the bags, take out the dirty diapers, etc. etc. etc. Thus began our vacation.

My days have been filled with trying to placate my kids as they adjust to their new surroundings, my nights consumed with middle-of-the-night awakenings as they scream in protest at not being in their own beds. Jonathan and I bicker over the constant onslaught of diaper bags, dirty laundry, carrying the kids in and out, whose turn it is to change them or feed them, when all we want to do is sit and visit and enjoy this once happy trip turned nightmare. Every detail of our drive and stops are planned around the nearest bathrooms, space for Caleb to run around, baby-safe houses and sleeping facilities. And all I can think about is "We are NEVER leaving home again!!!!!!!"

And it is at this point in our "resftul" vacation that I realize that this is not a vacation at all. Instead it is a change of surroundings, a new environment, new sights to see, and memories to make. I know that one day I will look back and forget the screaming kids and sweating parents as we tried to meet their countless demands. Instead I will remember the walks along the river, their first visits with their little cousins, and the few moments of smiles and laughter that grace our days along the way. So, once again, I simply take out my camera, take a deep breath, and try, deperately, to enjoy what little 'vacation' we have left. And henceforth let it be known, that with children a 'vacation' becomes known instead as a chance to make some memories... memories indeed.

Selah's Dedication

"I give and take away," the rightful mantra of our God and yet the most terrifying attribute of love, its fragility. This Sunday we dedicated our daughter to the Lord. After going through this experience with Caleb, I thought I was prepared to deal with the implications of this momentous occassion. I know dedication is not for everyone, but it is so important to me as a mother and so it was that I found myself once again walking up the aisle of our small-town church with my precious baby in my arms. Standing before my friends and family, my husband by my side, I solemnly listened as our pastor asked us to entrust Selah to God's capable hands. Here it is, the question that I have long dreaded being asked. My mind is not on the pastor, not on the people watching, hardly even on the words that are being spoken. Instead, I listen as God himself whispers to my very soul, "She is yours only for a season, raise her well, and trust me to know what is best." Can I do it? Can I trust that God is a better parent than I will ever be? We all know the sunday school answer, "God is bigger than all of us". Our sugar coated response spills off our tongues in a nearly irresponsible fashion. But the fact is, words are nothing. My love for my children blinds me with its intensity and the thought of God ever choosing to take them away from me brings me to a near panic. A tear spills down my cheek as I mentally and spiritually release my most precious treasure into the loving arms of my Maker. Knowing that for better or for worse, He will cherish her like I cannot and lead her with a wisdom that I alone do not possess.

Today I dedicated my daughter to God. But I know that I will be making this choice every day for the rest of my life and can only pray that God will give me the strength to put my faith in Him.

Growing Up

I have come to realize that my life can be a bit of a conundrum at times. The days seem to drag by at an unreasonably slow pace, and yet I look back and this year has passed faster than I could have imagined. I remember when Caleb was born, looking into his beautiful eyes for the first time. Watching him reach each new milestone with so much pride. How is it that my content little baby boy has turned into a two-legged terror? Waddling throughout my house, seeking rooms to destroy and forbidden areas to discover. My resounding "no!'s" are greeted with his cheeky little smirk as he reaches for it once more. It is at these times that my heart melts in my chest. And all of a sudden, I can relate to all those times I was told "enjoy it, they grow so fast." And the thought of watching my little boy grow up into his own individual until he no longer needs his momma, terrifies me! It forces me to grab my camera and capture those infamous moments that are gone in a flash. To forever remember his first teetering steps, his hammed-up smile for the camera, his first words... so that I can cherish them forever.

Having kids is the most rewarding and worthwhile thing you could ever do. You are not only creating your legacy, but you are provided with a glimpse into God's heart, for it is only when I am hugging and cuddling my children that I have a scarce understanding of the father heart of our creator. And yet having kids is a risk. It forces you to open your heart and love these little people with all you are.... and more, only to have them grow up and leave you one day for a life of their own. And so, despite my hesitation of the years to come, I will enjoy every minute of being a mother. I will capture every moment that I can and treasure this stage in our family for the rest of my life. Knowing that God will give me the strength for the rest when the time comes. Until then, I will teach my children to love and cherish me... so that they will have no choice but to stay nearby once they 'leave the nest'! (isn't that how it works???)

