BEREAVED BABYHOOD

"Has he had much peer interaction?"

I'm sitting in a meeting with Kade's speech therapist and his wide-eyed, concerned teacher. She notes that he may be a year behind, she wishes she had more time with him, he's just not ready for kindergarten. She leans forward, trying to be empathetic and asks absurd questions like, "Can he form complete sentences?" At this point, there's a lump in my throat the size of Texas and tears are stinging, forcing themselves forward when I strain my eyes. I try focusing on the clay paperclip bowl on the desk, likely made by a healthy child who was born ready for kindergarten. 

I feel like Kade was robbed. I want to shake them and show them the last four years of his life. I want to walk them through the agony of waiting; for someone to listen, for answers, for a surgery to be over, for more answers. I want them to feel the desperation of losing a job, too exhausted to get up for work, spending the night with a coughing, gagging toddler. I want them to spend months toting an oxygen tank from place to place. They should try to hold their baby down while someone forces tubes into their noses and throats. Maybe if they left their lives behind and drove away, if they traded their comfort for a chance, they might not stare at me like this. But then again, I wouldn't wish it on the most aggressive of my enemies.

I promise, I did all that I could.

I wonder if they know that kids with CHD are more likely to have a learning disability. 

They don't know that while most kids Kade's age were starting their first day of preschool, Kade was on his way to Washington. Kade was eating at Salvation Army every night and slowly tapering off his asthma medications. They don't know that while Kade was in daycare, he missed a lot of days. Viruses shared by friends put him in the hospital and often, he just slept through it. It exhausted him, that peer interaction. 

I feel that he was robbed of his babyhood. As an infant, his heart was failing; unbeknownst to us or anyone. At nine months, he was surviving and healing from a very successful but traumatic open-heart surgery. By age two, the asthma started and months on end were spent in and out of that haze of hospital rooms and wearing face masks to the grocery store. 

Two years ago, I wrote that, "The sad reality is that your children become exactly who you taught them to be. And not just with interactions at home; it's the movies you let them watch, the the music you let them listen to, where they spend their time and who with, the way you talk about your peers in their presence... They're watching and they're sponges and they're copy cats. Be mindful of your words but even more so of your actions..." 

This is still true, as a good friend reminded me today. But, the sad reality is also that Kade was tossed into a very adult world very early on. He traded his play dates for asthma clinics. When a doctor comes in to deliver the news, your baby is there, picking up on the anxiety. When a nurse rushes in to start force-flow because O2 sats are dropping rapidly, your baby is there to hear some very scary words and he can feel the stress and urgency. 

I'm afraid Kade is still being robbed. He's behind, yes; understandably so. But they look down at him and see what they believe to be an under-educated preschooler, not grasping the concepts, not interacting with his peers and not responding to their childish questions. They assume he's non-verbal, not knowing that he comes home speaking volumes. He knows every word to the Pizza Song they've taught him and he remembers the names of each of his classmates. Abigail is his favorite. 

Because Kade is absorbing the songs and rhymes, I can only assume he's absorbing this too. He plays on the colorful alphabet rug while they tell me this: He's not ready. He's nonverbal. He's not interacting. He's lashing out. They take him to the special-education wing to use the bathroom, a fact that makes my blood boil. They separate him from his peers and tell him, you are different. You go here. Trying to squeeze a square peg into a round hole. 

I believe in self-fulfilling prophecy. If you sit a child down and repeat again and again that he's not ready, not interacting, that he's shy or doesn't know his colors... then he's not, he is and he doesn't. 

Kade is growing up, fast. His legs are getting long and lean, his feet are big; baby feet no more. Suddenly, his babyhood is over. He's moved on to boyhood and I'm realizing that we aren't ready. I guess we felt that we would move through all of this and have our baby at the end. Here he is: he survived and now you can start over. At least I felt that we would move on and be ready; for preschool, the alphabet, kindergarten. But that's just not so. 

So, we try to move at his pace. We play hours of candyland and remind him that red and orange are different; green and blue are not the same. We read books again and again, can you help us find the letter A? What about J? We remind him that the word Butter does not have a y in the middle. Buh-TER! And he marches about the house singing, "Buh-TER!!" This is all we can do for now. We work and we love. We push and encourage, we have high expectations, we tell him again and again, "You can Kade. You can learn anything." 

Last night at dinner, Kade looked at us and grinned. He said, "I just love you Mom and Dad! You're my best guys!" I winked at his Daddy. Non-verbal, my ass.

Aurora

Our first night in Seattle, we drove up and down the hills with eyes bleak- exhaustion gripping us by the bridge of our noses and nerves shot with the stress of travel. It was maybe 2am and we were searching frantically for a hotel, a motel, a somewhere that had a room, accepted pets and would take my apparently high maintenance VISA card.

It's true- we didn't plan ahead.

Up and down what I think was the university village, all the way to Lynnwood and back, through so many freeways and byways that our heads were spinning. We had no sense of direction- which direction are we facing? Is this west? Is that water or land? We lost ourselves there. We were angry and maybe scared too. Ian exclaimed we would sleep in the car. I peeked back at Kade, already snoozing,and let out a sob. But he deserves a bed.

 Finally a hotel will take us. They have a pet room for my grumpy dog and a covered parking garage.

Running back to the car to tell Ian, a bright flash goes off in a second story room followed by a POP! Ian stares at me and says bluntly, "Great. Someone just fucking offed themselves." I rolled my eyes at him because that's just the mood I was in. Those rolling eyes turned wide as we were surrounded by SWAT vehicles. We tried to drive off and were greeted by a squad car with two officers asking questions. "Did you guys hear that?" they asked, just as shocked as we were and maybe amused. That was your SWAT team. We sort of giggled, but were frightened. Would they pull us out, search our car? Memories flooded of Ian being thrown to the ground as a teenager, mistaken as a crime suspect while walking home.

They casually turned up the radio and nodded, "You're right! Cool, man. Have a good night!"

It was apparent we weren't in Utah anymore. We drove away in a fit of giggles, the stress rolling from our backs with the sweat.

We returned to the hotel, ready for sleep and a hot shower. The awkward boy at the front desk is playing electronic dance music and remarks that this is his last night, an exciting one at that! "Well, the pet rooms are on the second floor. And the second floor is kind of... police zone right now. So I'll move you to the third! And the parking garage is full. You'll have to park in the alley behind it."

I guess that should have been a red flag. We were just relieved to have a bed to heave into.

So we slept there, with a full-blown SWAT drug raid happening right below us. When we woke, we peeked out at an industrial part of town. From the thin window, homeless wandered the parking lot of Sams Club, cheap motels boasted super low nightly rates and bars littered the small spaces between Used Car dealerships and Office Depot. The night before, in the dark, it was hard to tell where we were; what kind of neighborhood had we landed in?

Aurora.

I later told a friend that we stayed on Aurora and she gasped, "What in the living hell were you doing in that part of Seattle? Like, holy shit man."

I guess we still had a lot to learn.

Good Stuff, Maynard.

