The "S" Word

Since the very first week of my first pregnancy, I've struggled to keep the "shoulds" out of my momming life. You should be taking fish oil for the baby's brain development. You should not eat this sugar. You should be reading more books about what to expect when you're expecting. As soon as an actual baby was born, the list--had I allowed it to penetrate my life--would have smothered me. There's so much that as moms we could do to ensure the stability, health and wellness of our babes...so much that we (okay, I'll say it once) should do. What I have to remind myself of (daily!) is what I am doing is enough. More than enough. It's, usually, for the most part, almost always, pretty damn good. I think.

Then I pick up a parenting magazine.

Seriously. Are these magazines meant to support mothers? Because I just read one from cover to cover and I find myself Googling creative art projects and homemade granola bar recipes tonight in order to make sure that by the end of the day tomorrow my kids aren't bored, detached, falling behind their peers and headed for therapy sessions. My head is swimming with pre-school curriculum ideas that introduce topics of gravity, sequencing, critical analysis and large motor skill coordination. To think that mere hours ago my big plan was to pack a snack and go to the park.

Then I get bored (detached, falling behind my peers?) and click out of "Perfect Parenting" and check out what my friends on Facebook have to say about Michael Jackson's death today. I'm TIRED.

Who are these parents? ARE they parents? Are they parents of kids who are CURRENTLY five and three and 6 months or are their kids now in college (Ivy League, of course, with no therapists in the wings, sporting organic cotton free trade outfits over their vegetarian diet fed selves and nurturing healthy stable relationships on all fronts, but I digress...). Are the authors of these articles writing about what they SHOULD have done as parents of young kids? Because some of this stuff, if not euphoric recall, is simply fantasy. No mom has the time, energy, patience, will or budget to do this stuff. Or do they?

Maybe some do. Maybe instead of reading these things and thinking I should buy all black and white bold shaped items for my newborn, I should simply put down the magazine and do what is fun, inspiring and healthy by my own measure.

If my kids need to talk about that with their therapist someday, I hope they at least mention that we had a really good time together at the park. (And I think that fall off the swing was a pretty convincing lesson in gravity, after all).

One at a Time

I passed on my maternity clothes today. All the overalls, stretchy waistbands, a-line shirts and oversize Ts went to the home of another preggo mama who, if like me, was thrilled with the three huge trash bags full of new, stretchy wardrobe. As excited as I was, 8 months ago, to see them come, I was just as excited today to see them go. What feels so comfy when sporting the 25 extra pounds of babe in the belly, now looks frumpy and serves only as a reminder of how much weight there is left to lose. So, maternity clothes begone.

Confession: I kept some. Just in case.

Mike often talks about "three." I've always said, "One at a time." What will our future family look like? I don't know, but I was surprised with myself for holding onto some of those clothes because, right now, two feels just absolutely perfectly symmetrically evenly wonderfully right.

I have two hands, one for each when crossing the street.
Most tables at restaurants are made for families of four. And airplane seats and amusement park rides.
There are two parents--the division of labors are nice and clean and neat.
Any more than two would require a mini-van.
And an addition to our house.
Two girls is so sweet. What would a little boy DO with two older sisters? What would WE do with three teenage girls?

It seems totally crazy to me that I'm even contemplating this on the third week of having number two, but I tell you, I held onto some maternity clothes today and by doing so, I forced the issue upon myself... and there it has been, rattling around, uninvited, in my brain all day.

Until tonight, when I crawled into Winona's bed for stories, songs and "Two Minutes" (the time I lie with her, silently as she nestles in-- usually, in reality more like 10 minutes). I held a sleeping Jezebel in my lap while I read books and sang songs. When it came time to snuggle, Winona got whimpery and started to show signs of breaking down into something unpleasant.
"What is it, babe?"
"I need you. I need to snuggle."
Translation: Put down the baby. Hold me.
"Want to sleep in my nest?" (My 'nest' is my cross-legged lap), says a quick-thinking mama, who knows the babe will wake up hungry if put down on the bed.
"YEAH!"
I moved Jezzy up to my chest, where she still fits so well, clearing the way for my little NonaBird to make her nest.
Both girls were sound asleep before the "Two Minutes" were up, but I stayed there for 20 minutes or more, filled with all things good about being a mom.

I could probably get creative, if need be, and find room for another child to sleep somewhere on my body, but tonight I let it all go--minus a few stretchy items of clothing--and dozed for "Two Minutes" with my Two Girls.

Every Journey Needs a Journal

Today is the second day of summer. Yesterday was Father's Day. The day after tomorrow, the younger of my two daughters turns 3 weeks old. My mom left last week and my mother-in-law left this afternoon, leaving my husband, my three year old, my three week old and me alone together in this house that is now--suddenly, magically, deliciously--home to four (plus two dogs, so make that "home to six.")

I've been wanting to spend more time with my family--to just be mom uninterrupted--for awhile. I've also been wanting to keep a journal. Maternity Leave provides me with a finite amount of time and one hell of an exciting journey so the two desires seemed compatible.

A blog seemed like a satisfying medium.

Satisfying, that is, my need for an audience, even if only imagined. I've always had trouble with lock-n-key journals. Where's the fun in telling a story to no one? If a tree falls in the middle of the woods...who would hear me?

But on a Blog, the audience is infinite. I imagine you there, even if none of you actually exist. Stephen King says you, "Writer," have to have a "Reader." Someone's gotta hear your tree fall. Reader, welcome to my journal.