Machine Washable

I don't have a lot of 'nice' things. Don't get me wrong- I have cute things, they're just not usually very high quality. Anything nice that I do have is almost certainly a gift or a hand-me-down from my mom. I've always said that were it not for my benefactor, we'd have cinder block bookshelves and bed sheets stapled to the windows. Because of her, my home has never reflected how truly poor we might have been at the time. I was raised in a very nice home and was quite accustomed to fine things, but as I ventured out in a poorly disguised version of 'living on my own' I became more and more aware that my adult life would probably not mirror the example I had as a child. I was not raised in wealth, nor was I particularly spoiled, but I never had to go without and I could usually have what I needed. Our homes were not small, and they were always beautifully appointed. 

I went through a series of progressive adjustments once I left the comparative luxury of my parent's home and became accustomed to the fact that I would lead a simpler lifestyle. My lack of expensive things originated from the lack of money necessitated to buy high quality things, but fortunately for me it has also become a choice of lifestyle. I have definite opinions, styles, and preferences, but I have found that they can almost always be accommodated without spending a lot of money. Because I was fortunate enough to be raised in  beautiful and creative environments I learned to create those spaces myself. There are times when something may warrant spending as much as you can afford, when you are buying an investment piece or something substantial where cheap just won't do, but many more times when it is just not expedient to spend exorbitant amounts of money unnecessarily.

I'm also very casual. I don't own or even want china. I don't care about a formal dining room. I don't care much for anything formal in fact. And clothes? Getting dressed up and accessorized once a week for church is fulfilling enough for me. The rest of the week I am usually happy in jeans or even stretchy pants unless an occasion warrants otherwise.  Sometimes I work hard and sweat profusely, staining my clothes. I get down on my hands and knees and get to work, in whatever I'm wearing. I have to scrub toilets and bathtubs. I clean litter boxes and wipe bums. I need clothes I can move in, and that will not cost me an arm and leg to repeatedly throw in the washer and dryer- or worse, dry cleaning! (the horror) And sometimes I drip ice cream down my front, or more often I drop food into my cavernous cleavage. Sometimes I don't find it until I change my clothes at night when it falls out of my bra.

I also have kids. As a new mother I was aghast to find dry clean-only baby clothes! I don't want silk covered chairs that I have to cover, again, when they are in use to protect the silk. I don't want fabrics that will stain and ruin with the very threat of little fingers approaching and that will stain once again as I try to clean them. I don't want delicate drapes that will tear the first time one of my errant children plays in them despite my repeated threats of bodily harm if they should do so. I want something I can repeatedly throw in the wash and know it will come out alright.  I want a clean home as well, and feel satisfied by washing something and then drying it in high temperatures, erasing and killing whatever may be there, real or unreal, seen or unseen.

A long time ago as I was washing my living room pillows for the umpteenth time, I realized that I live a 'machine washable life', and I like it. I think you could aptly describe my whole life with that term: Machine Washable. Sensible, practical, durable, affordable, but still cute. Something that might get dirty frequently because you really use it, sharing it with people in your life, but is easily remedied, coming out clean again and again- if not a little worse for the wear.

That's me- Machine Washable. My person, my home,  my lifestyle.

Unconventional Mother's Day Message

I am very critical.

Mostly inwardly.

I spend so much time analyzing and dissecting motives, outcomes and reasons it is exhausting. I can never just have a simple thought without trying to 'brain-map' the thought from an imaginary inception to an extrapolated conclusion. My mind is always abuzz with something- usually weighty, self-deprecating and inevitably counter-productive in it's circular and sometimes derisive patterns.I am relentlessly critical of myself and supply an endless source of guilt for myself on a wide expanse of topics, daily. If I wrote all I thought, I could fill libraries.

One thing I turn over and over in my mind largely without resolve is motherhood, and my capabilities and failures. Specifically I judge myself for the decision we have made not to have more children. (We have two living, and one deceased..) After all, I am Mormon. We are supposed to replenish the earth with children, right? And while the church doesn't dictate or even suggest how many children a couple should have, it is pretty heavily implied (culturally) that you should have at least a few. 3 seems to be a common minimum as long as there are no issues of health or infertility among married couples- thus, with our 2 living children, we fall one short of that expected minimum.

