Goodbye 2015, Hello New Life

So much has happened since my last post (7 months ago!).  So much.  This year, has been a whirlwind. 

Jason spent much of the summer unemployed, the stress of which was hard on the whole family.  In September, he started a job that he really enjoys. We are still a one car family, and getting us both to work takes some acrobatics and a lot of driving across town, but we're making it work.  Ultimately, we're just so thankful that Jason has a good job.

Ezra is huge! A whopping 15 months! He started walking in August and hasn't slowed down.  This is such an amazing age, and I could just cry thinking about how much my baby has grown.  He is long, and spills over my arms when I hold him.  He has a personality and interests and likes and dislikes.  He's social and plays and finds things funny.  His first word was "uh-oh" at about 8 months and now he has a whole list of things he can say: mama, dada, hi, bye, oh no, more, and as of this weekend, gentle (as a result of beating my face in).  He loves cars and trucks, and especially when his daddy makes the sound effects for them.  Speaking of which, Jason must feel like a celebrity whenever he enters a room.  Ezra thinks his daddy is the coolest guy ever, and rightfully so.  Jason is an excellent dad.  He's always on the floor with him, wrestling, playing cars, hiding, chasing.  He will be 37 soon, but for Ezra, he has the energy of a 12 year old. I always knew I was lucky to marry such a great guy, but seeing his relationship with our son is all the visual proof I will ever need.

The other big news is!! I'm pregnant.  Not a little pregnant.  A lot pregnant.  8 months pregnant.  I was probably pregnant while writing my last post.  It's a girl and we expect her arrival in early February.  We are shooting for an Aquarius.  It's funny how your second pregnancy is so different.  There are no bump pictures, no counting weeks, no constant journaling, no appointment anticipation.  It's just so busy when there's a toddler in tow.  The aches seem worse, I'm infinitely more tired (without the luxury of naps whenever I want them and sleeping in all weekend), and the pregnancy seems never ending.  I think I've been telling people I'm 8 months pregnant for the last 5 months, but I hardly know for sure.

I'm so excited to grow our family, but if I'm being honest, I'm incredibly anxious.

Tonight, as I came up the stairs, I heard Ezra crying.  Normally I'd ignore it and let him settle himself as he always does within a few seconds, but I couldn't tonight.  I opened his door and turned on the light and he was standing, smiling at me.  Just as relieved to see me as I was to see him.  I held him and rocked him and in seconds, he was asleep on my shoulder.  But I held him extra long, cherishing these last weeks together.  I even got a little teary thinking that it won't be like it is for long.  I'm not worried about loving her, or loving Ezra less.  Of course I'll love them both.  I'm worried about those early days.  I'm worried about Ezra not needing me or wanting me as much.  I'm worried that I won't be mom enough for him--even if it's only temporary.  I'm worried about my first nights away from him while we're in the hospital.  I'm worried I'll forget this time, like he will, and that I'm robbing us both of this beautiful time we are having.  I'm worried that Jason has no idea how much I'll need him, and how much I'll need him to help Ezra to still love me. I'm worried I'm not mom enough, not wife enough, not strong enough for another baby. 

But I also know it will all be temporary.  Just a few weeks until baby is sleeping, and we have a routine, and a new life.  

Even though it makes me anxious and scared, I have to remind myself of the brevity and how millions of mamas are doing the same thing, and I'm not alone.

So far I have very few plans for this baby. I plan to breast feed/pump for at least a month, and then formula feed.  I think.  I plan to sleep train early, but I have no idea how that will work in our two bedroom home. I plan to take 4 months maternity leave, but maybe 5 or 6 if money will stretch.  I plan to have an epidural and there is no wiggle room there.  We have a name and some diapers and a few outfits.  But the rest is up in the air.  

So that's that.  Big changes in 2016.  We are anxious and excited and uncertain, but feeling so blessed.  How are we so lucky?

