the loveliness of laughter

I once wrote that childhood is full of tears. And it is.

But while I watch my two boys grow and see their sense of humor stretch each day like little spring seedlings sprouting out of the earth, I remember how childhood is full of laughter, too.

We laugh every day in this house. At funny faces and silly words. At goofy games of peek-a-boo and chase-to-tickle. At jumping on the bed and running down the hall and hiding in the curtains and banging on the table and singing in the bathtub.

My favorite moments as a mother are when the deep belly chuckles of boys still too young to hold back squeals of glee bounce off the walls and echo in my ears.

What a gift to have all this time and space to laugh. Childhood’s magic reminds us – we who live in the grown-up world of deadlines and to-do lists, of death and taxes – what it means to delight in life’s simple joys.

Today I’m posting over at Lydia’s lovely blog, Small Town Simplicity. Her beautiful, wise writing on motherhood is some of my favorite stuff on the Interwebs. As she and her family “babymoon” with their latest addition, I’m delighted to share a few thoughts on humility and humor at home:

Watching them take their first steps towards the art of humor not only makes me burst out laughing every day, but also teaches me about the important place of humor in our relationships.

Often it is when we relate to each other on this most delightful level that we learn what humility really means: that we are all grounded in the same “humus,” the same earthy joys and basic desires to be in right relationship with each other.

Read the rest at Small Town Simplicity, and be sure to check out the rest of Lydia’s blog while you’re there!

the perspective of puke and the tales we tell

I could tell the story of my week like this:

For the first time since I became a parent, I spent the morning cleaning vomit out of the crib.

(At which point I would pause while the Interwebs finished laughing at me. “Seriously?”)

And that would be true.

Because in some strange stroke of luck, we’ve never had a stomach bug tear through this house in the almost-four years since we’ve had kids.

Sure, we’ve had common colds and croup and thrush and other typical childhood ailments. And we’ve got at least one boy who’s prone to car-sickness, so we’ve wiped up car seats and coats aplenty. But never before had our doorstep been darkened by the Evil 24-Hour Stomach Virus, as sponsored by Lysol and the sanitizing cycle on the washing machine.

I know this sounds naive. And trust me, ever since I became a mother I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, the quintessential moment when I would wind up catching some kid’s puke in my cupped hands and realize, while choking back my own gag reflex, “So this is motherhood. Huh.”

And yes, that happened. Exactly as you’d expect, exactly as I’d always expected. One frantic knock on the office door from the nanny while I was working mid-Monday, one boy throwing up in the bathroom, one brother felled by the same bug the next day, more vomit on my sweatshirts than I care to remember, more hot water loads in the washer than I care to count.

You know the story.

Or do you?

As I pondered the wretched (wretching?) events of the past few week, I realized that I could spin the story any number of ways.

It could start like I did above, that I’d never been puked on before, so four years after first giving birth, I felt like a newbie parent all over again. And behold: a tale of maternal rite of passage.

Or it could take another twist: after my youngest had his 18 month check-up on Monday, and his doctor was closing the door to say goodbye, she called out, “Great to see you! It’s been so long – I can’t believe you’ve never had this kid in for anything but well-baby visits since he was born!” And behold: a story of sour irony.

Or it could travel down this road: at the beginning of birthday week, all I dreamed of was a weekend away with the beloved spouse who stole shares my natal day, but by week’s end I was reduced to begging divine intervention to please just keep my kids from puking today so that we can salvage some shred of the celebration slipping away before my eyes. And behold: a reminder of reversed expectations.

All of these tales are true. What matters is which one I pick.

The more I ponder the intersections between parenting and spirituality, between mothering and writing, the more I realize how the lens through which see the world matters. And how the tales we choose to tell matter, too.

Whether or not we recognize it in the moment, we choose to narrate every experience according to certain scripts or slants. Here’s my Tale of A Terrible Day; here’s my Glowing Reminder of Life’s Beauty; here’s my Gut-Punch Reminder of Fleeting Mortality. The same day spun six different ways.

