Good to Be

Tonight at supper I kept noticing a lady at the table next to us watching my family. I caught her eye several times, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed that I made eye contact with her. I wondered what interested her so. I wondered if she envied me with my sweet family. I didn't find it hard to imagine that. If I were someone else, I'd envy me. That's a really good feeling.

It's good to be the Mama.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Parenting is hard. I've written that before, but this time is different. We're having a really hard time at the Sharp household right now, and I'm struggling. The big boys have started fighting, which I know is normal for siblings, but it's aggressive and ugly and makes me so sad. They refuse to clean up their toys. They talk back. The last couple of days I've been standing there looking at them, scratching my head and thinking, "What has happened to my family?"

Yes, I know we're in the midst of major life changes. The baby should be here any day now (the doctor said on Monday she'd be surprised if I lasted another 10 days), and that alone is bound to cause some ripples in our usually still waters. Aaron is outgrowing the baby stage and becoming both a playmate and a real nuisance to the big boys. We've started homeschooling, so our days are no longer full of free play (although we do still get plenty of that). So, I know that there's a lot going on in their worlds, and I've tried to be understanding. But enough is enough.

I got really strict about time outs. I started using a timer and had very specific rules about what constituted a successful time out. I was consistent, for the most part anyway, and tried to be calm but firm when sentencing. Aggression was a non-negotiable time out, as was talking back and acts of defiance. And they just didn't care. 5 minutes later they came bounding out of their time out spots, offering a half-hearted apology only because it was required. Nothing changed.

The other day I did something I thought I would never do. I spanked my child. Ei bit Jackson on his face, leaving a nasty looking bitemark next to his eye. I asked him why he would do something like that (not that there is any good reason, but I needed to know if Jackson also deserved punishment), and he said that they were playing ball and Jackson got to the ball first which made him mad. I wanted to cry when I realized that my sweet little boy had the potential to be so very mean. So, I spanked him twice, while Jackson watched, and thought that this would surely put an end to this recent streak of ugliness. Afterwards I felt like throwing up. I'm not judging others here--just being honest. I just can't figure out how someone can spank a child and walk away feeling good about her parenting skills. All day I wanted to grab Ei in a big hug and tell him how sorry I was, that returning violence for violence was a terrible thing to do. But I talked to Mike about it, and we decided that it might be good for him to see that parents do have bigger ammunition than just time outs and that he better get his act straight. We agreed not to use this particular method of punishment on a regular basis (in fact, I think I'm done with it), but we thought maybe some good might come of it. It didn't. He has bitten Jackson 3 times since then.

Today I walked into the bonus room of our house and took a good look around. There were toys (so many toys) on every inch of the floor, despite my pleas that they clean up for 4 days in a row. I walked the boys into the room and showed them what I saw and asked if they thought it was acceptable. They said no. They asked if they would still get their allowance this week, but they made no effort to pick up their toys. I wanted to bang my head into the wall. What have I created?

And so, today begins a new experiment in my parenting career. We skipped our regular trip to the library for storytime, and instead I emptied the toy room. I gutted it. While the boys screamed and begged for me to stop, I loaded up all their toys into boxes and took them to the garage. Afterwards we had a discussion about how they are not entitled to a room full of fancy toys, dessert after every dinner, and fun outings every day. I told them very calmly that they've become spoiled brats, and that I'm accepting part of the blame for what's happened because I'm the one who buys all the toys, gives them treats, takes them for outings, and doesn't expect an ounce of respect in return. And I told them that today things change. They will earn their toys back by keeping their room clean, respecting others, following directions, and refraining from acts of unkindness. Time outs will continue. Rewards (treats, fun outings, etc.) will be just that--rewards for good behavior, not a part of our regular routine.

Yes, this is poor timing. The baby will be here before we know it, and all of this will be put on the back burner while we just try to survive those first few weeks. Yes, it's going to be hard on all of us to change our old habits. But it's a good start, and I feel hopeful about things for the first time in weeks. Parenting is such an incredible responsibility. I have such a short amount of time to teach these little people to be responsible, compassionate, KIND adults. There's no room to be wishy-washy, even if it's more fun and seems to make the moment easier. I get it. I know this. Now, doing it is the hard part. Prayers, please.