Fatherhood

Jason and I have changed a lot in the ten years that we've been together.  I was still a teen, then, and interested in teenager things: boys, and college, and gossip, and friends.  And Jason was in his mid 20s, scrawny and anxious--floating like a feather through college.  We started living on opposite ends of the continent--me, a college freshman in North Carolina, and him, a student in Southern California.  Thousands of miles apart, and mentally on different planets.  At the time, it seemed like decades, but soon we were together, in the same state, in the same city, and eventually married and in the same tiny apartment, seething over the other's way of squeezing the toothpaste.  There are a lot of things I'd do over in our relationship if I could.  I look back on a lot of our life together and laugh at my naivety or cringe at my immaturity.  There are arguments I shouldn't have had, decisions I shouldn't have made, quirks I should have lived with.  We thought we knew what we were doing, but we definitely did not.  Now, at least, we know that we have no idea what we're doing.

And now, ten years later, and almost six years deep into our marriage, I'd say we're doing pretty well.  We're so, so, so different, but in all the right ways.

The summer after he turned 31, Jason started swimming,  And that was the summer he transitioned to manhood.  His shoulders widened, he walked more confidently, and he got laugh lines at the corners of his eyes.  He was less gullible and harder for my dad to prank and we had muddled through those difficult parts of marriage and had matured.  Truly, I've loved watching the change.  He's always be an wonderful guy, but the transition to manhood was a lovely thing to watch.

And now I see my husband, my partner, my best friend as a father and it's beautiful.

Sometimes it's easy for me to take Ezra into the shower with me.  If time is short, he'll just sit in the tub while I shower off and then I'll pick him up and scrub his slippery little body and it feels fun and natural and easy.  So when Jason mentioned that he was going to shower just before Ezra's bed time, I asked if he wouldn't mind taking Ezra with him.  I fully expected him to say no, but he surprised me.  I explained the details--like how he should sit him on a towel in the shower so he doesn't slip, and how I usually shower first, then shampoo him and hold him to my chest while I rinse his hair.  And I helped him get the bottle of baby soap and a few bath toys and then I left them to it while I washed some bottles and laid out jammies.

As I was coming up the stairs, I listened as they both giggled uncontrollably in the shower.  And I thought, "This is it.  This is fatherhood."  This is Jason as I've never known him.  He's attentive and gentle and frustrated but in love and so, so, so tender.  He is awed when Ezra discovers new things, like when I opened the container of puffs and showed Ezra that they were inside.  We both watched his gears turning, slowly reaching inside to get them.  And Jason looked pleased and proud.  Jason is joyful and young, yet more patient and cautious.  He's a father.  And that's the best way I've ever known him. 

I often hold Ezra and beg time to slow down.  He's getting so big and full and smart and I feel like there's never enough time to savor him as he currently is.  I look at him and kiss his soft cheeks, and magically, he's older and my heart aches.  But tonight my heart aches for Jason.  He's growing, too, and I'm not savoring it enough.  He's no longer a scrawny 20-something, naive new husband, or new father.  He's a man, a seasoned father and I'm missing it.   He's currently covering his face with our duvet, annoyed at the light from the laptop--and I want to fling off his cover and kiss his laugh lines before he's magically older and I've missed it.  So I will.  Goodnight.

7 Months

I went back to work in January.  It's now mid-April and I've only written three blog posts since then.  I'm sure you can imagine that working five days a week and then catering to every need of a baby in my "off time" keeps me pretty busy.  In the moments between Ezra's bedtime and my bedtime, I find myself engrossed in Orange is the New Black (I'm only on episode 5, so don't ruin it for me!), washing bottles, and scrubbing mashed avocado off of the edge of the bath tub.

Motherhood can sometimes feel all consuming.  It can feel like you're holding your entire office's coffee order, while you desperately have to pee, in an elevator that won't ever come to the right floor, in broken heels--and then someone hands you a baby and his 80lb car seat and 20lb diaper bag.  Confession--I've peed my pants more times than I'd like to admit since having a baby.  But I don't love motherhood in spite of what it has done to me.  I love it because of what it has done to me.  I love Ezra and his cute little cheeks, and his smile when he sees me across the room.  I love it when Jason holds him and how he can so easily make Ezra laugh.  I love to hear him sing to Ezra in the morning, through the crackly baby monitor.  I love how motherhood has made me chronically on time and prepared for every emergency imaginable.  I love how motherhood has made me more compassionate and forgiving.  I love that I treat my time as sacred--because every day is the youngest he'll ever be again and I have to love it and notice how small his fingers and toes are, and even at the worst, most disorganized, most frazzled moments, I know I'm lucky to be here and I'm happy to have the worst moments.