Heavenly Father wants us to raise children-happy children. Happy children who follow the Lord. He wants us to do our best to teach them love, virtue, charity and righteousness. He does not want us to raise throngs of children regardless of the outcome, so we need to do what we can do. He wants us to do the best that we can do, whether that is for one child or ten.What matters if how we parent, not how many.

We needn't run faster than we have strength. Unfortunately for me and my family, depression and anxiety hinder how fast I can run, so to speak. I want to be a good mother, and it is a struggle for me- so we have decided that our family is complete. I want to do the best with the blessings I have been given, working with the trials I have been given.

This is my Mother's Day gift to me:

Acceptance, tolerance, and love without judgment- for myself and my decisions in motherhood. And as I learn to do these things for myself, it will carry over onto my children. Acceptance, tolerance, and love without judgment. It's a tall order, but I'm going to start practicing on myself.

Or to quote Stuart Smalley,

"I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"

If I have succeeded in bringing you down, watch this. I remember watching this live several years ago, and it is still so funny. And it's a blast from the past when Lindsey Lohan was semi-functional.

Not Why I Blog

A little while ago at 11pm, I heard suspicious noises outside. I was just about to get up and turn on the porch light to scare away potential criminals when I heard a very soft knocking on the door. Reasoning that thieves and rapists rarely knock, I answered it to find my friend Amanda wielding a very heavy plastic tote I had previously given to her with clothes. She was returning it to me, filled with food.

In it was a gallon of milk, juice, a dozen eggs, chicken breasts, turkey dogs, Lunchables, a pound of cheese, Greek yogurt, Gogurt, and apples. All in ice, in case I was in bed.

As she gave it to me, she had tears in her eyes. Obviously, she had read my post which was not written to inspire pity or gifts of food or monetary donations. Nevertheless, being a poor young married college girl herself,  she was inspired to bring it to me. Immediately. Tonight. Oh, and she also has a baby who still wakes up several times a night to nurse, so nighttime hours are at a premium. 

Here's the thing: I hesitate to write anything of the nature of the original post because I do not want to illicit pity or charitable gestures. I write because it's what I do. It's how I cope, sort, and get on with things. I blog because I journal, and in so doing I get over things while recording them at the same time. I usually feel better by the time I hit 'publish' and I like to have a record of the good, the bad and the ugly. So I do not blog in order to gain favor or favors. However, I do blog to remember and record, and Amanda's charity is a perfect instance of this. I want to remember how it felt when someone was prompted and listened to do something on my behalf- when someone went out of their way and did something that was inconvenient and even costly in order to help me when I didn't (directly) ask for it. I want a record of my blessings, and examples of Christlike charity and plain old kindness and good friendship.

So to recap, this is not why I blog these things.

Also this is why I blog these things.

Thank you, Amanda.

*My monetary goal for this post has been met. No more donations are required at this time. If a future need presents itself, I will post another thinly veiled request for help. Also, that was sarcasm.*

Love Letters

I've never been one of those girls who considers Valentine's Day one where I expect to be lavished with gifts and special treatment. I don't think of it as 'my' day, but rather one where I can express my love to all the people in my life, especially my family. Timm and I had agreed that we wouldn't spend any money on each other, but we still spent an enjoyable evening in together. Still, I was surprised when he didn't perform any gesture whatever. No card, no small token purchased with money squirreled away from unknown sources as he is typically wont to do. I really thrive on verbal and written words of appreciation so I may have chastised him a bit for neglecting to do something so simple as to write me a little note for Valentine's Day.

However.

Even as I did so, I remembered something I had heard a few years ago. I can't credit a source, but I remember that it was a General Authority of the Church, and he spoke of romance. He stated that true romance is not found in grand gestures, but in the way we treat our spouse every day. The small, sometimes inconsequential ways that reflect our concern, love and charity for one another are more indicative and often more meaningful than sweeping grand gestures. It was this thinking that prompted this post about a love letter.

This is Timm to a 't'. Every day he treats me kindly. He treats me with the same affection no matter how I act, what kind of mood I am, what I look like, or how I treat him. He is constant, and he is physically affectionate and verbally complimentary every day.