Crunchy

I wear my babies. I don't believe in letting kids cry themselves to sleep. I breastfeed exclusively as long as possible. I love cuddling next to my boys at night and don't really mind when they crawl in bed with me. I want to home school. I try alternative treatments before resorting to medicine. I can rattle off at least a dozen reasons to drink organic milk. I absolutely do not consume any artificial sweeteners and don't allow my children to either. I really want to have my next baby (if there is a next baby) in a birthing center instead of a hospital. So, yes, I'm a bit crunchy. But I prefer the term "attachment parent."

I follow several blogs of other attachment parents. Although I'd never heard this term before having children, I've discovered the trend and fallen in love over time. I wasn't this way at first. I started off my life as a parent with an induced labor and an epidural. I let our pediatrician set an ultimatum for me regarding my son's breastfeeding (he must gain weight by the end of the week or we start formula). I carried my baby in his car seat and never considered taking him out to carry him if he wasn't screaming. I thought home schoolers were weird and a bit selfish (if I'm being totally honest) for taking something away from their children which can't be replaced. I thought I was going back to work.

Something in me changed. I can't say it was immediate. Early on, I knew I couldn't go back to work. I began cosleeping with my kids quite a bit (mostly just so I could get some sleep) and worried about what foods they put into their bodies. But there wasn't a day that I said, "Today I will become an attachment parent." Something about Aaron changed my life. I don't know if it was the thought that he might be my last baby, the fact that he was a difficult baby to soothe, the confidence that came with being an experienced parent who was able to make more educated decisions, or none of those, or maybe all of those. But I know that I started wearing Aaron, and it felt amazing. I stopped complaining when my kids slept in my bed. I refused to see the pediatrician who gave me the nonsense advice about formula and found a pediatrician I fell in love with. I started feeling a pull away from corporate education and towards something much more friendly. And I started looking for other people like me out there.

I found them. LOTS of them. They're called attachment parents. And I realized that I was one of them. Well, sort of. You see, I believe firmly in vaccinations. Actually, I consider it an act of cruelty not to vaccinate a child from a potentially life-threatening disease. I really clung to some of their research on the dangers of vaccinations and considered doing a modified vaccination schedule with my children but then I realized that I was taking their medical care into my own hands, and, seriously, I'm just not qualified for that. So, I decided to trust our pediatrician (whom I love dearly). And then there's the issue of behavior. I don't believe that discipline, when used lovingly and appropriately, is stifling a child's soul. I don't spank my children and think that, in general, it's an unnecessary practice, but I do lots of timeouts and heart-to-heart talks and chore-charts. I think it's good for my kids. Oh, and I don't think that babies really care if their mamas had an epidural or if they screamed their way through labor. The end result is the same. So maybe I'm not an attachment parent. Do you have to follow all their beliefs to be one? Not completely adhering to the values of attachment parents can make me feel a bit guilty.

My youngest child bit me while I was breastfeeding, so I weaned him around 10 months. It was a selfish decision--no doubt about that. At the time I read and read and read about breastfeeding and how to retrain your child not to bite you and then (warning: moment of disclosure) nursed him in secret for a few weeks after that because I had already told my family that he was weaned. I read and read about how selfish it was not to breastfeed, and I felt SO guilty. Every morning I would express a tiny bit of milk, just to be sure that I still could, and I made a point to nurse the baby at least once a day, to keep my milk flowing. About 2 weeks into this, I tried to breastfeed him, at which point his crying got stronger, so I tried giving him a bottle. He settled immediately. I have no doubt that it was because the bottle flowed so much quicker and easier. I spoiled him with a bottle and, thus, destroyed any chance I had of continuing to breastfeed. But somehow I felt very free anyway. I really liked being able to drink a glass of wine in the evenings, take my Prozac in the mornings, wear clothes without any regard for how accessible my chest was, etc. It was nice. And I felt bad about how good I felt.

It's great to find a group of people who share similar values and ideas, but I've decided it's very unhealthy for a person to make decisions on her parenting based on the definition of a parenting style which sounds appealing. So, I release myself of any guilt which I bear for inductions, epidurals, forced weanings, grocery-store brand milk, stroller rides when it would have been just as easy to put him in a sling, and the list goes on and on. Oh, my it feels good to be free of those burdens. But it feels bad to feel so good. Crunchy and crazy. Perhaps that's my parenting style.

You Hold My Heart

Friday my baby turned one. He's a toddler. And it's been really hard for me. Part of me is trying to come to terms with the fact that this is likely my last first birthday party, last first steps, last snaggly tooth grin. And part of me wants another baby so badly I can't stand it. There's just no right answer.