So yeah, I'd say I'm pretty good.

And Ez is great!  He's 7 months (today!) and he's just a joy to be around.  He let's us know he's awake by shouting.  I imagine if he had words, he'd say, "Hey mom!  Hey dad!  I'm awake now!  Come get me!"  And when we turn on his bedroom lights, he's usually on his tummy, propped up on his arms, smiling at us.  This morning, I scooped him up and tickled his sides and shared a giggle.  Then I changed his diaper, propped him on my hip and headed downstairs.  He played with his rubber giraffe in his high chair while I let the dogs into the rainy backyard and made him a bottle.  Then we cuddled on the couch and watched the animated version of Robin Hood (dad's favorite!) while he had his breakfast.  Then Jason came downstairs and Ezra's smile stretched from ear to ear and he kicked and danced in celebration.  The three of us cuddled and watched until we decided that the adults needed some Waffle House.  Ezra is always the star of the show wherever he goes, but he's quite the ham at Waffle House.  He's sitting now, so he gets to clap and bang on the table from his high chair these days.  He loved watching all of the commotion in the kitchen while gnawing on a waffle and Jason and I took a moment to talk about his classes and remember when his parents joined us for breakfast at Waffle House, when Ez was just a month and a half old.  I sipped my coffee while the waitresses took turns coming over to coo at Ez and Jason picked some CCR to blast on the jukebox.  I'd call it a good morning.  A good, and typical morning.  Ezra fell asleep on the way to Starbucks (because Waffle House makes good eggs, but their coffee is like water and dirt) and I turned around frequently to stare at his chubby little cheeks in the mirror.


We were working on some small upgrades around the house, but put them on hold when Jason got an interview in Redding, California.  When the possibility of moving seemed heavy on us, a new coffee table didn't seem as important.  However, Jason didn't get the job.  I think we both feel a mixture of disappointment and relief.  Disappointment because we're both ready to move our lives forward, but relief because moving across the country this summer seems a little two forward.  And now that it's looking more like we'll be here for another year, we're back to work looking for coffee tables.

Anyway, the holidays are behind us and we hope that this summer will be cool and slow.  I hope yours is too!

 -xo-

Things to say to people who are grieving...

My cousin passed away last week.  I plan on posting something about it later but the whole experience is very fresh and I want to mull over what I want to say a bit longer.  In short and for the sole purpose of this blog post, she died unexpectedly while delivering her fourth child.  Upon hearing the news, I was understandably extremely upset and wanted to teleport to south Florida to comfort my aunt and uncle and cousins who were undoubtedly in the worst situation of their lives.  The next day, I could barely speak about it, and the subsequent days could only speak through tears about it.  I appreciate that dealing with grief is individual to the person experiencing it.  And I can also appreciate that witnessing a grieving person can be very uncomfortable.  This is my first real experience with being the recipient of condolences and I have to say that I am shocked and awed at how some people offer their condolences so gracefully and know just what to say.  And yet, I'm equally shocked and awed at how some people seem to fumble over their words and vomit the first thoughts in their head.  It is quite fortunate that I don't need to reconcile my feelings with condolences or words of wisdom, and that I'm not easily offended.  But in the interest of preserving others from the word vomit, please allow me to help you find the words.

This baby is sick of your insensitive word vomit.

Do give yourself time to gather your thoughts.  Death is shocking.  It is okay to not know what to say when someone tells you what has happened.  I'm a little more removed from the deceased and I really didn't want condolences as much as I just wanted people to know.  I wanted them to know that I was hurting, and if I needed to excuse myself for a minute, I didn't want people to follow me and ask me why.  I just wanted them to know.  So if you have nothing to say right then, it's okay.  You can say, "I am so sorry to hear that.  Nothing I want to say feels right, so instead just know that I'm thinking of you."

Don't tell the grieving person not to cry or be sad or to think positively.  Death is terrible.  There's a time to move on and beyond and start rebuilding, but immediately following the death of a loved one is not that time.  There are seven stages of grief.  Can I get through stages 1-5, first? 