I often find myself thinking of this little space and what exactly to do with it. What message am I trying to portray here? Sometimes my head aches trying to think up grand ideas, new recipes, interesting new topics. Most days, I fall short and say forget it.

Winter is hard on me.

There are bedtime baths that lead to the massaging of wrinkled baby feet. Dinner conversations go on with Kade center stage, new ideas spitting from his mouth like little flurries of snow. Hair sprouts on Ezra's head, strawberry blonde tufts. Books are repeated, memorized. Train tracks are built, torn down, built again. Jenga games go on through nap time, in the kitchen so the crash! of wood won't disturb the finally sleeping baby. Promotions are being earned. Friends are warm and funny. Surprise packages, letters, cards find a cheerful home in my mailbox; a sweet reminder that I'm not the only one who has lived here and felt this.

This being that despite the good stuff, I feel sort of like a glob of tar.

Seasonal depression is no joke. It's a sticky, black tar bubbling in my brain. It's hot on my skin, it fogs my peripheral and it pulls me downwards towards the floor. My limbs feel heavy, my feet too far away, my saliva sticking my tongue to the roof of my mouth. A friend recently came over for dinner and stated that his writing voice sounded nothing like his speaking voice; it was more eloquent, more put together and wise. I nodded and rubbed at my own shoulder. Of course I understood.

On the phone with my mom, she issues the question everyone has: How are you handling the rain? I twist my hair a bit, glare around the house and reply, "I'm fine." I'm just bored. I'm stuck inside. I need to meet more people. If we had a car, we'd be good.

This isn't always. There are mornings with pancakes and coffee, afternoons of Pez dispensing and rough housing. Long walks are sacred when the sun comes out; we gulp up the air and stand directly in the sun, closing our eyes.

But there are also stiff, groggy mornings. When the babies cry is like a vibrating buzz in my brain and Kade's requests seem complicated and infuriating. The pile of dishes in the sink diminishes and rebuilds faster than I can keep up. The laundry piles high and it can all feel very suffocating.

I'm grateful for friends.
I'm learning that things don't have to be perfect to be written about. My favorite writers scarcely drone on about sunshine and lollipops. That can all seem pretty plastic.
I'm grateful for my babies.
I'm learning that they love me, no matter how forgetful and groggy.

I hope you all had a very merry Christmas and have an exciting new year celebration.
Hopefully, but not promising, you will see more stories soon;
plenty of them sunny but many of them rainy.

Shake It Off

Kade started asking about money. He started asking if we were out of money, when we should pay rent and whether he should (no joke) go to work to help out. My four year old is concerned about our finances. We've assured him, profusely, that he has nothing to worry about. We have plenty of money Kade, we're taken care of. You're taken care of. We've done our best to discuss bills privately, out of his ear shot. But still, it's become a normal conversation to have with him. Going for a walk the other day he panicked, "Mama did we forget to pay rent? We need to go pay rent Mama. Hurry." The rent was easily paid weeks ago but still, he stressed. Then, while taking a bath one night, he responded to Ezra's exuberant splashes by sternly stating, "Stop it Ezra. This is no time for fun."

This doesn't portray the fun-loving, giggling and sweet baby that belongs to us. The tantrums were getting out of hand and it became very clear that he needed to get away; out of the house, with kids his own age, doing kid stuff. Since we moved to Washington over a year ago, he has been with us. Glued to our sides through everything; the stresses of moving to a new place, a new job, being away from family, five homes in 12 months. He was always with one parent of the other, being brave and especially patient. 

Now it's time to relax, to go be a kid, to love learning and playing and forget the rest. 

This wasn't easy for me; letting Kade slip snugly into his own, very independent skin, squeezing him one last time before guiding him to the hands of a stranger on a school bus. We talked about this for weeks and I was sure we had prepared him the best we could. But there was still that moment, at the top of the stairs: he looked back and realized that we meant by himself, by himself. I could feel the uncertainty radiating from his skin. I gave him a smile and a nod and he was buckled up; my baby, off into the world.

At home, I was a very happy and very nervous wreck. My house felt eerie. It felt quiet and hollow. I kept looking at the clock and thinking about what he might be doing right then. After spooning globs of pears and oatmeal towards Ezra, I glanced at the clock. To my horror, it was only 8:15, meaning he was still on the bus. He wasn't even there yet.

To be honest, I slept most of the time he was gone. Ezra was taking advantage of having the bedroom to himself, took a long nap and I followed suit. When I woke up, I was ready to get my baby off that bus.

Finally, there he was, at the top of those stairs. He had a somber, worried look on his face, maybe wondering if I'd abandoned him or maybe just tired. When he saw me, he lit. I squeezed him and breathed in his little neck. He told me excitedly that school was his "favorite day ever." He spent the afternoon telling us about his teacher, his new friends and how he learned a new song: Walking Down The Hallway. I exhaled a chest full of not-knowing and worry and inhaled his beaming sunshine.

Today was easier. He woke up thrilled to get back on that bus and this time, he grinned all the way up the stairs and rushed to his seat. When he got home, he asked if I missed him and squeezed my hand like he knows this is harder on me than him. He requested Taylor Swift (his favorite right now) and wanted me to rock him, like when he was a baby. Half way through Shake it off, he was sleeping soundly in the crook of my arm. For a moment, he was an infant again, rubbing my fingers. I wanted him to stay just like this, to be a baby again, and to grow up. All at once.

In the bath, he sang The Days of the Week to the chime of The Adam's Family jingle and tried to tell me, through a fit of laughter, about his teacher playing "a stomping game." Before bed he told me he wants to be, "a bike rider, a firefighter and a superman drummer." And he laughed. Oh boy did he laugh... fits of giggling erupting from deep inside his belly, just the way they should when you're a kid.

I can tell this will be good. Hard on my Mama heart, but soothing for his Kade soul.

Go on baby, Shake it off, shake it off.

1in100; Our Relationship With CHD

Kade was six months old when we finally heard his diagnosis. Although, his cardiologist didn't say, "He has Congenital Heart Disease." She told us, quite simply, that he had holes in his heart.

I knew the names of them before she spoke them because I cheated during the echo-cardiogram. I watched the tech type in the letters V S D with her gloved middle finger and later, A S D. Jabby little pokes, spelling out Kade's future. When we got back to the waiting room, I googled it. I had already read the definition, symptoms, treatment and all sorts of scary statistics.

He's one in one-hundred.

We fought hard for this and the news washed over me, a wave of relief. We finally had an answer. And it wasn't that I was " new and over-protective." It makes my insides twist to think of what would have inevitably happened to Kade if we had quit fighting.

So, there was the digoxin. There was the lasix, making him wet through his bed every night. There was panic bubbling in my chest because I could tell they weren't working. He was sweating, profusely. He was sleeping too long.

And that term kept coming up in conversation- the one I would see on every medical record he has- the one that makes me cringe and ball up my fists: Failure To Thrive. 

At nine months old, there was the surgery. We held it together until I put him in the arms of the surgeon. It was like a movie- swinging doors with little circle windows. He was crying and reaching towards us as they walked away with our baby. I lost it in the cafeteria, sobbing to my family, "It's not fair. He doesn't understand."