Case in point: Yesterday the girls had dentist appointments and I had no way to get them there. Timm happily took the day off, using a sick day. He hardly ever has a day off so I am sure he was looking forward to sleeping past 5am and relaxing a bit. 

But I was sick.

I'm not stricken with polio, or even pnemonia. I just have a bit of a cold. But it makes me feel slightly miserable, and having to take care of children when you are sick is the worst to me. It's not just like you have to go to work sick, you have to take care of others when you feel like you need taking care of. Like you can't even take care of yourself, but you still have to attend to the needs of others. So on his rare, unexpected day off, Timm ran an errand for me, taking Bella with him. Then when he got back he took both girls to the dentist for close to 2 hours so I could stay home. When he got home, he fed them lunch and told me to go to bed. He put them down for naps and quiet time. He got them both up from naps and quiet time. He took over the whole day until I got up to cook dinner, when he finally sat down to do mountains of grading that he had planned on doing that day. After the girls were in bed he went to the grocery store to get me a few things since he has to work late for the next two days. So on his rare day off, he spent the day taking care of the girls so I could laze around and take naps, hoping to make a quick recovery of a silly cold. He did so without complaint, even cheerfully and affectionately.

That's just his way.

He gives me love letters every day.

When I Say Too Much.

Miranda started an interesting discussion on her blog yesterday, and although I commented to leave my opinion, I still had more to say, so here it is.

As even the most casual observer should have noticed, I talk a lot. I almost always say too much and ask too personal of questions. I put it all out there, and what you see is what you get. I almost think of it as some kind of defense mechanism- as in, here it all is. Here I am naked before you (luckily not literally), so if you like me, awesome. If not, at least we got that out of the way and I won't waste time investing in a relationship that will hurt me later. Like me or not, but let's start from a clear place of understanding. 

Plus I'm not a shallow person; I am introspective and I am constantly examining my motives and trying to better myself. I need a lot of work.

So in a gesture of full disclosure, here are just a few more things 

Every day I still struggle to fend off depression.

Every day I try to make the decision to be happy.

Getting out of bed is usually the hardest thing I do all day.

If I didn't have kids I probably wouldn't get out of bed most days.

Even though I know sugar effects me adversely, I can't stop eating it.

Yet.

I never feel like I am enough.

I am easily threatened by women I think are better than me.

I hate this quality most about myself.

I think I have a lot of potential, but I am usually too fat/lazy/unworthy to achieve it.

Sometimes I believe I don't deserve to grieve for Lola since the girls I do have drive me crazy.

Motherhood is trying.

But I love my girls, all 3 of them beyond measure.

I usually treat myself like someone I don't like very much- or at least I don't think enough of to take care of.

I really care about people.

I have a lot of empathy, but sometimes I am too tired to reach out.

I feel like I am at my limit just getting through.

Sometimes I am too tired/lazy to wash my face at night.

I always regret it.

Sometimes I resist taking a shower because of the effort involved in getting ready.

When I do, it is like a healing tonic every time and I tell myself what an idiot I am for not remembering this.

I have a penchant for Lifetime movies. They are the perfect background for sewing and crafting.

I feel cheap because of this.

I don't want my husband or my kids to be embarrassed of my appearance.

But I'm not doing much about that at the moment.

Sometimes I think it's because I don't deserve it.
I can't watch commercials about animal abuse.
Sometimes I consider vegetarianism again.
But then I don't.
Sometimes I wish I could be a vet tech again.
But I can't.

I am paranoid that my house smells.

I have a huge mountain of laundry that I've neglected for days because I'd rather sew.

My purse is full of wrappers and crumbs and half-eaten snacks from my girls.

It's really gross.

I've had it on my to-do list all week.

I'm blogging instead.

I have the grossest feet you've ever seen.

They're pretty, ( I think) but cracked and dry like no one's ever seen.

I think I might need transplants. 

Or skin grafts.
No one ever ask me questions on FormSpring and I feel bad about it sometimes.
But then I remember that I probably don't give anyone a chance to wonder anything.
And although I'm pretty weird, I'm not particularly interesting.
I read a lot of self-improvement books.
I have a very small retention rate.
I don't think I do enough for the people I love.

Sometimes, when I am really depressed, I think it would be good to be institutionalized so all I would have to do is sleep and no one would expect anything from me. 