Do listen.  Part of the word vomit stems from being a fixer.  You can't fix it.  Stop trying to fix it.  Just listen.  Hear them.  The person grieving may want to tell you why this death is particularly tragic or what this person meant in their lives.  They may want to tell you how much they'll miss them or when they last saw the deceased.  It's okay to not have the answers or fix it.

Don't ask the gory details.  This is to entertain your own selfish, morbid curiosity and not for the betterment of the person suffering.  You don't need to know.  And God forbid it was a painful death, the grieving does not want to relive it.  He died of cancer.  You don't need to know that it was testicular or prostate cancer.  It's personal.  She died in a car wreck.  You don't need to know that her chest was crushed into the steering wheel.  Child birth.  You don't need to know that she hemorrhaged.  There will eventually be a time when it's alright to inquire.  While the person is still grieving is not that time.  So keep your curiosity to yourself.

Do let them know you're thinking of them and their family.  Often just hearing that you're sharing their grief helps take a little bit away.  Hearing that even those who didn't know the dead are mourning their loss can be comforting.  Tell them that they've been in your thoughts.  If you're the praying type, it's okay to say that you've prayed for the family.  Tell them you're hoping they find peace and comfort.

Don't suggest that the dead is somehow at fault for their death.  Sensitivity is not some people's strong suit. Even so, I think this one should be common sense.  He shouldn't have smoke so much, and maybe he wouldn't have died.  If she would have laid off the butter and sugar, maybe she wouldn't have had that heart attack.  If he would have not tried to drive such a long distance, maybe he wouldn't have fallen asleep at the wheel.  It's incredibly insensitive.  Even if it was their fault, that provides no comfort.  So shut up.

Do write a letter or a card with your condolences if you don't trust yourself to not be an insensitive jerk.  You might say something like, "I am so saddened to hear the news of John's passing.  You and your family are in my constant thoughts and prayers."  or "My heart aches at the thought of your loss.  I'm so sorry.  Wishing you and your family well."

Don't be a sage.  No one wants to hear your ancient Mayan proverb about how their dead mom is in a better place.  What you say/write should be heartfelt, honest, and with love.  You don't need to come down from the mountain and show us the way to grieve or tell us how much better off our dead loved one is.  You know what doesn't feel good?  Knowing you won't see your deceased aunt again.

Do ask how you can help or purchase a small token.  Is there a fund for the bereaved family?  Can you bake a mean tuna casserole?  Or do you have time to stop by Kroger and pick up some manager special flowers?  Maybe a small tree to plant in the loved ones honor, or frame a particularly special photo?  Those are all appropriate tokens to show you care.

Don't compare your grief. Things that are not comforting: knowing that your grandmother died of breast cancer, too.  Knowing that you had the same labor complication, too, and almost didn't survive but thank God, you did.  Knowing that you daughter got into a car wreck last week but only broke her leg, but sorry your dad died when he was ejected from the car!  Stop comparing. No one needs an anecdote.

If nothing else, offer a hug.  This is great if you can't find the words.  Just a hug.  Hugs feel good.  Hugs allow the grieving to blow snot into your shirt, which also feels good.  Hugs don't say something stupid, offensive, and rude, but let the grieving know that you're sorry for their loss.


Based on my limited experience, if you've ever grieved the loss of someone, chances are people have said some pretty atrocious things to you.  It is my hope that you're able to laugh it off and find the comedy in the word vomit.  I have made a list to remember and chuckle at when the timing feels better.  Ultimately, we should know that intentions are good even if the words don't come out right.
 Still.  Fix your words, people. 

Babies and Marriage

I had a lot to worry about while pregnant with Ezra.  The last four months of my pregnancy were ruled by lists.  Things to do, things to buy, things to put together, things to make Jason do, recipes to make and freeze, classes to take, appointment dates.  Sometimes I felt so overwhelmed looking at my giant yellow legal pad, that I'd write things I already did just to cross them off my list:  Drink water.  Pee.  Take the dogs to the dog park.  Put gas in the car.  Eat bacon.  Pee. Often times, people would make suggestions for what to put on my list.  Get a pedicure when you're 39 weeks pregnant, a friend suggested.  Read a book about breast feeding and get a really long iPhone charger, another friend added to the list.  "Sleep now! Because you won't be sleeping again for a long time," came out of the mouth of every jackass and her sister.  And a few times, "Guard your marriage, because a baby is really going to do a number on it."