A Lonely Heart

How is it that I can be so incredibly busy with my two little ragamuffins and yet so bored at the same time???? Day-in-and-day-out it seems to be the same routine. My mornings are not spent in languished conversation with a friend, no, they are instead spent running after a teetering toddler and placating a 'starved for attention' little girl. I feel like a yo-yo being tossed back and forth. Babbling and singing silly little songs can only take you so far. My afternoons take me to a whole new level of frustration as I eagerly anticipate the free time resulting from my kids' naps, only to be bitterly dissapointed when they don't nap at the same time. By the time I get them both down, it is time to get up again! By this point in the day, I have looked at the clock countless times, willing it to advance just a little bit quicker. I could shower, I could get dressed, but what's the point? The only person who sees me are my kids, and they wouldn't care if I were wearing rags as long as I was still functioning as their "human entertainer'. I know I must sound bitter, and I really am not. I only wish that I had some semblance of daily interaction with other adults. A time to converse in a 'grown-up' voice over 'grown-up' drinks. I truly do make an effort to get involved, and somehow it always ends up leaving me with nothing. Everyone else is busy with their own lives, and apparently I get left in the dust. I believe my poor family is starting to resent my "oh-too-common" phone calls, for I am constantly hearing that they can't talk because they are going here or doing this or seeing so-and-so. And once again, I am left dissapointed and honestly a little bit envious. No one said being married to a police officer would be easy, moving around, being away from family and friends. And overall, it hasn't been that bad. But as a people person, I am completely out of my element and can't help but feel a little bit starved for a good visit with a good friend. It doesn't help that my sister and both my sister-in-laws are my dearest friends and all of them with children mere months apart in age than mine... God has been so good to me and given me such good friends, and yet I am so removed from their lives that at times I feel like an invader. Both Jonathan and I knew that this would be a time of quiet in our lives, and it truly has been the best thing for our growing family and our still-new marriage. But we are practically itching to move away and get involved somewhere new. We find out tomorrow if we will be able to get approved for a mortgage, you can guess what I am hoping that answer will be. If so, we are both in full agreeance that our decision will be to go closer to home. If not, than we have no choice but to stay here another year and develop a better financial situation for ourselves. I can hardly bear all this guessing and hoping and not-knowing what our future will hold. But no matter what, I know that God has our best interests at heart. And even if those plans include us staying here for another year, He will make a way for us, and make a place for me. I do trust Him to make the best decision for us, but in the meantime... I am like a little child kneeling at the knee of my maker.... "pleeeeeeeeease God, let your answer be 'go'"!

Condemnation Overload

As a new mother, I have found that everyone has an opinion as to how you should raise your child. And I must say, it has taken me some time to learn how best to respond to these 'helpful tips' that seem to assail me from every side. Recently, I was sitting in our much-too-cramped church nursery with both my children announcing that it was clearly well past nap-time... when I had an epiphany (perfect timing, I know). But seriously, it was here that I realized that I too judge other mothers. In fact, I think that it is an epidemic that is rapidly overtaking us as women. You see, it starts off like this:

When I first had Caleb, I was instantly in love. He and I played together, talked together, laughed together. I held him at any and every given opportunity, napped with him, and caved to his every whim and desire. This was my right as a "first-time-mother" (FTM). However, I constantly found myself judged by seemingly all mothers of multiple children. When I didn't want to pass around my son like a football, I got "Oh, you get him all the time, it is our turn now. When you have more kids, you will be begging people to take them off your hands." They were like clucking hens, 'cluck cluck cluck' everywhere I went. I couldn't escape the chuckles and condescending glances as I ran to my son when he got a bump (even if he was fine) or covered him like a tent when other kids were shamelessly tossing toys in his direction. When other kids held him, I found myself hovering over them, reminding them to "watch his neck" or "don't touch his face". And on and on and on it went. In essence, I was a typical First Time Mom. And I remember vividly (considering it was not that long ago) feeling so defensive and stupid when everyone else would look at me like I was a child for being that way. Let me take a moment to compare that to my mothering styles as a parent of two. My son consistently whacks my daughter on the head. I react, although for his sake, not truly for hers. I want him to learn to be gentle--so he gets reprimanded, her on the other hand, well... she has to learn to fend for herself eventually, right? The cries of my children, once a traumatizing event, has now become an unavoidable and therefore acceptable practise in our household. When I know that they are fed and changed and ready to sleep, they go to sleep. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. She can cry and I will simply turn up the TV (with my son, I would be competing tear for tear). Then there are other kids, we go to the community playgroup and I catch kids hitting Caleb in the head, or taking his toys. Instead of running to make sure that those kids "play fair" I find intense fascination with watching my sons reaction. Because I don't make a big deal, he doesn't make a big deal. And the reality is... LIFE'S NOT FAIR! The sooner he learns that unfortunate fact, the better. Yes, my parenting style is much different than it was a mere year ago, and yet I find that my kids are no worse for the wear. However, where I was once judged for my over-protectiveness, I am now judged for my lack of it. I find those familiar FTM's whispering at each other behind my back. They gape at my apparent lack of concern when my toddling toddler falls and I clap and "yay" him for his effort. They stare in hushed silence as I pick up the food Caleb has so eloquently tossed to the floor for the umpteenth time, and shove it back in his mouth. And now I find myself on the other side of the coin. They judge us, and we judge them. Well, I for one refuse to judge those well-meaning FTM's. And the next time someone is 'aghast' by my crazy kids (or how I raise them) I will just smile and nod... for soon, it will be their turn!