Everyone would already know I was crazy.

Going to church is hard for me.

But I know it is the right thing to do.

And I'm always glad that I did.

I'm usually pretty good about menu planning, but then I'm too tired/lazy to actually cook the meals.

I'd rather stay inside at any given time.

I am usually glad when I go out of my comfort zone and go outside.

Most of the things I enjoy are sedentary.

I am always glad when I do something active.
Even though this list is already very long (and boring), I have to force myself to stop listing my bad qualities.

I am a very slow learner and don't improve myself or my behavior very quickly.

One thing I can say for myself is I don't give up.

I may lay down a lot, but I always get back up and try again.

And now I've given you a lot more reasons not to like me.

But I hope you still do.

And I wrote this list for me. 

For now.

And later.

Mother's Day Epistle

I have a lot of thoughts and feelings regarding Mother's Day this year- more than usual. My heart and mind have been heavy since the death of my grandmother last month. I have written some about it, but much more remains waiting to be unearthed, excavated and put to good use, aired out in this forum. Exposed so as to grow, flourish, and not forget. These moments, those of great importance-events like births and deaths- give us the rare opportunity to gain insight. A glimpse of the eternities so that we may gain a better perspective while on earth. These times can awaken in us a new commitment and a better understanding of ourselves and our purpose.

It was such a tender mercy that we were all able to assemble together, literally at her bedside as Grandma died. Many more gathered for the funeral and it was a fine group. As we all paid homage to this person, so influential and inspiring in our lives, it was wonderful to see her children share a devotion and love unmatched. All 5 of her children gathered around. There were no estrangements, no bitter words, grievances, resentments, or anger. Only love, compassion, and gratitude. Her children, 5 very different people, loved her.

{taken several hours after Grandma died.}

It struck me that it was not mere happenstance that this was the case. It was not coincidental or luck that she had wonderful relationships with all of her adult children-she made it so. She considered motherhood a divine station and her life and attitudes reflected that. She was a woman without formal education, training, certifications, or awards, yet her influence is far-reaching. She nurtured and taught her children, and did what needed to be done without the need to be petted or praised for her work. I was often the beneficiary of her love and kindness as one of her darlings, but I am especially thankful because she was a mother to my mother. She, the finest example in womanhood, taught and raised my mother to be an exemplary woman of Christlike attitudes, generosity, and love. Then it was my mother's turn, and she raised my sister, brother, and I. We cannot escape life without the influence of our mother in nearly every aspect, and if we are doing it right, we wouldn't want to. We owe ourselves, quite literally to our mothers, as they gave birth to us. However, we owe a part of ourselves to them as well. We are molded and shaped by their teachings. We learn how to love one another and serve- and eventually we learn what it means to be a mother ourselves.

 At her funeral, we all gathered in the Relief Society room greeting all who came to share condolences with the family. Then everyone left us alone, the family, to say a prayer together before the funeral. I had never attended a funeral before- we had only a graveside service for Lola- so everything was new to me. I was composed as we finished the prayer given by Milton, Grandpa's nephew. Then they wheeled the casket out of the room, down the hall to the chapel as we, her family and posterity, filed after her. I was aware of the significance as we followed behind her down the hall, as we did in all things. I felt blessed to be in her wake. Then I was surprised to see, as her casket entered the chapel, everyone in attendance stood, some 200+ people. I was completely undone. As the crowd stood to show respect as she passed by, I was so awed to be following in her presence. Honored to be counted among those filing through the chapel, those blessed to be born as her posterity. I felt nothing short of honor and the deepest gratitude to be her granddaughter at that moment. The tears flowed freely as I tried to compose myself, and came freely once more when the service was over and we followed her out, as again the crowd stood.

{Posterity. The evidence of one woman's life.}

I want to follow her in all things. I want to be able to feel the honor of association and follow her in the eternities. I do not have an earthly memory of Christ, or my direct and physical relationship with Him, but my grandma was the closest thing I know to it, so I will hold onto that memory. The yearning of wanting to be reunited with her, and follow in her ways. Her influence has stretched to my mother, who has stretched to me, and onto my daughters as well. This Mother's Day I am committing to mothering with intent. I am trying to keep the eternal perspective that I glimpsed that day as I was honored to be among my own mother. I want my girls to love me the way my mother loved hers, and I want them to know that all of the good things I am, I learned from my mother, who learned it from hers.