Monday he had surgery. Yes, it was minor. He had tubes placed in his ears. But it was surgery, all the same. He was under general anesthesia, and it was scary. The nurse gave him something she called "happy juice" to calm his nerves enough that he would go with a stranger into the OR. I needed some happy juice to calm my own nerves as I watched him go. He did fine, and we made it through the ordeal.

Back up to Saturday. We went to a birthday party at a kids' indoor play station--kind of like Chuck E. Cheese for the older crowd (including bowling, indoor go-carts, and laser tag). The boys were in heaven. We collected tickets for all the games we won, and we cashed them in for cheap prizes before leaving. The boys chose matching stuffed hearts. One said "Be" and the other said "mine." I assume they were leftovers from Valentine's Day, and I thought they were a pretty lame prize, but I really wanted to go and didn't particularly care what they chose. On the way out, Ei told me that he wanted me to have his little heart. It was really cold and I thanked him for the gift but asked if he could hold it until we got to the car where I could look at it while warming up. He said, "Okay, Mama. I'll hold your heart."

Oh, my precious Ei. You already hold my heart. You and your brothers have held my heart since before you even entered this world. As I sat in the doctor's conference room on Monday waiting to hear that the surgery was over and everything was okay, I replayed this moment. I wish I had thought to take the heart with me to hold as a tangible reminder of how precious my children are to me. But the truth is I didn't need anything tangible. I watched them take my baby Aaron as I stood there empty-handed and helpless, and I knew that my heart was with him.

Jackson, Ei, and Aaron--you hold my heart.

Like Mother, Like Sons

Ei has been going to cello with us. Last week their cello teacher asked him if he wanted a turn playing, and he said no. I was so surprised. He plays at home all the time. He talks about cello lessons all week. He tells everyone about "his" teacher. I just couldn't understand why he wouldn't play for her.

Fast forward a week. Jackson asked me to take my cello to his lesson (as he does every week). As I do every week, I put it in the car with no intention of actually taking it in to the lesson. I usually get away with this, but this week Jackson insisted that I take it inside. We had talked about it before we left the house, and I knew this was what he wanted. We have been playing a duet to a song he's working on, and he wanted to play it for his teacher. I wasn't so sure about this, but I went along hoping he would forget or change his mind. Once inside, I figured I was trapped into playing. Now, I have to explain that I was actually looking forward to this. I really do enjoy playing with Jackson, and I knew how happy it would make him. When I went inside, however, his teacher asked, "Do you want to play today?" and I took the out. No. I didn't. I actually didn't. I took the huge instrument into her house, put it in the entranceway, and left it there for the entire lesson, then picked it up and took it home when it was time to go. How silly. So, I guess I really can understand Ei's behavior last week.

I know. It doesn't make any sense. I guess the underlying fear is being judged--of not being good enough. But seriously, this lady teaches cello. Surely she's heard worse than my out-of-tune attempts to the harmony parts of book one songs? And, even if she hasn't, I just don't figure her for the type to ridicule or make me feel bad about it. AND, I would have no reason to be a good cello player as I have never had a lesson in my life and have only owned a cello for a few weeks. This is just silliness. But I guess it's more than that. It's very real. Something about the idea of doing something I am not good at in front of someone who is good at it really scares me. It's about not being the best. And there is the root of my problem. I carry around this assumption that if I'm not the best I have failed. And you can't fail if you don't try, right? So, I just don't try at all if I don't know for sure that I can do it and do it very well. This is frustrating for me. I would like so very much to open myself up to something new--to be a student and to learn a new skill. But to do so means that I will be far from the best. I will be a beginner with sour notes and awkward posture. I want to set a good example for my kids and show them that it's okay to do things even when you aren't very good at them. I will get better in time, but to do so means overcoming this self-criticism and allowing myself to be far the from the best--just a beginner.

But maybe I can be the best at being a beginner...

Celebrate Babywearing

When Aaron was about 6 weeks old I thought I would lose my mind. He cried all the time. I couldn't put him down even long enough to brush my hair, let alone take a shower. It was a difficult time. Then I stumbled across Steph's blog (Adventures in Babywearing). A light went off in my head. This could work...

So, I bought a Peanut Shell and popped him in. He looked around, confused at first, and then closed his eyes and went to sleep. My baby, who prior to that day only slept in 15 minute increments, slept for an hour. When he woke, he looked up at me, smiled really sweetly, and leaned in close. I was immediately in love with this whole idea of babywearing. We went to DisneyWorld, and my sweet guy rode on my hip contently the entire week. I feel so bonded to him. I really regret that I didn't think of this earlier. My older two boys really missed out--and so did I.

