"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.