 Then there was the recovery. The moment I saw him, he looked better somehow. Even with all of those tubes, wires and bandages, his color was improved. His skin was finally getting oxygen. And the days that followed were remarkable. Kade improved more each day and was home within the week. The check-ups went from every month, to three, to six.

"A small residual leak," says the Doc, "But nothing to be worried about right now. His patch is intact."

So, now what?

We are the lucky ones. Congenital Heart Disease is a bully and a killer. It takes more children a year than every childhood cancer combined. It is the leading cause of death in infants. 32,000 children in the U.S. are diagnosed every year. It steals vacations, first days of school, Christmases, graduations and birthdays.

I try my best to connect with other CHD moms. I'm active in CHD groups, I follow a lot of stories, I offer up my support the best I can. I'm told a lot that Kade is a beacon of hope for them and that makes me very proud of my warrior. At the same time though, I weep for these moms. Kade will likely lead a very normal life. Considering the severity of heart defects, Kade's was one they have success in mending. He probably won't ever be able to play sports but he will live. Others aren't so lucky and multiple defects leave them in a scary place, literally clinging for life.

Can I really relate to them? It's hard to find where we stand in the CHD community. Because so far, we're done with surgeries. We're off the medication.

Even though we're likely done, I worry. When Kade is on the playground and is hit in the chest with a ball, I gulp up air and go into a tizzy. I worry constantly about his chest wires snapping or that his ASD's aren't closing. Some of my worry is warranted, a lot of it is unnecessary. I guess this is where we relate with the CHD community- even after the recovery, there is the worry. I think every Heart Parent knows that worry.

But through the worry, there is the hope. Heart defects are becoming more treatable. Our kids are fighters- unbelievably resilient and so incredibly brave. We have each other- a tight knit group that can lean on each other for support, shoulders for crying, coffee runs and late night texts. And, we have you; our family, friends, acquaintances. With your help, we can keep fighting back against CHD.

If you would like to know more about spreading CHD awareness, please click: http://www.chdinfo.com/howtohelp.php

Do you have a heart hero in your life? Request a hero cape for them, here: http://heartheroes.org/heart-hero-capes

If you would like to donate to the Children's Heart Foundation, click here: http://www.childrensheartfoundation.org/donate-now

I'm controlling.

The title of this blog post is simple, straight forward, to the point. I did that on purpose because what I'm about to write about is not simple. It's complicated and frustrating. Complicated is a good word for describing my life. I once had a friend tell me, "It's complicated? Of course it is. It always is with you." That's because I'm a super human. Super Sensitive Jessica to the rescue!  I attach a feeling to everything and sometimes, that includes my kids and whatever they have their hands on. I like to have things done a certain way and that stifles creativity, learning and even nurturing.

I know, I know. That escalated quickly.

Let me set a scene for you: My kitchen table, in a rain storm; markers, construction paper and scissors are scattered and Kade is banging his hands on the table and growling (yes growling) at me. This week we're learning about the letter D. I planned a craft for Kade to make a dinosaur in the shape of the letter D and in planning, had an idea of what it should look like. It should have spikes on the top and feet on the bottom and a smiling face and it will look like a dinosaur because D is for dinosaur.

Kade disagreed. He wanted the spikes in the middle, the feet in one group in the corner and the head layered over top of the spikes. I kept pulling the paper away from him and showing him the right way to do it. I was getting frustrated because I had this grand idea of how adorable this project would look and he was ruining it. It hurt my feelings. As if my feelings should be at all tangled in a piece of wrinkled construction paper and a sticky smear of paste. By the end of the project, we were both grumpy. Mean Mom won the battle and Kade caved and did it my way. Afterwards, I was even more emotional (because that's what I do). I stared at the D dinosaur on the dining room wall and wanted to cry. The truth is, I would love it more if he had done it his way. Hind sight is, after all, 20/20.

This is where Ian comes in, normally. I know he would put his hand on my shoulder and say, "Babe, it's his project." It's hard to have him working late- not here to remind me to chill the heck out and just let things BE. We're a good balance in this way.

Somewhere deep beneath my skin is an anxious, obsessive little gene that insists on things being a certain way. I need my towels tri-folded and I organize Kade's room meticulously.

I remember being a kid and being furious that I didn't get to set up my own room. When we moved to a new house, my mom did that for me. This is fine; she was trying to help. But now I'm doing the same and somehow not understanding why Kade knocks things off the dresser or dumps out toy containers. He wants things in his space to be done his way and of course he does. He's my child.

It's hard to stretch myself from this comfort zone. It's hard for me when a project goes array, things are out of place, Ian doesn't completely empty the sink. It makes my skin crawl and my blood boil.

But of course, it's complicated.

Because on the other end, I have always been one to let Kade experience things. I let him soak himself in puddles, wear his underwear all day, get muddy, paint his face, whatever he wants as long as he's learning, stretching, growing, experiencing.

What, exactly, is the difference here? I'm still trying to figure that out. In an attempt stretch my comfortable little pocket, there will be more open-ended projects. It's not going to be perfect. I'm sure there will be plenty more Mean Mom days. But we have to start somewhere because Mean Mom is bully and I'm tired of her controlling crap.

Today, we received a package from IKEA. It came with all sorts of fun packaging cardboard and Kade saw it and said "Oh mama, I think we should paint it!" I pulled out everything I could think of- paint, crayons, markers, glue, scissors. And I let him at it. I haven't walked back in there yet because he's in his zone and thoroughly enjoying a project without my help. This is just another lesson of letting him be him.

We'll keep practicing and hopefully, he can be patient with me.
Thanks for being my gunieu pig, little bug. I'm sure your baby brother appreciates it.

Whiner Butt

Kade has been going through an awful bout of tantrums and whining. I mean, awful. He screams, he tries to hit, he stomps his feet. And though I don't tolerate it and a time out is issued immediately, I can't help but feel like I'm doing something wrong. What's even worse is when he starts laughing at me. I sit him in a time out, explain why he's there and he starts giggling at me! There isn't anything worse in my book. Why isn't he taking me seriously, I ask myself, What have I done?

I also beat myself up on the playground, when he isn't playing nice. Kade's communication skills are a work in progress and he often takes instead of asking or asks after he takes. My mind is in a frenzy- trying to work out what I could be doing different. Sometimes, he breaks down and cries over the smallest things; He's on the floor flailing because he needs a drink but he never asked me to get him one. He's howling down the hall because he dropped something, but won't pick it up himself.

And I beat myself up. I truly feel like there's something I could be doing to resolve all of this; some magic cure, a schedule, a routine, a phrase. But nothing really works that way, does it? There is no such thing, especially when it comes to parenting.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself that kids will be who they are.

Kade is a very sensitive soul. His feelings get hurt and he's easily frustrated. When he's frustrated, he cries (huh, wonder where he inherited that gene) because he doesn't know how else to express himself. We're working on this. It's a constant lesson at our house of, "Okay. What should you do next?" and "If you need a drink, what should you do and say?" and especially, "What are you feeling?" And I like to think that he's catching on when we have small victories; like when he puts Thomas back on the train track instead of laying on the floor in a heap of sobs when he falls off.