In her book Composing A Life, Mary Catherine Bateson explores the various versions of our life that we create – when we introduce ourselves to a group of people at a meeting or make a new acquaintance at a party, for example. She claims that our self-introductions, our autobiographies, even the everyday stories we tell each other all have multiple versions – and this is not only good, but necessary:

What I want to say is that you can play with, compose, multiple versions of a life.

There are advantages in having access to multiple versions of your life story. I am not referring to a true version versus a false version, or to one that works in a given therapeutic context as opposed to others, or to one that will sell to People magazine as opposed to ones that won’t. I am referring to the freedom that comes not only from owning your memory and your life story but also from knowing that you make creative choices in how you look at your life….

The choice you make affects what you can do next. Often people use the choice of emphasizing either continuity or discontinuity as a way of preparing for the next step. They interpret the present in a way that helps them construct a particular future.

The art of composition and improvisation has the power to reshape our world as we reshape our point of view.

Pondering this truth mid-sick-week helped me to remember that I still held a teeny bit of control over all the situations slipping out of my hands. My perspective on the pukefest mattered, and the lens I chose to view the vomit could color the way things turned out in my mind and in my memory.

Because I could have spun this week as woe-is-me, worst-possible-timing, what-could-be-crappier. Or I could choose to see it as minor-inconvenience, mostly-manageable, much-lighter-than-burdens-others-bear.

Or maybe, just maybe, I could focus all my energy and hope and even prayers that the story of this week might end up being the one I wanted all along: the perfect prelude to a weekend without kids.

The story of the stomach bug that almost stole our birthdays.

requiem for a nap

I loved you truly, madly, deeply for three and a half years.

And now you’ve abandoned me.

It wasn’t an abrupt breakup, not the kind that knocks the wind out of your chest by its utter shock and surprise. No, you snuck away slowly over time. Disappeared for a day or two, then returned again, feigning faithfulness, smiling slyly as you assured me you’d stick around this time.

But as the weeks wound by, you grew more and more distant till you slipped away completely, only a fleeting glimpse of the stranger we once knew. And your leaving for good was just as harsh, just as cruel as any heartbreak I’ve ever wailed to mourn.

I’m left to learn how to live without you.

I tried to fling myself at the imposters and suitors that sometimes sauntered round to fill your void: Catnap, Car Nap, Quiet Time. But none of them could take your place, the beautiful hours of sweet silence we used to share together.

Oh, Nap. Dear beloved Nap. You were my standby, my stalwart, my savior. Some days, you were my everything.

So what now? How do I fill the ache left by your absence?

Each afternoon we mourn your loss, each in our own way. I whine to anyone who will listen; he wails and whimpers to the four walls of his bedroom where he’s been banished, where he waits without your soothing presence.

ALL DONE! he laments in loud protestation.

Me, too, sighs my sanity. Me, too.

how to forget you’re a mother

Book a girls’ weekend. Forty-eight hours of kidless wonder to reprieve your college days and give a last hurrah for the final bachelorette. Only casually consult with your husband; remain utterly oblivious to necessity of his solo parenting after an arduous week at the office. Count down t-months, weeks, days with your girls instead.

Stubbornly ignore the acrobatical logistics required to absent a nursing mother and primary caregiver from her two young children for two nights and two days. Cram all necessary packing into 45 minutes.

Marvel at one small suitcase to carry on. Deliberately forget Cheerios, sippy cups, board books, and back-up outfits for plane. Chortle with delight at the airy weightlessness of your purse.

Kiss babies and husband goodbye in a flurry. Ignore heart’s momentary flutter as two adorable boys bounce up and down in one crib giggling as you go. Fly out the door, roll down the windows, crank up the music, squeal out of the driveway. Audibly whoop as you sail towards the interstate with nary a car seat in sight.

Thrill at the ease of security without a stroller. Slip off only one pair of shoes. Happily raise your arms in the new x-ray screening machine that must be avoided while pregnant or dragging small children in tow.

Rediscover the freedom of choosing anything you want for dinner. Choose junk food. Grab only one napkin instead of the usual just-in-case-they-spill-everything stack. Silently apologize to acres of forests your offspring must have clear-cut over the years.