I admit, I didn't add that last one to the list.

My husband and I dated for five years.  We moved in together only after we were married and spent the first year learning how to live together and be patient with one another in our 5 square foot apartment.  The next four years were lots of love and laughter, joy, and a solid foundation for a family.  Soul mates, best friends, husband and wife.  What's more, Jason and I spent almost two years trying to make our little turnip, and leaned on one another through what was one of the hardest times of our lives.  If we could get through that, we could get through anything.  I was worried about a lot of things, but my marriage wasn't one.

At 38 weeks pregnant, I had several moments of anxiety where I changed my mind.  I love my husband so much, I didn't want that phase of our lives to end.  I didn't want to bring someone else in the mix when what we had was so perfect.  I didn't want to give up weekends sleeping in and cuddling, movie night on the couch, and lunch dates at La Parilla.  I tried to savor those moments right up to the end--even when I was hot and uncomfortable and wanted that little hot box of a baby out of me.

And then he arrived and as any new mother will tell you: chaos.  Just pure chaos.  I've mentioned those first two weeks with a newborn--but it cannot be overstated.  Chaos.  You don't know who you are, you don't know who your husband is.  You look in the mirror and you think, "WHAT THE HELL?" and you wonder aloud "What have I become?" and "What have I done?"  The only thing you can do is survive.  You're doing everything and nothing all at once, just trying to survive.  And after two weeks, you take your first breath of air since you pushed that baby out, and you think, "Okay.  I can do this."  But even then--it's just survival.  Nothing else.  Just survival.  You're doing what you can to keep yourself and your baby alive and that's it.  I should note here that this is why freezer meals are a God send.  If you're pregnant or know someone who is pregnant, make them something they can throw in the crock pot.  Because crock pots are how new moms and dads survive.

My day consisted of bottles, diapers, crying (from me), crying (from him), attempting to nurse, laundry, washing bottles, maybe 5 non-consecutive hours of sleep, eating a dry Eggo waffle over the sink like a rat, rinse, repeat, all day every day.  Every third day, I'd thrust Ezra into Jason's arms so I could have five minutes to hose off the important parts in the shower and roll some deodorant under my arms.  The other two days, I kept a stack of clean underwear next to the toilet and some body mist on the tank.  I'd place Ezra in the bouncer in front of me and sang a little song that went like this: "Spritz, spritz, good enough.  Clean underwear, good enough."  I never thought I'd get here, but I can actually look back and laugh about those early days.  I can laugh about the things I worried about, the stupid things I did in my sleep deprived, delirious state. 

Okay, five paragraphs in, and I still haven't gotten to the point.  The point is that I forgot about my husband and my marriage.  I didn't have time to mourn our old lives and certainly didn't have time to ask Jason how his day went.  Before Ezra, I didn't understand what people meant when they said a baby will do a number on your marriage.  It is, yet isn't an overnight thing.  It's a gradual chipping away at your ability to care and love.  It's how you used to casually, absentmindedly scratch him behind the ears, but now, when you're not holding a baby, you just want to sit on your side of the couch and enjoy not soothing someone.  It's how you feel so unlike yourself, so unsure of every decision you're making that you can't bring yourself to ask and listen and care about how your spouse is feeling.  It's your husband, watching his wife, who has only had eyes for him for the past decade, suddenly feel out loved and cast aside in place of a tiny person who he loves, too, and can't begrudge.

And then when Ezra was 8 weeks, we sat on the floor of our bedroom and took turns holding him and coaxing him to laugh and coo at us.  As Ezra enjoyed the view of the ceiling fan above us, Jason said, "I didn't think it would be like this.  People told me, and maybe I kind of knew, but I didn't know.  I feel so distant from you, like you don't even look at me anymore.  I'll talk to you sometimes, and you don't even respond.  I'll walk into a room and you don't see me.  You don't touch me, we don't talk anymore, you're just so consumed by Ezra.  I knew you would be, but I didn't know."  And I didn't really respond.   In fact, I didn't actually hear what he said, until I replayed it in my head before bed.  And my first response was anger.  Duh, I'm not listening to you!  I'm so tired and I cry all the time and I'm barely keeping myself alive.  I don't even know who I am.  I haven't known who I am for a while, now.  I can't worry about you.  I'm trying to keep myself from falling to pieces.  I'm putting my own oxygen mask on, and when I get it on, then I'll assist you with yours.