It's not acceptable behavior. I know. But I also know that we don't have to like our kids or their behavior 100 percent of the time. This generation of parenting, with the Mommy Wars, the attachment parenting, the co-sleeping... It's taught us that our kids are everything and that we are failures if they have any faults. It's taught us that if our kids have an attitude, it's our fault. We're taught that they have no personalities- that we somehow create their personalities and any of their not-so-shiny traits are a mistake we've made as parents. People might say Kade whines because I let him get away with it or that I "give in" (both completely untrue).

I call bull shit.

Kade whines, a lot. There's no amount of assertive parenting I could do to solve that right now. It's a phase he's going through. I don't like it. It frustrates me to tears and makes me angry. Kade also stomps his feet around the house. I don't like this because I think it's disrespectful, especially of our downstairs neighbors. Some days, I just plain don't like him or the way he's behaving. I know, Bad Mom. Mean Mom. How could I say something like that?

Let's be real though.

My kids are so important to me- they are the sun and the moon in my life. I love them, unconditionally. They are pieces of my heart, walking about the earth.

But I have to stop tearing myself up when they have less-than-perfect personality traits. I have to admit that Kade is a WHINER BUTT and that's just who he is today. By continuing to teach him better ways to express himself, implementing a routine, and delivering a swift kick in the pants for serious infractions, we'll get through it. When he grows up, I'll tease him about it and we'll all laugh, Haha! Aren't we glad we got through that?

You don't have to like it. But you have to get through it.
It's not all your fault.
And Mama, you are doing your b e s t.

A Story of Homesick

I like to write. While it's true that I like the inspiring, uplifting, Mama writing... I just plain like to write. Sometimes that looks more like this:

***

We woke up swallowed by fog, hanging low in the trees, forcing an eerie morning light through the shades. Kade shifted in the bed beside me and Ezra kicked his feet madly against the crib sheet. I pinched the swollen bridge of my nose, still sick, still sore, still tired. 

I sleep the best just before I'm meant to get out of bed. It seems like my limbs finally relax, fall into the warm bed and tingle when suddenly, Kade is demanding pancakes and Ezra is mumbling, "Mamamamamama." Sometimes, I can't force myself from the pillow. Sometimes, I flip it over and heave a giant sigh, melting into the cool of the cotton. Kade protests, pulling the covers from my head, "Mama, I want breakfast. Pancakes!" 

It's not that I'm depressed. I'm just tired. 

By the time the coffee is made and the pancakes are on the skillet, I feel better. Groggy, but better. I want to go for a run. I want to go bury myself in the sand of the Sound but I can't. Kade says the clouds are "making more clouds" and Ezra tries to grab at the bowl of batter. We eat and I actually get dressed. Kade coughs and sniffles, having caught my flu bug. 

We sing along to Winnie the Pooh. Kade talked me into turning it on, remarking, "I just don't feel good Mama and Pooh Bear is my favorite." I promptly order a plush Pooh Bear on Amazon. 

Sometimes retail therapy helps. 

My grandma sent a package yesterday. Keep an eye out, she says. I take the boys on a long, long walk through the forest near our house. We stop at the corner store on the way for Tylenol because they're both fevered and then we walk. We walk through the pines, passed the bare blackberry bushes, untangling stroller wheels from ivy vines. Ezra finally falls asleep and Kade crawls from the stroller, finding pine cones and watching crows. I take a long time to get home, weaving up and down streets and imaging the people who live in the homes or what we would do if we lived there. I would paint the house on the corner white and the house by the school would look beautiful with a giant fruit tree in the front yard. 

At home, we go to the playground. The neighbor girl asks, again, what church we go to. She demands, again, we try hers out. I try to be polite. 

Now, the baby sleeps and an apple fritter bread bakes. I think about my Mama and her love for all things fritter and I sneak into Ezra's room, waking him. I just want to hold him is all.

It's not that I'm depressed. I'm just homesick. 

Magical Motrin or I Suck at Being Sick

Like some sick joke, I woke up yesterday morning with no choice but for Personal Time. My head felt like it would implode, my chest was wheezing, a deep cough left me sore and my body was fatigued. A few hours later, the vomiting started- sort of like fate was saying, "You want personal time? You got it."

I came to the very sad realization that I am terrible at taking care of myself.

I lay on the couch with Ezra by my side most of the day while Kade ruled the house. Meals were managed, but barely. I shuffled around the house, holding on to furniture for support and expressing on Facebook how downright ticked I was at my immune system for failing me. Kade was furious. He wanted to go to the park, he wanted to play trains, he wanted attention. Ezra is coming down with the same crud so he was a bit more compliant. He stared at me with watery eyes and I nodded at him with understanding, I know baby. This sucks.

I slipped into the bathtub with Kade because reaching over the tub to wash him seemed impossible. I read books and prepped him for bed only to realize he still had an hour before his bedtime. I pleaded with him, "Buddy, I know it's early but Mama is so sick. Can you try to rest a bit?" I have one of the most amazing kids on the planet because he was snoozing within minutes. My sensitive one, knowing Mama needed some (ahem) Personal Time.

When Ian finally got home, I jumped from the couch in tears, so happy to see him. He maneuvered through the toys and clothes strewn across the floor and washed a plate to heat up his dinner (so embarrassing, but let's be real here). I asked him to feel my head, to which he remarked, "You do feel hot. Did you take anything for it?"

If my head weren't pounding before, it was now. Of course I didn't. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind because, apparently, I feel the need to tough it out. I stared at him and asked, "Do we have a fever reducer?" He brought me a Motrin and I sort of stared at him and at the little orange pill in my hand. Why on earth hadn't I taken one of these?

Later, I thought about the fact that we have tea. Why haven't I made myself a cup of tea? Then I remembered the peppermint rub beneath the bathroom cabinet.

Why wasn't I taking care of myself?

I'm not sure what the answer is. A mere hour after the Motrin, I felt a hundred times better. Still sick, but the fever was gone and the soreness was relieved. I was able to sleep okay and actually got dressed this morning (gasp!).

 Today, I'm drinking tea and slathering on the peppermint rub and the house was cleaned and Kade got his much needed attention.

I think, as a mom, I feel like I have to tough it out. I don't know where this derived from and I admit, it's ridiculous. I lay on the couch, helpless, telling myself I would have to let it run it's course. Toughen up, Mama. All the while, I had tools that could have helped me tough it out, more comfortably.

I guess this is a good time to examine myself; to remember (again and again) that I'm worth some taking care of. Isn't it funny how we can remember this and have to be reminded a day later?

Toughen up, Mamas. Take care of yourselves.

All My Beans In One Jar

I often imagine my life as a series of jellybean filled jars.

Stay with me while I explain: Imagine a row of jars, all of them labeled. The labels might include quality time with kids, housework, personal time, relationships, friendships, etc. Are you with me? Now imagine that you have only 100 jellybeans. Those 100 jellybeans represent your time, energy, blood, sweat and tears. You only have 100 of them, that's your 100 percent. You can try to evenly distribute your jelly beans, sure. But sometimes, without a doubt, some of the jars have more than others. And it changes, constantly. The trick is that if one of your jars needs more jellybeans, you have to take some away from another jar.