Go to the restroom unaccompanied. Deliberately ignore the availability and location of changing tables. Flush the toilet without coaching anyone about the potential loudness of the potty.

Easily locate a single open chair at the crowded terminal gate. Discover with amazement that human race has become even more addicted to gadgets since the last time you had five free minutes to notice. Cease all judgment with realization that you have your own gadget and can now read any of the 17 novels you’re been meaning to catch up on. Settle into uncomfortable plastic chair with large grin.

Ignore presence of small children at the gate. PARTICULARLY CRYING CHILDREN. ESPECIALLY CUTE CRYING CHILDREN. Steal page from stereotypical male response by thinking about baseball instead. Baseball baseball baseball baseball.

Watch formerly-adorable crying children dissolve into tantruming terrors while exasperated father wrestles them into a stroller. Shudder. Forget baseball.

Pick a window seat. Share view with no one. Enjoy ease of take-off without nursing a screaming, sweaty baby. Close eyes. Pretend to sleep. Love life.

Contemplate ordering wine with beverage service. Refrain with sigh when you remember you still have to pump before going to bed. Baseball baseball baseball.

Dive into new book to celebrate sheer quietness of airplane cabin. Discover 15 pages into story that plot line suggests tearful transformation of main character from angst-ridden new mother to wise sage weathered by tragedy that befalls her child. Baseball baseball.

Read heart-wrenching line about realization that mothering love is the fiercest, deepest love. BASEBALL.

Instantly recall cherubic, chubby grins on bouncing brothers. BASEBALL.

Unsuccessfully ignore overactive imagination’s flash of sentimental snapshots of adorable boys enjoying weekend at home with daddy, undoubtedly achieving adorable and significant milestones that their absentee mother will never get to revisit. BASEBALL!

Curse overactive imagination. Set down book, stare out window. Miss them. Gnawingly.

(Damn baseball.)

Remember, once again, for the umpteenth time.

That a vocation isn’t something you can leave behind.

That a calling isn’t as easy to set aside as the contents of a diaper bag.

That mothering is a way of being in the world, no matter where in the world you go.

That you can still enjoy a perfectly wonderful weekend with your girls, though all the while your heart will keep reaching back to the pieces of itself you left behind.

That even when you’re back with the ones who knew you before, it’s impossible to forget who you’ve become.

praying the particulars: wrangling children at church

A Prayer for Wrangling Small Children at Church:

God of infinite patience,

Help me not to lose my mind at Mass today.

When my son falls off the kneeler for the umpteenth time and howls at me indignantly, let me not say I told you so! but I love you.

When the baby gets so fussy during the homily that no one within six pews can hear the priest, let me not sigh with irritation but distract him with smiles.

When I miss every word of the readings (again) because I was fishing books out of the diaper bag, let me not brood about what I lost but notice the small service I gave to the least among us.

When I spend communion time pacing the floor of the gathering space, or trying in vain to nurse the baby in a corner of the cry room, or taking the toddler to the potty for the tenth time, help me to see that this is Eucharist, too – the gift of self in love.

When that older couple behind us, the ones I worried about the whole time – that we were annoying them and distracting their prayer and giving them reason to think the future church is going to hell in a handbasket – when they tap me on the shoulder after the final song and tell me we have a beautiful family, help me believe them. And even thank them graciously.

And when we’re tempted to skip Mass next Sunday because it’s just so hard in this crazy season of life, and it throws off nap schedules for the rest of the day, and what are we getting out of it anyway, let me remember the importance of coming. Because children are part of the Body of Christ. Because I need community and they need me. Because much of what is important about parenting isn’t easy anyway.

God, you promised that wherever two or three are gathered in your name, you are in their midst. That means our pew, too. The one covered with spit-up that two boys are trying to climb over.

Bless my hyper, healthy kids. Bless our diverse, dynamic church. Thank you for the weekly reminder of what matters most.

With gritted teeth behind that laughing smile,

A mama in the third row

stubborn alleluias

A few days before Lent, I sat my son down for a serious conversation over crackers.