"Guard your marriage, because a baby is really going to do a number on it."

In the morning, I softened.  How would I feel with the roles reversed?  And we can't live like this.  We can't have a house, where 1/3 of the family is feeling unappreciated, left out, and ignored.  Me ignoring him wasn't going to be the new us.  I never thought we were going to be one of those couples who struggled once baby arrived.  Hearing him say we had problems was tough, but a needed reality check.  We can't (and don't want to!) undo the new person in our lives.  So how do we create a new normal?

I function by lists.  So I pulled out that yellow legal pad (which now had eat, wake, sleep schedules for Ezra on about 20 of the pages).  Here's the actual list:

-Notice one thing he's done to help with the baby, and tell him.
-Ask him, and listen, about his day.
-Do something nice for him (buy him new pens at the store, buy him M&Ms, make him chicken tortilla soup).
-Plan an at home date.
-Hug him, every morning and every night.  A good hug.
-Thank him for doing the a.m. feeding and emptying the dishwasher.


It probably sounds so stupid that I had to make a list or that I forgot to love my husband, but I did.  And at first, it was hard.  I was tired and I didn't want to do any of the the things on the list.  If I had a rare free moment, I wanted to shower or sleep or just sit and be.  But as I checked the items off my list each day, they became a part of my routine and I remembered that I love him and it magically became easier to ask him to hold the baby so I could actually shave my legs.  And we laughed hard like we used to in bed reading textsfromyourex and yourshittyfamily and his favorite posts of the day on Reddit.  We risked dates, because they were important, with our unpredictable baby (that's not true--he's pretty predictably awesome all the time).  I was genuinely excited when he came home from work and so appreciative when he folded all the laundry in the dryer and put the bottles on the drying rack. 

Our new normal isn't much like our old normal.  Babies do change everything.  And it turns out that anxiety I felt while pregnant was valid and the need to mourn our old lives was important.  But once we got over that hump, the new normal is actually better.  Granted, we're only 16 weeks out from turning our whole lives upside down and we're still learning to adapt and put the pieces back together.  But if we don't guard our marriage, take stock, and reconnect, we could easily find ourselves downstream. 

Back to Work

The end of the year also brought the end of my maternity leave.  As January 5th approached, I tried not to think about it, but it kept creeping closer and closer until it was the night before I went back to work and I was shaking with anxiety, overpacking my car with all the things Ezra would need in my office.

I cried the whole five minute drive to my school.  I spent the day trying to juggle Ezra and the emails I needed to answer, and it didn't work, so I cried some more.  I tried to be okay with leaving Ezra in the classroom, but within the first few minutes, an overly excited child tossed a foam block into the air and nailed my sweet baby in the head--which caused tears for the both of us.  My sweet Emma came by to ask me how it was going, and I cried some more while choking out, "It's so hard."  And being a mom, and one of my best friends, and the most empathetic person I know, she knew exactly what to say.  I still cried.  All of that is because crying is what I do now.  Now that I have a baby, the waterworks just won't shut off.

I've done this a thousand times with other moms.  I've seen them struggle to drop their babies off on that first and second and third day, week, month.  I've seen them cry while peeking through the observation window at their giggling babies.  I've answered their emails and phone calls, "just checking in!" and talked them down from the ledge.  I heard them when they said, "I can't do this.  Maybe this isn't for me.  Maybe I should quit my job.  I can't quit my job!  I don't know what to do!"  And I said the right things and gave them big hugs, and called to let them know it was going well--and took pictures of their babies so they'd know that it was all smiles.  So I thought it would be different for me, especially since I could have him any time I wanted, visit him, kiss him, see him, even wear him all day.  And maybe it was easier than most, but still not easy.  I spent the last 15 weeks holding Ezra to my chest, instinct telling me exactly what he needed at any moment.  I spent my whole days devoting 100% of my attention to the tiny extension of my heart.  And now the thought of relinquishing one. single. minute. to anyone, even teachers I know, and hired, and trust is enough to make me vomit.  The dull ache in my chest still feels heavy and achy.  Tonight, I think, worst of all.