Do you know what happens to these jars if they go too long without enough jellybeans? They crack.

Right now, I have too many beans in one jar. My Parenting Jar is overfilling and my Housework Jar is suffering, albeit more full than most others. My Personal Time jar? It's been completely empty for a very, very long time. And yeah, it's about shattered.

You hear a lot that being a parent has a lot to do with balance but I'm convinced that total balance is impossible. Can I really play with my kids, keep my house under control, get myself dressed (for hell's sake, DRESSED), plan dinner with friends and then treat myself to a pedicure that night? It probably sounds doable, right?

I have to tell myself that no one can do this. There is just no one on the planet who really has all of their jars filled respectively and can keep them that way. When my Parenting Jar is filled, as it has been, I feel good. I feel needed and loved and my kids are certainly happy. But when my Housework Jar is lacking some beans, I'm frazzled and frustrated. I like waking up and having room in the sink to start a pot of coffee. I don't like washing a coffee cup. Sometimes, it's the opposite. Sometimes, I spend the entire day scrubbing, organizing and clearing clutter. But usually, I have to sacrifice time with my boys to accomplish that. Usually, I have to tell Kade, not right now, I've got to get this cleaned up. So even though I wake up the next morning to a shiny kitchen and clean socks (hallelujah), I'm feeling guilty for not spending enough one on one time with my kids and feel that I have to make up for it.

Just like that, beans from one jar are tossed into another. Back and forth, back and forth. I think my problem is my all-or-nothing attitude. Instead of transferring maybe, one or two beans, I dump all the contents of one jar straight into another.

When it comes to other jars, say my Personal Time Jar, I'm utterly and completely shattering that glass. I realized when Ian got home from work yesterday that I hadn't gotten dressed. I was in my pajamas from the night before. The kids were extremely happy, clean and cared. They had long bubble baths and extra stories and I breathed them in until they were settled for the night. The house was (mostly) straightened. But seriously, I haven't painted my nails, gone for a run, or worn makeup in weeks. In fact, I realized the other day that I'm out of makeup. When did that happen? None of my clothes fit and I'm feeling generally sloppy.

 This bothers me for two reasons. One, I used to pride myself on taking care of the way I looked. It made me happy to wear nice clothes and take the time to feel put together. For some, this doesn't matter. But though I'm comfortable in my own skin, I feel good when I do those things. My self-esteem is taking a very serious, direct blow. And two, I know I could be an even better mom if I took the time to take care of myself. The jellybeans need to spend some time in that jar, sweeten it up. When they hop back into the Parenting Jar, they'll be more shiny and colorful than before (this is becoming a seriously cheesy metaphor).

It's time to do some rearranging. This weekend, I'm dumping some beans into my Personal Time Jar. I'm going to go for a walk, paint my finger nails, wash my hair, shave my legs (oh gross). And maybe I'll start paying closer attention, aspire more to evenly distribute some of my time, energy, attention.

But maybe not. There's a good chance that a week from now, that jar will be empty again, cracking. I'm okay with that. This is all a learning curve. 

We have to remember that we are somebody, even apart from our kids. We were somebody before our kids. We have to remember to take care of that person. Because this person, matters.

What's What Wednesday; on a Sick Day with some nitty gritty

Around midnight last night Kade woke up with a cough and was impossible to get back to sleep. Daddy got up with him, met his intense demands and coaxed him back to sleep while I snoozed. I can only tell you this story because it was relayed to me this morning. Daddy's are sort of awesome that way.

A formal Sick Day commenced at our place, starting with an embarrassing amount of screen time. I think it's important to bring up days like this on the blog. It's too easy now to only show the pearly whites of your life. I've read a lot of blogs- seen a lot of moms- with happy, clean kids smiling and baking and doing crafts. What they're not showing us, things that I'm sure are there, are the yoga pants, the messy house, the fussy clingy babies demanding to be held while those blog posts are written (mine is sitting in my lap, watching me type this). Those blogs are inspiring and I read a lot of them, but it's important to remember that they're people too. They have messy closets, spit up on their shoulders,

After the house was destroyed, the pony tail was pulled by the infant for the umpteenth time and Kade passed out watching cartoons, I was ready to crawl back into bed and start over.

When Kade woke up, he smiled coyly and requested homemade crackers. "I almost feel better Mama. I just reallllly need homemade crackers."

The house is a wreck, the sink is already full, but the baby is sleeping so let's take advantage. Anything to get my big boy feeling better and this sick day over. Operation Ritz Crackers, GO!

What's Cooking?

Homemade Ritz Crackers

The first day I made these, Ian came home for work and I popped one in his mouth. I was super excited after spending the day perfecting them. I said, "Tastes like a Ritz cracker, RIGHT?!" He said, "Yes... only better!" Good man. That's what I like to hear.

1 stick unsalted butter (8 Tablespoons)
2 Cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon sea salt
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 Tablespoon sugar
2 Tablespoons vegetable oil
1/2 cup water

1. Combine the flour, 1/2 teaspoon of the salt, baking powder and sugar in a mixing bowl.

2. Add 6 Tablespoons of the butter to the flour mixture, a small pat at a time.

3. Combine with your hands until the mixture resembles a coarse meal.

4. Add the vegetable oil and combine.


5. Add water, a little at a time. I usually pour with my right hand while mixing with my left hand. It's a messy job.

6. Once the dough forms, roll it out onto a lightly floured surface. It's important to roll out the dough as thin as possible to get the perfect crunchy cracker.

7. Cut shapes with cookie cutters and transfer onto a parchment lined cookie sheet. Poke some holes into the crackers- this is an important part of what makes them crunchy! You can use a fork or a chop stick.

8. Bake for about ten minutes but don't leave the kitchen! Depending on the thickness of your crackers, they could burn very quickly. Keep an eye on them!

9. Melt the remaining 2 Tablespoons of butter and add the other 1/2 teaspoon of salt.

10. When crackers are out of the oven, brush on the butter "sauce" and sprinkle crackers with a little bit more sea salt.

***

I think it's important to touch down on some "Nitty Gritty." The fact that no, no one is perfect and we should totally stop beating ourselves up. I also think that we need to stop judging each other. We're on the SAME TEAM, mamas! Sometimes days don't go like we planned so we just have to run with what we have. So, I'm just going to put it out there: 

Here you go, my baby sometimes sits in his bumbo on the table. I know, he could fall. But I like to think I watch him very closely. 

Or, how about this one? 

CO-SLEEPING. I know, dangerous. Bad Mom. 

Last one, okay? That's my boob, on my blog. You're welcome.

No one is the perfect mother! Remember that even those pearly whites sometimes have hidden cavities. 

Until next time, friends. 