“So buddy, Lent starts on Wednesday. Lent is a time when we get ready for Easter. And during Lent we don’t sing Alleluia. So we’re not going to sing Alleluia for a while.”

His sea-blue eyes sparkled up at mine. His milk-smeared mouth turned up at the corners, and he cocked his head full of curls to one side.

“Should we sing Alleluia?” he cooed.

“No,” I replied patiently. “I just said we’re NOT going to sing it for a while. Because it’s Lent. And we don’t sing Alleluias during Lent. We save our Alleluias for Easter.”

“Should we sing Alleluia?” “No.”

“Should we – ” “NO.”

“Sh-” “NO! I SAID NO ALLELUIAS DURING LENT!”

Snack and failed attempt at liturgical catechesis both met an untimely end. The cherub scampered out of the kitchen and raced up the stairs, warbling as he went: “AH-AH-YAY-YOO-YA, AHHHH-YAY-YOO-YA!”

The rest of Lent? You guessed it. Our house has been filled with Alleluias. Cranky Alleluias and cheerful Alleluias. New lyrics sung to Alleluia tunes. Alleluia lyrics slapped onto nursery rhyme songs.

You would think we were already stuffing our cheeks full of Easter chocolates the way Alleluias are resounding round here.

I was annoyed for a while. Ok, I foisted my Lenten disciplines on my child and it failed. I tried to teach a two-year old about the somber tenor of a solemn season and it was a total flop. I realize now that if I had never uttered the A word on Ash Wednesday, I probably would have had a Alleluia-free Lent. I get it.

Silly, silly new mama.

But in the dusty midst of spring cleaning last weekend, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor as I swept a pile across my desk. I picked up the small scrap, its edges taped and retaped, remnants of a journey from childhood mirror to dorm room wall:

Let nothing so fill you with sorrow that you forget the joy of Christ risen.

(Dear Mother Teresa. That little lady had a gift for summing up the Gospel.*)

I thought about the stubborn persistence of joy.

Scraggly green shoots that push up through concrete cracks. Bandaged children who squeal with delight as they play in bombed-out buildings. Cancer patients who crack jokes with their nurses.

Something small and resilient within the human spirit seeks joy at any cost. Alleluia is a stubborn word to purge from our vocabulary. Our tongues ache for it during Lent: the forty days seem too long, and we’re cranky and tired by the end. We need more joy. Which is precisely the point: to do without so we remember how to do with.

This year, we’re plagued with an abundance of Alleluias, courtesy of one cheeky toddler. But I’ve given up fighting with joy. I figure God thought we could use an extra dose of delight in our days, and I’m done complaining. Aren’t all our Lents supposed to be lived in the light of Easter joy?

*For a little Lenten inspiration, check out these quick reads from some great theological minds on the Gospel in seven words or less. 

And if you want my spin?

“See those people?” God asks. “Love them.”

(Coincidentally, it also applies to parenting.)

conversations with myself, 2:00 am & 8:00 am

2:00 am (after a night of naps):

My head is going to EXPLODE. How is that baby screaming again?

I cannot handle his yelling. I’m going to lose my mind.

Didn’t I JUST get up and feed him? Sigh.

I could sleep for weeks and still not get enough.

God as my witness, I am never going to have another baby.

How is his brother in the next room waking up, too? I wish they would grow out of this phase.

I can’t believe how this time drags on and on and on. These days are so dang long.

8:00 am (after a shower and a cup of tea)

My heart is going to explode! How can the baby be grinning like that?

I cannot handle his laughing. I am going to lose my mind!

Didn’t we just bring him home from the hospital? Sigh.

I could cuddle him for days and still not get enough.

God as my witness, I want to have a zillion babies.

How is his brother in the next room going to preschool soon? I wish they would stay little forever.

I can’t believe how the time flies. These years are so short.

if this blog were pinterest…

…here’s what would be on my Advent board.*

• a beautiful and easy idea for a nightly family ritual of light to celebrate Advent with kids. Filed away in my memory for later years when candles do not pose an immediate and alluring fire hazard to the toddler set.

• a moving film on “Change,” courtesy of the “Deacon’s Bench” blog, which promises you will never walk by the homeless man on the street without second-guessing your assumptions about where the change you give him might go.