Whenever we're out running errands, I find it really convenient to wear him. He can't reach for things, he doesn't put his mouth on the nasty shopping carts, he doesn't get cranky, and my hands are free. Wherever I go, we draw attention. While babywearing is really common in other parts of the world, it just hasn't quite caught on in full force here in the United States. I was actually surprised that my spellchecker kept flagging babywearing as a misspelled word. I understand that it's becoming trendy in some parts of the country, but it's still a very "granola" thing to do around here. I'm okay with it. I love having him close to me, and he loves it too. As soon as I pull the sling out of my bag he starts laughing and shaking his arms. Today my dad was visiting and as he watched me wear a sleeping Aaron he joked that I would eventually have to cut the cord. Maybe. But not today.

The Great Kindergarten Debate

My oldest son is 4. In August he will be eligible for kindergarten. Eligible, mind you, does not mean ready. So, let me invite you into my worry for a moment. If you have enough problems of your own, please hit the red X at the top right hand of your screen.

For quite some time, Mike and I have been discussing whether or not to start Jackson in school next year. He will be 5, but barely. He would be one of the youngest in his class and would graduate from high school when he was 17 years old. If we hold him a year, he will be the oldest in his class (giving him another year of life experience and a lot more confidence) and will graduate at 18. Plus, I'm told, it gives him an advantage should he choose to play sports in high school (being 1 year older and bigger than the other kids). This is not a factor in my decision, but I'm just laying it all out on the table here. So, with all those things in mind, it seemed a fairly easy decision to hold him an extra year and start kindergarten in the fall of 2010, just after his 6th birthday.

Now, my Jackson is very smart. He can write the alphabet (uppercase and lowercase) and understands phonics (as well as any English-speaking child can) and has about 20 sight words. He can count to 40 (with a little bit of prompting after 20) and can add sums up to 10. He can make a graph and then analyze it. He can cut with scissors well. He follows directions and takes turns with other children. He knows the days of the week. He dresses himself, combs his own hair, and brushes his own teeth. He takes cello lessons and plays piano and practices both. So, it would seem, he's kindergarten-ready today as far as skills go. Of course, this leads me to wonder what life will be like for him in 2 years when he begins kindergarten and goes back to square-one, learning letters and numbers. I'm currently taking a class which is a very watered-down version of my own major in college. And I'm bored stiff. The work keeps me busy, sure, but that's all it is: busy-work. I hate it. Of course, I don't hold the teacher responsible. He's teaching the material that needs to be covered. And it is necessary material. I've just already learned this stuff and know it well. The point is, I don't want him to experience this same problem when he goes to school. He's going to be bored and he'll be wasting time that he could be learning new skills and moving forward rather than standing still.

So, I began to consider two alternatives: private school and homeschooling. Now, this is my blog, so if you have any beef with either of those, take it elsewhere. Create your own blog called "Down with Homeschooling" or something, because I don't want to hear it. If you're still with me, read on. Okay, the obvious problem with this is cost. At minimum we're talking fifteen hundred bucks or so each month for all 3 kids (and we're not separating them--I'm not evening delving into that), and most of them are much more. So, that eliminates the possibility of my being Room Mother or even a stay-at-home mom to the preschoolers still at home. Then I have to consider the fact that I'm raising a kid to be a snob. Yeah, that's a little bit of a stereotype. Not all kids from private schools are snobs. But they don't get the chance to mingle with children from all walks of life and learn to get along, a skill which I think is really important. So, the world becomes this fairy-tale-like setting where everyone is middle or upper-class and all kids either get with the program or get kicked out. I'm just not sure I'm really explaining my concerns well, but surely you get the general idea.

Okay, the second possibility I started thinking about was homeschooling. Currently, I'm "homeschooling" preschool with both of the older boys. I am a little bit more structured with Jackson than Ei (because he's just 3), but I make both of them sit down and work with me a little bit every day. We do some seatwork (during which time they are not allowed to get up without asking and are not permitted to have toys at the table) and then do a project together (like graphing or crafts). We go to the library every week and check out books that we want to read and explore new concepts from our books. It's going really well, and we all love it. All of the skills I mentioned earlier Jackson has because I taught him (with the exception of cello, I guess). So, it seems that something is working. I joined a homeschool coop for some support with all this, and we plan to start going to the group so the boys can take classes in January. So, this seemed like a good option (not necessarily the only option) to consider. But, of course, it's not that easy.