Great Expectations

I set a timer for Kade to clean up his toys. "Okay bud. I set your timer for 10 minutes. You need to have your blocks cleaned up before it goes off or it will be straight to bed." He asks why and I start to wonder if he's too young to understand. No, I give myself a pep talk, he can learn anything. "If your toys aren't picked up, we won't have time to read books. It will be straight to bed." I sat down and watched him as he picked up the toys and played with them. He started building with the blocks and ran to the closet to find his Thomas train. Five minutes later, I gently reminded him of the rule; "You only have five minutes to be all cleaned up." He threw a handful of blocks in the basket and got distracted again. He was back to making train whistle noises. I winced when the alarm went off and the room remained a mess. His face was utter, sheer panic. He grabbed his toy shovel and started at the blocks, tears welling.

I hate this part of parenting. The truth is, we did have plenty of time for books. There is always time for books and I want to read to him. It's my favorite part of the entire day. Smelling his hair, nursing Ezra and reciting A Fly Went By is my calm. Some people do yoga, I do story time. 

At the same time though, I know he has to learn boundaries and expectations. When mommy asks him to please pick up the toys, he has to learn to do it. I wish I could do it for him forever, really. That's the catch 22 of parenting: you plead with them to stay little while simultaneously wanting and needing them to get big. 

It's hard to do the big things sometimes. Unfortunately, Kade's room is a mess of toys and he went straight to his bed without a story. I think it was just as hard for me as it was for him. Kade is a lover of books. If I obliged, he would have me reading for all hours of the day. Seeing him nurture this love, helping him to nurture it, is such an exhilarating part of parenting him. It's my favorite part. Taking that away from him, even for a night, is pure torture.

I beat myself up about these moments. Now that he's asleep, I feel guilty. I start battering myself with questions: Was it fair? Was I mean? I read to Ezra, was that just rubbing it in? What else could I take away from him that would work?  

At the end of the day though, I have to be confident in my choice as his Mama. Tomorrow we'll try again. I can bet he'll be more willing to clean before that timer goes off- my baby wants his books. 

***

We did big and little things today. Little walks to the mailbox turned hour long walks through the woods. Long walks through the woods turned painting sticks, turned funky art project. A second walk, close to dinner, turned a two hour stroll and a quick jar of chicken noodle. Sometimes, you have to throw out the timer, too. 

Take your time, baby.

Expression Vs. Protection

Kade is growing like a weed. New clothes are lasting a few months, sometimes weeks and with preschool starting, it was time for a new wardrobe. His summer clothes are worn from play- knees faded, shirts unraveling, socks missing and black on the bottom.

We took a long bus trek to Target and things started out great. We got pizza, chatted about our week. Ezra slept while Daddy wore him. Mama leaned in for lots of Kade kisses and we all bustled to the kid section in search of some new duds. Everything was going swimmingly well.

That is, until, we chose underwear. The underwear section is divided into two very distinct sections. To the left, bright pinks, hearts, sparkles. To the right, blue and cars and superheros. Kade was immediately drawn to the sparkles because hello, who doesn't like sparkles? He chose a package of pink, sparkly Minnie Mouse underwear. Then, his eyes caught the Elmo ones. They were even more pink, more sparkly and were embellished with hearts and a loopy lace-like waist band. His face lit with excitement as he held them up to us. "I want these ones."

Daddy and I just stared at each other. We work hard to let Kade just be whoever he is. I don't think it's right to tell him he can or can't do something because it doesn't meet his gender typicality. I won't ever tell him what boys play with or that a certain color is "just for girls." It's not fair to snuff out his joy when he comes to me proudly pretending to breastfeed his baby dolls. It's not fair to be more excited when he plays with cars for hours on end (which he does daily). Both instances make him happy and proud and so they do the same for me. I don't feel uneasy when he sometimes chooses what society considers "Girl Stuff."  And I certainly don't feel more proud when he often chooses "Boy Stuff."

For the last four years, this has worked for us. We let him be his own little self; a perfect little being who loves cars, kissing babies, painting and baking. He's a spectacular dancer, has one hell of an arm and insists on cuddles and singing before bed. If life had a "Boy Section" and a "Girl Section," Kade would be right in the middle.

Now, with preschool starting, we're feeling raw and confused. Because yes, we wanted to let him have the pink Elmo underwear. But no, we don't want the kids at school teasing him. Where does the line of expression end and the line of protection begin? We got down on his level and tried to explain: "Baby, I know you want those. But some kids don't understand that. They think those are for girls and we don't want them to tease you. They just don't understand..." My heart broke, literally ached in my chest. This was absolutely not fair. Steam might have been coming out of my ears as I thought, Fuck Society. My baby loves Elmo and they don't have them in the "Boy Section." Why should I make him settle?

"But I want them."

The options were to let him get the pink ones or insist on the "Boy" section. We thought about getting him the pink to wear at home and buying Cars for school. What would that teach him though? That he has to hide? I felt so helpless.

The thing that really just gets me is that it doesn't have to be this way. We have this fresh little generation- eager and incredibly smart. They could end the line drawn in the gender sand. But it has to start with us as parents- We have to stop deflating their self-esteem when we don't agree with their preference. We have to let them choose what they want and most of all, we have to teach them to be accepting of others. Kade doesn't notice if a girl plays sports or has short hair. He won't notice if a boy wears pink. He just wants to play, laugh and especially learn.

I want a society in which we focus on education, charity, growth and faith more than the color of our underwear.

In the end, Kade chose the Cars underwear. It took some serious talking and none of us felt great afterwards. We didn't tell them they were only for girls- we told him that some people don't understand that they can be for boys too.  We felt, as parents, that we needed to protect him. Kids are mean and I don't trust his teachers to protect him. At his last doctors appointment, the nurse let Kade pick a sticker. She pulled out Jake and the Neverland Pirates. She stated, "I have princess ones too but you don't want those. Those are for girls." Turns out, Kade wanted the princess ones. Who was she to say what he wanted?  This is obviously deep rooted- generation after generation being told what's acceptable. I think other things matter substantially more.

No, society isn't ready for our Kade yet. That's so hard and frustrating.
But my baby will change the world, I know.

A re-do

A few days ago I started a blog post about what a difficult day I'd been having. It was a long, dramatic play by play of tantrums, colic, hair pulling and kitchen messes. It was full of complaining and admitting that I wasn't having my best Mom Moments. I admitted to yelling and being short with Kade and crying, arms full of grocery bags.

I deleted that post.  It's not the type of energy I want in this space and complaining doesn't change anything. We all know parenting is hard. There are days when you sit on the couch, half asleep, with a mess around you and you wonder why on earth did I choose this? Not to say that it isn't the most amazing and beautiful experience on the planet- parenting- but it is extremely difficult. We all have those days.

So what can we do? Instead of writing a post about how hard it is and how I wasn't at my best, I'd rather write about what I can do different. What kind of parent do I want to be? A huge part of this is sharing it- if you share your goals with friends, you're more likely to hold up to them. A support system is like gold. So, I'm choosing five things. And I'm sharing them with all of you in the hopes that you'll share your goals and hopes with someone close to you- a friend, your spouse, your teenager. If we can build each other up, offer support and advice, we can raise children to change the world. Kids who are kind, endearing, determined and smart.