• an important reminder (and clever video) that while we are rushing around to finish our shopping, millions of people in this world need something much simpler for Christmas.

 

• balanced with a refreshing perspective from The Guardian on why gift-giving really is meaningful – and part of what makes us truly human: Presents: The Real Meaning of Christmas

• I’d probably “repin” some of my favorite Advent poetry from last year, because truth and beauty never get old: week one, week two, week three, week four.

• and finally, a ridiculous outtake of Stephen Colbert doing a liturgical dance to “The King of Glory.” Having watched this about 7 times, I can report that it keeps getting funnier.

* I am still not entirely sure I “get” Pinterest, despite being mildly obsessed with finding new kids’ crafts, home decorating ideas, and other projects I will surely never undertake. So for all of my Face.book friends who keep requesting to follow me, FYI – I have no idea what I’m doing.

But I do love me some Advent.

laughing at ourselves

A few weeks ago – during my last awful round of solo parenting – I came to an important realization.

I was sitting on the floor of our bathroom, simultaneously trying to nurse a screaming baby and cajole a wriggly toddler into using the potty, when I realized why the week had been such a terrible one.

Partly it was because my partner was climbing the Great Wall thousands of miles away. (No, I’m not still bitter about that one! What on earth would make you think that?!) Partly it was because I got knocked to my feet by 24 hours of a lousy stomach bug.

But mostly it was because I had utterly and completely lost my sense of humor.

Most days I get a kick out of laughing at my kids, my husband, my self. I’ve always taken to heart the wise words of a modern-day prophet who declared that if we didn’t laugh, we would all go insane. Self-deprecating humor is one of my hallmarks, but I couldn’t get by without laughing at others as well: the comics, The Daily Show, The Onion.

I remember my homiletics professor teaching us about using humor in sermons. While it must be done appropriately, jokes and funny stories provide a great way to connect to a group. Humor breaks down walls and it builds up camaraderie. He told us that the root of the word “humor” is the same as the root for the words “humus” (the earth) and “human.” Laughter makes us who we are, and being able to laugh with each other is a deeply human connection.

Sitting there, on the floor of my (uncleaned for weeks) bathroom, with my (unbathed for days) children, I met the eyes of my toddler over the ear-piercing screams of the newborn and I just started to laugh.

I laughed so hard that the toddler stopped squirming. The baby even stopped crying.

I laughed so hard that tears started to stream down my face. And the toddler started grinning at me. “Mama is funny?” he questioned. “Mama is LAUGHIN’!”

“Oh, kiddo,” I replied, in between gasps for air. “We have not laughed at all this week. That is our problem.”

“Dat is our problem, dat is our problem!” he sang as he bolted off the potty chair and raced to his room in a nude streak. I looked down at the baby whose saucer-wide eyes seemed to ask, once again, if this was seriously the family he ended up in?

“Baby,” I told him. “You have no idea.”

Of all the tools in my mothering toolbox, I am now convinced that a sense of humor is the most important. It supersedes even patience (thankfully, since I don’t have much). The ability to laugh as a parent is the only thing that gets me through the ridiculous situations in which I find yourself. Many days it is the only shred of sanity left when the head hits the pillow.

My dear monk of a professor was on to something important in that homiletics class years ago. We need humor to connect with each other. Which makes me think that humor is of our Creator as well. If we’re made in the image and likeness of God, then God must laugh as well. (I’d like to think it might look something like this, but then again, that’s just my twisted sense of humor.)

The times when I lose my ability to laugh at myself – my work, my days, my mothering – are the times when life feels bleak and unbearable. Everything drags and my spirit limps along behind. But when I realize what’s missing, it’s like the puzzle pieces immediately rearrange around me – I can see a way out of my funk, and that way is paved with bursts of belly laughs.

Wry wit, sharp sarcasm, pathetic puns – these are all balm to my mothering spirit. Especially when my patience gets tried and my attention wears thin. And I don’t know about your house, but those are near-daily occurrences in mine.

So if your mothering spirit needs a laugh today, try this. Or this. Or even this.