My Jackson is also painfully shy. I don't even think shy is really the right word here. He's really--[gulp]--antisocial. Okay, now some of you are reading this and saying, "No, he's not! He plays with my kid just fine." Well, that might be true. But, I assure you, if I left his sight, he would become a nervous wreck. He cries every single week in his Wednesday night class (and that's with his brother there, in the church where we've been going since before he was born), and Mike has to go sit in the room with him. I can't even describe how he behaves in cello lessons (although I made an effort to HERE). So, I have to consider that, perhaps, being around other kids to "socialize" him would be beneficial. But I'm just not sold. I mean, we're around other kids almost every day. He goes to MOPS, Mommy & Me, library, Sunday School, Enrichment, and his Wednesday night class. He does fine with playdates and with kids his age when I'm present. But even with all this exposure, he still acts...well...weird. I just don't think it's lack of socialization. I really think it's anxiety. And I think this because I was the same way. I distinctly remember in 2nd grade we got a flyer for Brownies. There was this tiny part of me that wanted to join (all the other girls were going to!), so I brought it home to my mom. She said I could join. I panicked. Suddenly I began to picture myself in this group with a bunch of kids I didn't know and my family far away, and I didn't want to do it anymore. I couldn't tell my mom I changed my mind (Why? I have no idea. I was an anxious kid, I tell you.) so I dropped the registration form behind the bookcase where it would surely never be found. And this was not the only example of my overwhelming anxiety. My mom had to sit in my 1st grade class forever while I adjusted to the new school (we had just moved to Tennessee from Oklahoma). And sometime ask me about the paper backpack story. Geez. I was a nut. I was so anxious about social interaction and being away from my comfort zone that I stayed in tears. I was miserable. And I'm not about to let Jackson have the same kind of childhood. So, I wonder if maybe homeschooling would be a very kind thing to do for him. He could get a good education without all the anxiety that goes along with leaving home. Nope, there wouldn't be a basketball team. Nope, there wouldn't be a band. But there are coops and community orchestras and plenty of ways to get those kinds of experiences.

Oh, wouldn't it be great if it was that easy? I could just say, "I think this is what's best for my kid," and be done with it. I joined the homeschool coop and my husband's radar went up. He's completely opposed to the idea. So, it's causing some friction at home. And I know he wouldn't be the only one. It would be a tough sell. And that's if I tried to sell it at all. I'm just not sure if that's where I think we should be headed.

So, for now I pray. I feel pretty sure that we're not doing kindergarten (wherever that might take place) next year anyway, so we have some time. I wish the stars would spell out a message from God, but even if they did I would probably still find a way to question if I was doing the right thing. This is huge, right? Or is it? Is it just cut and paste and letter people and who cares where he goes anyway? And how can you tell if you got it right until it's all said and done? I guess anxiety doesn't go away with age. If you are so inclined, say a little prayer for us. And, by all means, join me in The Great Kindergarten Debate. Goodness knows I can't do this alone. I leave you with the picture Jackson drew in response to the book Barn Dance. He's so wonderful.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

A prayer offered by my oldest son tonight:

Dear God,
I hope that you are having a good day.
I love you.
I wish that I could play with you every day.
I was thinking of you at supper.
In your name we pray,
Amen.

Amen to that.

BE KIND (and please rewind)

I had this thought the other day: "They aren't mine." Yes, they're "my" kids. Yes, I birthed them, diapered them, fed them, clothed them, disciplined them, played with them, loved them. But they still aren't mine. Although they grew in my body, I didn't make them. These precious people are on loan to me from the One who made them. Eventually my job will be done. I'll have to send them into the world and hope that I've taught them to love God and respect others.

Loan me a book, and I'll read it very carefully so that I don't crease the spine or wrinkle any of the pages. Loan me your car and I'll drive it like it's made of glass so I don't scratch the paint or dirty the tires. I'd NEVER return a movie to the video store without rewinding it. (Those of you who are of the younger generation, we used to borrow VHS movies from Blockbuster roughly 100 years ago.) Yet, I've got 3 great kids on loan, and I often forget to take such good care of them. I damage their spirits by using a harsh voice. I damage their creativity by focusing on the mess they made rather than the masterpiece they completed. I damage their understanding of what it is to be a Christian when I don't live what I teach.

It makes me cry to think of the day that I drop them off at college and return home empty- handed. I know that on that day I'd give anything for one more chance to sit in the floor and make play-doh food or curl up on the bed together and read them a story. So why do I fly through those things like they're mundane chores now? The "return by" date is coming up. 18 years is a very short time to get it right. I'm wasting time. There are books to be read, pictures to be painted, walks to be taken, cuddles to be shared.