Happy Mother's Day Mom- I owe my life to you, to grandma, and countless other women who have shown me the beauty and divinity of motherhood.

Lessons in Dying

Even at her funeral, my grandmother was teaching me.

We were blessed to hear from such speakers as my uncle Lee, my uncle Mark, and their Stake President Randy Jibson. Lee gave the eulogy and I learned a few things about her that I didn't know. I didn't know that she came from Scottish-Irish heritage, and while I knew she grew up on a Navaho Indian reservation, I did not know that she grew up accustomed to luxury and that her household included housekeepers, cooks, and servants. I also did not know that it was Uncle Delbert (grandpa's eldest brother) that converted her to the church.
Mark gave a wonderful talk about how her life was framed by the gospel and described how it was impossible to tell of her and her life without also bearing testimony. 

Their stake president told of his experience visiting her at the hospice where she was admitted. In a hospice, every patient admitted is there to die. As he walked through the halls, he passed many rooms that were silent with grief or filled with tears and sorrow. He said that you never know what you might find when you enter a patient's room, and it was with trepidation that he knocked on her door. What he found inside grandma's room was much different. Grandma lay unconscious, surrounded by those who loved her best, including grandpa, Denise, and Lee. There were tears and some sorrow, but also quiet laughter as memories were shared. Absent was the desperation that defined so many other rooms- instead, a more selfish mourning at our own losses. One of the things he said that I loved best was that had she known she was going to die shortly, she wouldn't have lived her life any differently in her last few days than she did. How remarkable. I can't imagine myself being a position that I wouldn't change anything, knowing my end was near. (Turns out however, she may have had an inkling. In the 2 weeks before she died she told grandpa that she didn't feel like she had very many days left. I just wished she had shared that with the rest of us.) It's true- so devoted and charitable was she that she lived her life in preparation for meeting her Savior. He challenged us to ask ourselves, 'What do I know?'- Regardless of what we did yesterday or last week, these times beg us to ask ourselves what we know to be true. This resonated with me as someone who has a testimony and knows the gospel to be true, but cannot say that I live my life in a state of readiness as did she. I hope that it resonated even more so in those present who cannot say what they know, or who may be prompted to challenge the beliefs they have.
She finished her visiting teaching days before she collapsed.
There were also a few lessons I learned that were not spoken, but rather prompted me specifically as things I probably need work on. Not surprisingly, one of these lessons had to do with charity. Grandma always had a way of loving those of us who are sometimes hard to love. Even in life, she was better at displaying a genuine unconditional love, but I know that in death she is more able of a perfect love. She is not confined by the judgments we mere mortals so often make. So I resolved to put an end to petty mocking or fault-finding with others. I don't have a particular struggle with this, but like anyone else I can occasionally be found guilty. I want to be the kind of person that only lifts others up, thinks the best of others, and makes those feel better in my presence.
It was also impressed upon me the knowledge that Christ died for us, but also for each one of us individually. He has said that he would die for even and only one of us. That means that everyone we encounter is as worthy of His sacrifice as we are. That He would die again even if it were only for the lowliest creature among us. That casts a new light on everyone I see and gives me pause before I may engage in any criticism.
So hopefully this has caused me to ask what it is I believe and I will remember these lessons she has taught me, even in death.
She will teach me, always.

Note to self- Don't Forget:

You never notice how many baby's graves are in the cemetery until you have buried one of your own.
Books are filled with stories of babies who die at or shortly after birth that make you shudder and put the book down, perhaps even throwing it.

I share a kinship with so many women through the ages-past, present and future- that I desperately wish I didn't.
Yet this kinship gives me my first born and my treasure laid up in Heaven. This kinship gives me compassion, empathy and strength I would have gained into no other way.

Thank you.

I miss you.

Self-talk.

I have finally come to terms with a fundamental aspect of my personality. I am lazy.

I am lazy.