Or if none of those work, try my fail-proof recipe for laughter: at the end of the day, cast your eyes around your disaster of a kitchen – or living room, or bathroom – and try to explain to your 21 year-old self what has happened to the exciting, exotic life you expected.

Then go scrub the oatmeal off the window.

letters to my unborn child, week two

August 16, 2011

Dear Baby,

I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to write you another week of letters. But here we are.

Last night at yoga, my teacher ended class with Exactly The Meditation I Needed To Hear. All about letting go and ceasing to struggle against what you cannot control and being open to grace and did I mention letting go? I tried to be all zen after that. I rocked out to good tunes as I drove home with the windows down on a beautiful summer evening. I scarfed down second dinner while your father told me he “had a good feeling” about you coming that night.

But then you woke me up at 1:45 am and I couldn’t get back to sleep till 3:45 am. Nary a contraction in sight. And well, that kind of sleep should be reserved for mamas with cuddly babies to nurse. Not aching backs and bulky stomachs.

So Oscar’s got nothing on my grouch this morning. Now I know there are many bigger problems in the world to be concerned about. I also know there are many women who would do anything to be in my (swollen, aching) shoes.

But I also know that in my small world, I can think about little else than little you in my big belly. So I (and this hysterical commentary) give myself permission to complain. For a little while, anyway.

Back to work. The only place I seem to be productive these days. Sigh.

Love, Mama

August 17, 2011

Dear Baby,

People love to comment on you. Your size. Your lack of arrival to the outside world. Like any pregnant woman, I have amassed my share of both funny and obnoxious commentary from perfect strangers. But last night may have taken the cake.

I walked up to the cashier to pay for my gas, and she raised her eyebrows at my stomach. “When are you due?” she growled. “Monday,” I replied sweetly. “Can’t come a day too soon.”

“You ever heard of Hypnobirthing?” she asked in a low, gravely tone. My head snapped up from the credit card swiper. Talk about a non sequitur question for a grimy gas station.

“Yeah…” she drawled, raspily. “I wonder if that’s what I did to myself. Cause I was in labor for 36 hours with my daughter. And they wanted to do a C-section. But I refused to sign the papers. They wanted to put me under and I said ‘No way.’ I waited nine months to see this kid come out and I wasn’t gonna miss it.”

“Wow,” I replied, eyebrows raised. “That’s impressive.”

“Yeah, and she was 10 pounds, too. Once they told me at 7 months that she was gonna be big, I just started smoking again. I mean, imagine how big she would have been if I hadn’t stated smoking?! Good thing.”

Hoo boy. From Hypnobirthing to nicotine-regulated birth weight, all in the span of two minutes. I could barely hold in my laughter until I made it back out to the car.

Doctor tells me you’re big, kiddo. Bigger than your brother was, at least. But I think I’ll lay off the Marlboros, if that’s ok with you?

Love, Mama

August 18, 2011

Dear Baby,

Today is the birthday of both of my grandmas. Between those two good Catholic women, they had 13 children. Wouldn’t today be a lovely day for me to birth and you to be born? Lots of good karma floating around us. (Catholic karma, of course. Try to scratch your little newborn head about that one.)

But something tells me both of those fine ladies would smile ruefully and tell me that if they knew one thing about having babies, it was that they never showed up when or how you expected. Darn grandmothery wisdom. Still, I’m banking on their intercession.

Last night we visited with our doula for the last time. This was the visit that was not supposed to happen, because you were supposed to be here already. “Supposed to” is a snarly little turn of phrase, isn’t it? But the evening did pump me up for your arrival. It’s going to be its own snarly affair. But I can’t wait for the hour to come. Because it’s going to bring you with it.

And I am plain sick and tired of picturing you in my head. (Plus I had a crazy dream the other night that you turned out to be twins, and one of you had a full set of teeth. Shudder.) I want to see you in my arms. I want to laugh at your screaming, squished, sweet newborn self. I want to take the first pictures that you will refuse to look at as a teenager, and I will trot them out every birthday and let your siblings laugh at your messy naked self in the bassinet. Then I will remind you it was the Hottest, Most Humid Summer of My Life when I was 100 months pregnant with you, and did you say you wanted to give your sainted mother a foot rub? But I will content myself an eye roll instead. Such is the beauty of motherhood.