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

There's a new member in our extended family. Mike's cousin just had a baby boy. We went to see him Thursday night. He was so tiny and wonderful. I held that little limp body and examined the wrinkles all over his skinny legs and decided that my heart definitely wants another baby. I know, I'm not normal. Mike isn't quite as opposed to the idea as he once was, but I still think he would very much prefer not to have another. Well, we'll see.



Anyway, the baby's mama was having a rough day. She had just gotten back from the doctor with the baby because she was concerned about white spots in his mouth. Turns out that he has Thrush (which, if you are unfamiliar with it, is no big deal). They were settling back in with him when she noticed a small lump on the back of his neck. Her husband tried very hard to convince her that it's just a little fat deposit and that it will be fine. But she was very upset and called the doctor. They said to come in on Monday (keep in mind that it was Thursday). She fought back tears. I told her just to take him to the doctor tomorrow and tell them that a first-time mom is asking for them to please take a look at her baby, and I know that they will. I did not suggest this because I think he's ill. I agree that it's a fat deposit and no big deal. No, I suggested that because I know what was going through her mind. She didn't say it out loud, but I'll tell you exactly what she was thinking. She was thinking that by Monday it will be too late because it's probably cancer and it will continue to grow over the weekend and on Monday they will go in and find out that if they had taken him in immediately they could have removed the lump but now it's inoperable because it's grown around the brain stem and he has about a week to live. I know this because I am a mom and a worrier too.



When I was pregnant with my first baby I was terrified. I ended up getting hooked up to the fetal monitor twice because I was just sure that he had stopped moving. I cried all the time because I just knew that I was going to go to the doctor and she would say that she was sorry but I had lost the baby. I honestly could not bring myself to believe that I would have a healthy baby. That's something that happens to other people. It was too good to be true, I guess is what I'm getting at. Then I delivered this perfect little person, and they put him in my arms. I remember that I couldn't open my eyes, and I heard my mother say, "Look at your son! He's so beautiful!" My son? That's when I started crying. I have a son. You would think that reality would then set in and I would stop believing that this is just something that happens to other people. But no. This was only the beginning. For the next week I watched in agony as my son lost weight every day, and I just began to believe that this is how it would end. I would forever live with the pain of birthing a son and then losing him. Then one day he started gaining weight, and the doctors said he was healthy and perfect.



Eventually, I was able to settle in and believe that having a son was, indeed, a reality for me. I still worry about him (and now my other kids too), but I no longer believe that God made some huge mistake and is trying to correct it by taking my baby away (yes, that's what I thought...the combination of hormones and OCD didn't sit well with me). Eventually having children became so routine that I stopped experiencing that panicky "something this good isn't supposed to happen to me" feeling. Yes, routine. That's the best word for my world. Routine. Not in a bad way, but not necessarily good either. Just routine.



When I saw this new mama in her distress I suddenly had a rush of emotion come over me. I wanted to go wrap my arms around her and promise that her baby is fine (perfect, even) and that she will stop feeling so scared all the time in a couple of months and settle into a state of managable worry when things become routine. But at the same time I wanted to tell her to bottle up these emotions so that she can pull them out in 4 years when she has one child crying over a broken crayon, one child peeing in the floor, and one child screaming because she put him down for the first time in 2 hours (so that she could clean the carpet where child #2 peed). I had almost forgotten how it felt to be in a constant state of thankfulness for my children. I take them for granted. Every night when I say my evening prayers I thank God for my children and ask Him to protect them. Routine. I hardly even think about what I'm saying now. In fact, I would almost say that my prayer is less a true prayer to God and more a superstition, as though if I forget to ask God to protect them he'll allow something horrible to happen the next day. I don't believe this, but I still don't dare alter my prayer. It's one of those little things that helps manage OCD worry. I'm sure God understands. The point is, it's just routine, a recited prayer no more meaningful than the poetic prayers we make our children recite before they even understand who God is. I'm not moved to stop my day and tearfully proclaim my gratitude for putting these amazing little people in my life.



Today I vow to stop taking my children for granted. I will live as though I still believe today might be the last day I have with them. And when this too becomes routine, as I know that it will, I will pray to God for some experience like I had Thursday which will stir up these emotions again. Welcome to the world, New One. You will never know how the lesson you taught me this week. I can't wait to watch you grow. God has so richly blessed our family.