1. I want to be a teacher.

I want my boys to bake, get lost in books, be able to fix a car. When they ask questions, I want to answer thoughtfully. I don't want to ignore them or become frustrated with their questions; no matter how many times they ask 'why.'  I want to look for learning opportunities in all the simple things we do- going on walks, building blocks, riding the bus. I want to show them what a stable relationship looks like. I want to teach them how to trust and be trusted, how to be thoughtful and always send thank you notes.

2. I want to be patient.

I don't want to lose my temper or become exasperated. I want to get down on their level and really listen to what my boys have to say. I want to hold back when they are trying something new- letting them work at it for a while and only jumping in when they ask. I want to be understanding when they wake at night and need a snuggle. I don't want to respond in an impatient, cranky or tired manner. I want to let them learn at their own pace. I want to have patience with myself- to call for a re-do when I'm being negative, to recognize and admit my mistakes.

3. I want to let them take charge of their own little lives.

I want to let them choose their own clothes. I don't want to argue about matching. I want to choose my battles wisely and let some things slide. I want to let them choose from healthy options at lunch. I want them to choose their books at bedtime. I want them to get creative with a planned art project. I don't want to be controlling or bossy. I don't want to cage in their imaginations.

4. I want to say "yes" more than "no," within reason.

Play blocks? Yes. Facebook can wait. Go to the park? Yes. It will only be summer for a little while. Play on the patio in your underwear? Yes. It's hot, that's cool. I want to stop saying, In a minute, hold on, maybe later, we'll see. Sometimes the dishes can wait, the laundry can wait, IT CAN WAIT.

5. I want to love without distraction.

I want to put down the phone sometimes- resist taking a picture. I want to take a picture in my mind instead and hold it there forever. I want to note the smell of a new baby, the smoothness of my boys skin, the silly noises they make in their sleep. I don't want to miss out because I'm stuck in a screen. I want them to remember me as attentive, loving and loyal.

What kind of parent do you want to be? 

On the day you were born; Dear Ezra

Our car broke down on a Thursday afternoon, on the way home from my 39 week appointment. It started sputtering and lights were blinking- we were lucky to get off the freeway and making it into the parking lot? An absolute miracle. There has never been worse timing. I was sort of panicked, but keeping my cool. Because Daddy wasn't panicked, he was downright ticked. That silly old Mazda had been giving us troubles since the beginning. I was reassuring him and myself, "If I go into labor, we will just call our friends to drive us. It will be just fine."

Twelve hours later I woke from a deep, comfortable sleep. My stomach cramped tightly and I had enough energy to run around the world twice. My teeth were chattering and I knew immediately that we would be meeting you very soon. I woke up Daddy and warned him, "I think it's time. I'm going to take a bath and I'll let you know." The doctor told me that if I wanted a natural labor, I should stay home as long as possible. She reminded me that the longer I was progressing in the hospital, the more I would be offered intervention. I pulled out my headphones and slipped into a warm bath, assuming I would be home for a few hours before venturing towards the hospital. In the bath, I listened to just three songs. Neither of them on my "birth playlist." By the end of the second song, I had experienced three contractions- the type that made me white-knuckle the side of the tub. I had to remind myself to breathe, in and out, in and out. Suddenly, I realized that if I had three contractions in just three songs they were what? Three minutes apart? I jumped from the tub and went to Daddy in my towel. "Call Penny, like, NOW," I told him sternly. He remarked at how I was shaking. I finished packing, pausing briefly to lean down in agony.

No one was answering. I sat on the bed while we tried our friend but the call wasn't going through. Something was wrong with the connection. We called another friend- a neighbor- but they were all asleep. As the pain became more severe, we decided upon calling 911.

Daddy's hilarious 911 call:

Daddy: Hello, yes, my girlfriend is in labor but we have no ride to the hospital!

Operator: How far apart are her contractions?

Daddy: About five minutes.

Operator: IMMEDIATELY have her take her clothes off, lay down on the bed and spread her legs! Put a towel under her! Do you see any CROWNING?!

Daddy: Um. I don't think I can get her to do anything right now.

We both started laughing, hysterically. I commented on the absolute joke that is the American maternal health system, "like, don't they know that is the worst possible position in which to deliver a baby? Crowning? I think I would know if he was crowning. No thank you, I need to MOVE MY HIPS!"

We would have to bring Kade with us. As exciting as that was, it was scary too. Because that meant that daddy would have to wait outside, with Kade. That meant that mommy was going to be all by herself in there.

When the ambulance arrived, a troop of six paramedics entered our apartment. Six of them, with their eyes wide. It was obvious that they were horrified and probably praying, "God do not make me deliver a baby tonight." I chatted with them, smiling. How on earth was I smiling at this point? They asked if I could walk down the stairs. Sure! Down the stairs I went and into the ambulance, landing on the stretcher in a heave of relief as another contraction began.

They buckled Kade into a seat and gave him a little brown bear. All the way to the hospital he made siren sounds and grinned, ear to ear. "Baby Ezra is going to come out now," he stated. He was so excited to become a big brother. I want to remember this: his bedhead stood on all ends, his sleepy eyes were wide. He wore striped slippers and an over sized t-shirt and he was so, so brave. He set a perfect example for me.

The paramedic began timing my contractions. We didn't even make it around the corner before he said, "Up the priority." The lights flicked on and we zoom, zoomed to the hospital to meet you.

At the hospital, the silly nurse was asking lots of questions. I could barely speak through the pain, coming in waves now, one right on top of another. I barely had time to breathe, let alone answer questions. I almost swore. She finally checked me and reported that I was dilated 7-8 centimeters. I told her, "Get me in that room NOW or you're not going to have time to do anything." She raced out. They moved me into another room and Kade and Daddy wandered down the hall to the waiting room.

I was all by myself. I cried, harder than I have ever cried. Huge, deep sobs escaped me between quick breaths. I asked for my mom who was hundreds of miles away. My doctor wasn't going to be there in time. I was laying on my side when my water broke and I yelled at the nurse, "He is coming out, right now."

There was no doctor in sight. The nurse urged me not to push and I insisted that I wasn't. The doctor, not my doctor, slipped in and started putting gloves on. Before she was finished, there was your head, your shoulders. I wanted to give up. I was between a rock and a hard place. It hurt, so badly, but the only way to make the hurt stop was to keep going. The doctor told me, "You're doing so great, mama! His head and shoulders are out! Just one more push!" I knew I could do just one more. I let out a scream, a scream daddy says could be heard down the hall.

There you were. Right up on my chest, all rosy cheeked and happy. You nuzzled in, warm and comfortable. You certainly knew your mama.

Within moments, Daddy and Kade were standing behind the curtain. You let out a cry and Daddy had a quiver in his voice, "Yes Kade! That's your baby brother. That's Ezra." He tells me that Kade's face was so full of joy and pride upon hearing you that it choked him all up inside. They came in soon after to welcome you and my heart burst open at the seams. It stretched out a bit, a pocket just your size.

We had only been at the hospital for about thirty minutes. I had no IV, had yet to sign consent forms. I laugh now at my big plans. We would take pictures, I thought, and listen to music. I would maybe light a candle and take a bath and ease myself into this. But you, Ezra Elias, had bigger plans. A birth story just as grand and just  as incredible as you are.