Motivational Motherhood

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the morning is fresh and new, and here I sit. My son bounces in his jumperoo with enthusiasm and my daughter whines at being confined in her swing, while I pound away my many thoughts on this poor, unassuming computer. One of my greatest trials along this winding road of motherhood is finding the motivation to do things that need to be done, let alone things that I want to get done. The list is seemingly endless. My husband is starting to make comments regarding the cluttered state of our humble abode. And I am learning the hard way that if you do not stay on top of things, the task becomes overwhelming and is easier left undone. Pictures are piling up in a lonely corner, desperately longing to be compiled into some semblance of order. The keyboard sits forlone and forgotten, begging me to touch its keys once again. Caleb stares out the window, squealing at the world going by and looking at me with those big beautiful eyes as he signs, "aside?" And instead of taking a step, and plunging in... I take a shovel, and dig myself even deeper into this rut of indescisive longing. 'Oh, if only these things were done' I think to myself. Or better yet, where is the motivation that once consumed my being?

Perhaps it was sucked away by the demanding expectations of my small family. Or rather the lack of appreciation for my daily efforts to complete the menial tasks that now govern my life. All I seem to gain from feeding, changing, and bathing my two young children, is screaming demands for more. A part of me thrives, knowing that this is what I always wanted. And yet there is a part of me that is envious of my husband's skipping step as he goes to a workplace where he is acknowledged and appreciated for all he does. I know that this will pass, and I will most likely miss this small window of time in my life. And it is because of that that I wake up each morning, don a smile, and drink my energy inducing coffee, ready to face yet another day. And perhaps one day I will experience the "motivational motherhood" everyone else seems to possess in copious amounts. Until another day...

A weekend to remember

This is a story of stench and stink. A story to put all others before it to shame. And it involves, of course, my loveable little boy, Caleb.

It all started on an unassuming Saturday afternoon. Jonathan was home from work on a break and we were watching TV. It seemed to be progressing as a typical day for us, and I must admit, my normal "mothering gaurd" was shamefully down. Relaxed and unalert, I ignored the alarming "sound of silence" echoing from my normally rambunctious little boy. And it wasn't until it was too late that I finally tuned in to the disaster. Glancing down from the set, I observed a funny expression on my sons face. In fact, he looked duly disgusted by something or another. Still not too concerned, I casually continued my 360 degree sweep of both my son and the surrounding area. It was then that I saw something brown and sticky hanging from his chin. My immediate thought, 'it must be brown banana or something'. And I nearly passed it off as being nothing. Nearly, that is, until my haphazard brain put two and two together. Grimacing in disbeleif, I put my nose a little closer to my little cherubs face to confirm my horrifying suspicion... and alas, I was right. In the span of a mere five minutes, and sitting on the floor right within both Jonathan and my view, Caleb had managed to fill his pants. He had then proceeded to stick his hands inside his diaper, and smear the offending party all over his legs and arms and the carpet. But did it stop there? Of course not. Being the curious little boy he is, he felt the compelling urge to taste this new substance he had so charmingly discovered, thus explaining the disgusted look on his face. Both horrified and helplessly amused, I was forced to give an early bath, and oh, what a mess that was.

With a clean little boy and still a semblance of an evening left before bedtime, it was only a couple hours later that I made my next colossal mistake. Caleb has had a bad teething rash and thus I decided to let him roam 'diaper free'. With avoidance echoing in my mind, I decided to put him outside for this momentous occassion. Rightly so, for it was not more than 5 minutes later when he proceeded to urinate on the deck, stick his hand in it, and lick it. All I can say is that the bath got a good run that Saturday. You'd think I would have learned my lesson, but only a couple of days later, with the rash still glaring at me from beneath Caleb's soggy diaper, I decided to yet again, let him run about diaper free... in the house. After taking off his diaper, I went to talk to Jonathan for a mere minute (no exxaggeration necessary), and realizing that Caleb was once again too quiet for comfort, said I had better go and check on him. And... wait for it... (this is becoming way too predictable) there was the fresh stench of my sons fecal matter, in three heaps on the carpeted floor, with footprints and handprints leading a trail of disaster throughout the livingroom, smeared on the television, his books, our movies, the couch! You name it, he smeared himself on it. This time was a little less amusing, a little more disgusting. The carpet shampooer got a little bit of excersize that day.

You may be wondering if I have now managed to learn my lesson. And I believe I have. The next time I am out with other mothers and they see my sons red bum, I am sure they will tell me I should "air it out". However, no matter what anyone says, this kid aint naked unless he is in the tub! Amen.