Did you know that one of your great-grandmothers once requested a styrofoam to-go cup for the remainder of her luncheon wine at the country club? That’s the kind of chutzpah (well, Irish chutzpah, anyway) that I’m hoping you inherit.

Love, Mama

August 19, 2011

Dear Baby,

Guess what? I’ve changed my tune. I’m actually delighted that you haven’t shown your face yet.

Because late last night a dear, dear friend surprised us with a visit (one that required a 6-hour road trip, no less). And because you’re still cooking, I was able to enjoy a perfectly lovely day with her. The weather was gorgeous; the contractions were few. We shared lots of long chats and laughter and looking ahead to the huge life changes that are to come for both of us. It was a gift you gave to your brother as well, because he got to jolly around with his godmother all day and impress her with his partial memorization of the Nicene Creed. (Latest freakish party trick of which I was unaware.)

So dare I say it – thank you for taking to heart your mama’s mantra of “showing up early is boring.” You come whenever you want to come. Because I can now see the graces of these extra weeks in a whole new light. You are healthy and full-term, and my God, that is no small thing. (Then again, neither are you, but we’re done worrying about your larger size. I never liked smoking anyway.)

See you when you get here.

Love, Mama

August 20, 2011

Dear Baby,

Remember all that nice stuff I said yesterday about you coming on your own time? It doesn’t matter, because I have decided you are NEVER EVER GOING TO COME OUT OF MY BODY.

No, this is not the irrational and cranky conclusion of a woman who woke up at 3:30 am this morning with a hooliganish soccer player doing interpretive dance inside her (and – honest truth here - James Taylor’s “Something In The Way She Moves” inexplicably stuck in her head) and then never.got.back.to.sleep. This is not the hormonal roller coaster of a mother who was counting (yes, she can admit it now) on holding a 3-week old in her arms by this point.

This is an intelligent and rational position, and one that I maintain will enter us into the Guinness Book of World Records as the record-breaking everlasting pregnancy.

I have filled a freezer with one month’s worth of dinners. I have rearranged and cleaned every room in this house. I have washed every possible piece of clothing you could wear in your first three months of life. I have made homemade baby food from the garden. I have even turned to my nemesis the sewing machine and refreshed a whole stack of your brother’s diapers for you. There is nothing left for me to do. And the combined neediness of the toddler and the beagle are slowly draining the dregs of my sanity.

I really wanted to lay off the whine, sweet one. But you’re not making it easy. Off for caffeine…

Love, Mama

August 21, 2011

Dear Baby,

When I was preparing for the piano recitals of my youth, my teacher would always caution me about practicing too much in the week before the big day. “You don’t want to peak too early,” she’d counsel. “You want to still be working on climbing up so you hit the top on recital day – not before.”

The dryer died last night. A sad, overheated, complete and total death. For a home that’s about to add a fourth member – and double its cloth diaper laundry – this was unwelcome news, to say the least. I now fear that nesting has peaked, and we are about to enter into a slow decline of things falling apart. Including, but not limited to: major appliances, my sanity, and this body’s ability to nourish you.

Please, baby, come soon.

Love, Mama

August 22, 2011

Dear Baby,

It’s D-Day. Your due date. Which I know means little to you, and shouldn’t mean much to us either. Especially in a home where we easily drink expired milk (if it passes the sniff test) and happily overlook “best by” dates on yogurt.

But oh. my. sweet. Jesus. in. heaven. and. all. the. saints. I am unbelievably overdue with anticipation to meet you and don’t know how much longer I can wait.

Plus, I waddle now. It’s official. And unattractive.

Also: the whole family is going to have to redo their “baby pool” as of today, because NO ONE THOUGHT YOU WOULD TAKE THIS LONG TO GET HERE.

The oven timer is beeping, little one. The alarm clock is ringing, and the day is calling. Let’s get this show on the road.

Love, Impatience Personified