There, I said it. I know it is not admirable, but there it is. Usually I waste a lot of energy and peace by berating myself for such a despicable trait, but that gets me nowhere. I end up feeling bad about myself, comparing myself to everyone else and feeling like a failure, which inevitably leads me to be even less productive. So today I had somewhat of an epiphany when suddenly I thought, "So what?- It's true, you're somewhat lazy. Sometimes you're really lazy." ( I often talk to myself.) "But instead of constantly torturing yourself about it, embrace it. Make it work for you. Maybe you can't change a fundamental aspect of yourself, but you can tweak your habits and perspectives to make it work better. To fit your personality. Really?"-I asked myself- "So, even though it's not too admirable to be lazy maybe I can accept it as one of my less desirable traits and accept that I cannot change it, but work with it instead of against it?" Yes, I said all of this, but in my head. Sometimes I say it out loud, but today it was internal only.
I value small, consistent efforts every day. It is the only way to keep me even slightly on top of anything, because once it goes, it's hell for me to try and get back on track. That means doing a load of laundry daily. Every night I do the dishes, run the dishwasher, wipe up and sweep the floor. Bella picks up her toys a couple of times a day, I follow everyone picking up all day long. We make our beds first thing in the morning. I try and swish and swipe the bathrooms. Not not all of this occurs daily of course, but when it does, the house runs in harmony and I feel at peace. When I let things go, I have a hell of a time getting back on track. Which is kind of where I am today.
So while I try to maintain my small daily tasks, you will not often see me scrubbing the shower or tub or doing yard work.
Bottom line: I value hard work, but unfortunately I am a lazy girl. I try to parcel out my work into small, manageable pieces in hopes that I won't appear as lazy as I am. I struggle between what makes me me, and I should embrace and accept, and what needs to change. I will ruminate more on that later.

Public Service Announcement

For the sake of your health, your sanity, and your peace with the world as a whole, do not- I repeat, do not-ever look into your garbage disposal without it's protective covering. (You know, the black thing that keeps all your utensils from falling in.) The sight will horrify you. A layer of calcified, petrified food coating the interior and entrance into said disposal. A smell. Even though you run your disposal with diligence after every single use, after any food makes it way into it. Even though you occasionally put soap or citrus rinds in there to freshen things up, albeit apparently not as often as necessary. It is quite possibly an entrance to another dimension, or more probable, the very gates of hell. It's one of life's conveniences that is best left unstudied. Appreciate it in an abstract way, much like indoor plumbing and Sodium Benzoate. (To preserve freshness.)

She says...

On a funny note, in her prayers the other night Bella said: 'Thank you for the monsters that don't live in our house.'
But a few Sundays ago I scribbled this conversation, while driving, that Bella and I had on our way to church. It started when she asked if we could go to McDonald's and I reminded her that we don't do things like that on Sunday, and briefly explained why.

B: Does Satan go shopping?
J: Er, maybe. Sure, he goes all the time on Sundays.
B: I really want to get baptized.
J: Really? Why?
B: I want to show Satan that you have to get baptized.
J: Well, you know you need to wait until you're eight.
B: Yeah, that's when I want to tell him. I want to tell him when I die. Why does Satan not want to get baptized?
J: Satan didn't want to follow God and His commandments.
B: Well I want to do what God asks me to do. That's why I want to get baptized.

[pause]

B: Does Satan always go to McDonald's?

Then she sung Fiona a lullaby to calm her her crying. What a girl, She surprises me every day.