Ezra's first nap without mom.  :(

We're four days into this new adventure, and tonight was the hardest night.  We had a total of 15 minutes to cuddle before Ezra became exhausted and cranky and extremely ready for bed.  We didn't get cuddle time on the couch.  We didn't get bath time where we sing at each other.  We didn't get before bed baby massage.  And we only got about 45 seconds of cuddle time in the rocker before He was out like a light.  I miss him.  It's hard to believe this time last week, I was unshowered and exhausted from running the daily baby care marathon.  And without that daily marathon, there is a hole in my heart.  So I held my sleeping baby and tried to stop my chin from quivering before bursting into huge, ugly, heaving mom-tears.  Cathartic. 

Being a mom is so hard sometimes.  It's so beautiful and rewarding and soul warming, but it comes with endless guilt, large emotions, and that ache.

I'm told all of this will get easier.  Maybe it will.
There are some joys.

I let Jason read Ezra's daily report from his teachers and he said, "Ezra did circle time!?  That's so funny!  What is circle time?"  When I explained that he probably sat in a teacher's lap and sang songs and watched a lot of one year olds dance around, Jason clapped his hands and laughed and seemed so genuinely excited for Ezra.

When I walk into his classroom (every hour!) and see my smiling baby, who is so entertained watching all the big kids and cuddling my friends/his teachers, my heart warms.

And if I'm being honest, it's nice to remember what alone time and personal space feels like.  It feels good to know I've accomplished something at the end of the day.  If I had the financial choice, I'd choose to stay home and watch The View.  But the alternative, working at my sweet school, isn't so bad and I'm so lucky to work five feet away from my sweet coconut.

Still, there's an ache, a hurt, a heart flutter that even illegally obtained Xanax cannot fix.

Grace

If you asked my closest family and friends to describe me, they'd come up with a whole slew of adjectives.  I imagine ones like boisterous, abrasive at times, funny, judgmental, harsh, giving, unemotional, biting, loyal.  But graceful?  No.  Graceful would never be uttered when describing me.  In fact, if you asked me a year ago, I probably couldn't even give you an accurate description of what grace is.  And surely, it showed. 

On New Year's Eve 2013, a cup of urine changed my life.  As I sat on the edge of the tub, watching that second pink line appear, I felt such an overwhelming feeling of divine grace.  For two years, I wanted that second pink line.  Every night, for two years, I prayed for that line.  And as my shaking hands held that white stick, I couldn't help but thank God for His grace.  And then, of course, the whirlwind began.  I flung our bedroom door open and showed my husband the line and a nine month celebration began and our sweet son was born and everything we've ever wanted was ours.  But in the back of my mind there was an echo.  Grace.


I can't remember where I heard it--but I once listened to a speech, or a sermon, or read a blog where someone said all his life, he wanted God to help him control his temper.  He would drive down the road, someone would cut him off, and he'd yell obscenities and carry the anger with him all day--so at night he asked God to take that anger away from him.  But does God just cure you, or does He give you the opportunity to control your temper?

For me, it's grace.

It started with that second pink line, but all year, I had the opportunity to experience grace--though I didn't quite know it.

When a friend let me down, I had the opportunity to be kind, when I didn't want to be.
When an acquaintance made some strange and unkind observations about the possibility of miscarrying, I had the opportunity to be forgiving, when I wanted to be sarcastic and ugly.
When I watched a family members argue, I had the opportunity to speak love where contributing would have been easy.
When my husband expressed neglect after our new baby, I had the opportunity to be empathetic and self reflective, when complaining about tiredness and preoccupation seemed valid.

So that's what grace has meant for me.  It means being generous to those who don't deserve it.  It means showing kindness when you want to bite.  It means forgiving and bringing love to the table.  Above all, it means loving as God has loved us.

As I grow older, I'm more and more convinced that you earn the gifts God gives you.

So tonight, we toast to the opportunities.