Now, you're home with us. It's funny though; it seems you've always been here.

Happy Birthday Ezra Elias.

Anti-Social Media and Our Kids

The end of this pregnancy has been pulling at me; tides coming in and out of what will change and how much we will be stretched and how much love we are capable of. At the center of this pull is Kade, spending his last moments as my only baby sprawled out on his bedroom floor with a coy smile, asking me to please build another Lego house and kicking his feet carelessly into the air while we stir up air soup. I lift him up onto the counter while I cook dinner and watch him pop frozen peas into his mouth. He rubs at my thumbs between bites and wants me to sing to him while I stir the noodles. I love you, a bushel and a peck... In these last moments, I am feeling guilty. Here I am, counting the red hairs on his head, leaning in for extra neck kisses and noting the distinct smell of his skin. I am extra close attention to these last moments alone with my very first, writing things down that I don't want to forget. Because we are forgetful.

I feel guilty for this because I'm also noticing how often I haven't been paying attention. I'm taking note at how he has pried my eyes from my cell phone or combated for attention while I clucked away at the computer. I'm realizing that like so many others, I've been drawn into a dark hole of Social Media and the hole is deep and it is dizzying and disorienting.  I try to justify this. I have family out of state, they want lots of updates posted. Daddy works all day, I like to take extra pictures for him. But what is Kade going to remember? We spent his first Christmas, first three years really, saying he won't remember this but now, he's at the age that he just might. I don't want him to remember that I was staring at my phone at the park, that he had to say my name five times to get a response while I watched a YouTube video.

I enjoy Social Media. I have connected with so many wonderful people, so many friendships have formed and experiences have been shared. Social Media can make you feel supported, it can be an incredible outlet for creativity (take this blog, for example). I don't think Social Media is wrong or bad. I do believe, though, that the way we treat and approach it can be toxic. I am so guilty of this, it almost feels hypocritical to be writing about it. But I'm trying to change the way I view Social Media- trying to decide when is a good time and fighting the urge to pick up my phone to do some mindless scrolling when I'm bored. Boredom isn't cured with boredom. I'm making an effort to stretch myself, to feel around outside of my comfort zone for things to occupy my time. Things like starting a new project with Kade, stretching, calling my mom to say hello... It isn't easy. When you've been enthralled with so much technology, removing yourself from it feels foreign and uncomfortable. Going to the park without your cell phone forces you to be social again, something we've shriveled away from, into the screens of our smart phones and tablets.

I think it's important for Kade to play by himself sometimes. Every once in a while, mommy has things to do, mommy needs a break. That's okay and it's good for him to be patient and give me my space. He should be able to go in his room and entertain himself while I answer e-mails. But my time shouldn't be intruding his time. Meaning that I should not be on my smart phone during dinner. I should be talking to him about the day, discussing current events, and connecting with him. I should not be scrolling through Facebook while we're at the library and I certainly should not be playing games or updating my status during his bedtime routine. That is Kade's time and we've been stealing it.

So where do we start? It's not as easy as it seems. Last night, it took all I had not to pick up my phone while the boys did dishes. What else was there to do? That's where this whole Social Media thing has gone horribly wrong, we mindlessly start scrolling because what else are we going to do? As if this amazing, miraculous, unbelievable thing called LIFE isn't unraveling around us at every moment. I forced myself to sit in the kitchen and talk with them. Kade scrubbed the sink and said clever and silly things while daddy loaded the dishwasher. I looked back and forth at my boys and felt perfectly content. I would have missed that had I given in and picked up the phone. I can't help but wonder what else I've been missing.

Maybe it starts with a phone basket; you deposit your phones at the beginning of dinner and can't have them back until the dishes are done or the kids are in bed. Maybe it starts with leaving your phone in the car when you make your way to the park or the beach. It takes some creativity, some thoughtful planning: reading a poem aloud during dinner, choosing a newspaper clipping that fascinated you and sharing it with the family before bed, turning off your phone and playing a board game on a quiet afternoon.

At my house, we're going to make a conscience effort to connect more. We have a new baby on the way, hearts to stretch and a boy who is relying on us to be his teachers. Little steps will become giant strides. Let's change the social norm.

What's What Wednesday

Today was beautiful. The sun was out and the temps were in the high 80's. It would have been a perfect beach day had Ian not been at work until well after 7:00. When you don't have a vehicle to get to said beach, you opt for something a bit more local and since our swimming pool isn't open yet either, we were forced to skip the water altogether. Down the Summer List we ticked... ice cream? Doable. Long walks on green trails? Well, since we live in Washington, also totally doable. Our apartment complex has an incredible walking path circling around the buildings, overgrown with trees, grass and dandy lions. Usually, I forget it exists because it's being flooded with rains.

Today, we seized a taste of summer. It was delicious.

Almost as delicious as these pancakes: Strawberry lemon and whole-wheat to boot. Perfect for a summer breakfast or brunch. You can also switch out the strawberries for blueberries. I just took my favorite whole-wheat pancake recipe and added the lemon and fruit.

What's for Breakfast?  

Strawberry Lemon Whole Wheat Pancakes

1/2 cups whole wheat flour (you can totally use all-purpose if it's what you have on hand)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large egg
1 cup milk
1 tablespoon honey
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1 cup fresh strawberries, sliced into small pieces

In a big bowl, whisk up your dry ingredients- flour, baking powder, soda and salt. In another bowl, whisk together your wet- oil, egg, milk, honey, lemon juice and zest. Mix your wet and dry ingredients together, careful not to over-mix. It's okay if there's some clumps.
Heat a large pan or griddle over medium heat and oil it up. Then pour some batter on the pan and sprinkle some strawberries on top. Cook for about two minutes, flip over and cook for two minutes more.

Delicious with jam, syrup, honey or whatever you'd like.

What we're learning 

We've been going on lots of nature walks the past few days. This is the easiest of all art projects and is such an awesome learning opportunity. I basically just let Kade free to roam around and pick flowers, leaves and grass. We talked about a fallen pine tree branch- describing each of its parts (branch, pine needles, pine cones, sap) and what they were for. We noticed sticky pollen on some of the flowers and talked about what bees can do with it (Kade thought this was so super cool). Nature is seriously the best classroom. The possibilities are endless and kids never seem to tire of it.

Have your kid pick some grass, flowers, leaves, sticks, whatever neat treasures he can find. Bring them inside at the end of your adventure and let them arrange them on a piece of paper. Talk some more about each item, what color is it? What does it smell like? Are the petals soft? The edges of the leaf rough? Use Washi tape (or any old tape) and stick the treasures to the paper. Ta-da! A super easy project with infinite learning opportunity; my favorite kind.

What's Making Me Smile? 

The obvious signs of summer, preparing for a new baby and watching my big boy grow and grow, taking deep breaths of lilac and scrubbing away sunscreen at the end of an adventure-packed day.

 Hoping you and yours are having an awesome week. Hang in there friends, seek out something beautiful today.