This Time Around

Anyone who knew me pre-Fiona knows that I was essentially dreading having another baby. That sounds horrible, but it's just that I'm a little bit neurotic. Maybe more than a little. Having Bella was such an adjustment for me, motherhood was such an adjustment, and I don't typically deal well with stress, change, chaos...The thought of adding another child to the fray was overwhelming at best. However I felt so prompted to get pregnant with her I knew it was time, I knew it was right. I was just taking it on faith that it was the right thing to do, that it would work out, that i would be made equal to the task.
Flash forward- Fiona's nearing 6 months, and this time around is so different. If you can believe it I am much less stressed, anxiety-ridden, volatile, and neurotic than I used to be. Part of it is a solid, concerted effort, some of it is a blessing, and some of it is the consequence of learning from and adapting to motherhood. In the last 5 years, having children has taught me more than I expected and stretched me in ways I never would have otherwise. At times it is a challenge, in fact many times it is a challenge and I resent the necessity if the stretch. If I didn't have children I'm sure I wouldn't be the person I am now, and I would be worse for it.
One of the benefits of that stretch is that this time around with Fi is a lot more enjoyable than it was with Bella. Don't get me wrong- of course I loved Bella just as much as I love Fiona, of course it was as rewarding- it's just that it was tempered with more anxiety, stress, and questions. So why so relaxed this time? Partly it is experience. I know that things will be okay. I know that the difficult parts are just a stage. I know that they pass quickly and leave us no worse for the wear. I also know that these sweet baby months are fleeting and precious.It is also due to the belief that Fi is most likely my last child. I always hold in the back of my mind thoughts like, 'this is the last time I'll do...', or 'after this I'll never get to...'. I am savoring the time with her and because of this I am more able to enjoy Fiona's babyhood.
This time I can appreciate it as fun, endearing, cute and finite. I actually think having a baby is fun instead of love riddled with guilt, fear, inadequacy and stress. Of course those feelings still occupy a place in my mind, but they are largely over-ridden with enjoyment. I don't stress the small stuff like her naps, her schedule...I find myself 'spoiling' her already-the natural destiny for the 'baby' of the family? I often nurse her to sleep, rock her to sleep, comfort her at the breast, and hold her when she wants me to. For better or for worse I am not so concerned with things like 'teaching her to fall asleep on her own'. I figure she's a baby for such a short while and she can hone that skill later. Things are working for us, so I continue to cuddle her all I can.

Of course my babies make it easy for me. Fi follows in Bella's tiny footsteps by being a joy- a largely happy, steady, and charming girl. She gives me so many moments to enjoy her and relish the moment that will be only a memory all too soon. Too soon she will talk, whine, beg, throw tantrums, and inadvertently say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Bella's stage is wonderful in it's own way, but there's time for that later. For now Fi is my baby, probably my last baby and I'm going to hold her for all it's worth.

She says...

It seems Bella and I regularly have a pretty entertaining dialogue.
Ever since the Presidential elections when I taught her who the two candidates were, Barack Obama's name has been an oft-mentioned one. At some point in our discussions, I tried to casually explain that there are different skin colors, and that Obama was a black man. It seemed pertinent due to the social climate and historic election. However, she has seized upon the notion that he is first and foremost, a Black Man. That is who he is. When asked 'Who is Barack Obama?' she quickly answers, 'A black man.' Yes, but what else is he? "He has black skin.' Yes, I know, but he is also the pprrrreeeesss.... 'Presto!' No. The President of the United States. She had a run where she asked me if every single black person we saw was Barack Obama. (Keep in mind that the black population in Charlotte is about 40%.) That led to further discussion about skin color, that there are lots and lots of people with white skin, and lots and lots of people with black skin, but just because someone has black skin it does not necessarily mean they are Barack Obama. I'm afraid that just hammered in her notion of the importance of skin color, so I am trying to do some damage control by talking about how it doesn't matter. She asked me when we will see him, and I said probably never. She mentions his name a lot. Most recently when she asked if a guy passing the sacrament was Barack Obama, and today when she told me: 'I wish I was Barack Obama and could become the President.' Really? Do you want to be the President? When you grow up? 'No, when I grow up I want to be a puppy.' Oh.
I also love that she frequently tries to survey the emotional atmosphere in our home. I try and stress that emotions are okay, it's okay to feel certain ways as long as we express them or deal with them correctly. Because of this I try and use very clear statements like 'You are making me angry', or 'It makes me feel sad when you do that.' Now she has taken to feel out a situation by asking 'Are you mad? A little bit or a lot bit?', 'Are you happy?' Whenever she asks me if I am happy I have to pause and think about it. It's like a little reality check, a reminder from my little girl to be happy. She was frustrating me the other day as she was going potty and I left the bathroom, fuming a bit as I sought respite in the empty living room when she called out: 'Mom! Come back! I have a smile for you!'. I quickly made my way back, not caring that Fiona was sleeping in her nearby room while Bella yelled, to find a huge open-mouth grin on her face. That instantly changed my mood, my reaction, my perspective. She seems to do that a lot, come to think of it.

Note to Self:

Never underestimate the restorative properties of a hot shower and clean clothes- even if they are jammies.