A Mother's Day Trifecta

Eight and a half years of motherhood can teach you a lot of things.  More than anything, it's taught me that I am certainly no expert at motherhood.

In eight and half years, I've been both a breastfeeding mom and a formula feeding mom.  I've gotten an epidural and delivered without drug intervention.  I've bought baby food and made my own baby food.  I've used cry-it-out and co-slept.  I've worked out of the home and become a stay-at-home-mom.  I have stuck to a rigid sleep and feeding schedule and have flown by the seat of my pants when I heard my baby cry ("It's only been 45 minutes since she ate?  That's okay, just hand her over.").  I have sent my kids to daycare, public school, kept them home with me, and brought them home for the new adventure of homeschooling.  I've used a stroller, walker, and bouncy seat, and I've worn my baby.  I have cried frustrated tears over nap-times gone terribly awry, celebratory tears over milestones reached, and bittersweet tears over the realization that my babies aren't babies anymore.  I've patted myself on the back for attempting art projects with enthusiastic toddlers and cleaned up seventeen tons of glitter and glued-on paper bits (give or take).  I've fed my kids processed foods, and, well, that one has no opposite counterpart.  They eat grapes and apples from time to time.  That makes up for it, right?

There is no book that can teach you how to be a mom.  Actually, there are thousands of them, but I can't in good conscience recommend a single one of them.  Learning how to be a mom comes from on-the-job experience, and hopefully from the examples of other fine mothers in our lives. 

Today, I had the honor of sharing Mother's Day with two other big events - Sarah's 3rd birthday and Leah's dedication at church, in which we commit to raising her in a Jesus-centered home.

I may not know everything there is to know about being a mom.  I've made plenty of mistakes, and I pray that I've learned from them.  But one thing I do know is that I am blessed.  I have been gifted four precious children, and I hope that we can do right by them in the time we have together, however long or short that may be.

Reflecting on the three years we've been given with our spicy, spunky Sarah...

 

(That "three" thing is hard to figure out.)

 

She's given us so much - experience with head wounds, creativity when it comes to hiding candy in the pantry, and speed from chasing her down beaches and through department stores, to name a few.  Our lives would certainly not be as exciting without this hugging and "quizzing" little girl.  And based on how hard it was for me to find photos of just Sarah, I'm guessing Abby's life would be lacking without her best friend and little sister too.

And we're hoping for a similar friendship between Sarah and this little girl.

Today, I'm thankful for the multi-generational faithfulness of my parents...as they prayed for us, their children, and for our children, their grandchildren.  And feeling blessed to have a rare Mother's Day in the same state as my own mom this year.

To the mothers out there, it's okay if you're not perfect.  None of us are or ever will be.  Your kids will appreciate that about you someday.  And I really think they'll appreciate it even more if you can admit it, and live with that than if you keep aspiring for the unattainable.

Happy Mother's Day to the amazing moms in my life!

And Happy Birthday to my precious Sarah!

Not Quite Mom of the Year

Maybe I won't win the Mom of the Year award this year.  I mean, I did just let Sarah get burnt to a crisp at Abby and Ben's soccer games yesterday morning.  But, hey!  At least we weren't late to them (like we usually are). 

Maybe I won't win the Mom of the Neighborhood award this year because we have rules.  Lots of them, apparently.  And if you want to play here, you have to follow them.  This includes having to be nice to baby sisters and younger neighbors.  But, hey!  At least we're consistent!

Maybe I'm not deserving of the "Best Mom Ever" mug or button or glow-in-the-dark keychain because there really and truly probably is a better mom than me out there.

And I'm okay with that.

Because I'm doing the best I can.  And I know my mom did the best she could.  And I hope some day my kids realize that we moms aren't perfect.  And no matter how hard we try to be, we'll always fall short.

But we are trying our best.

Maybe I'm not Mom of the Year.  But in the past year, I have been a chauffeur, a cook, a housekeeper, a body pillow, a one-man haz-mat team, a referee, a shoulder to cry on, a would-be ambulance driver, a medicine administrator, a boo-boo kisser, a consequence deliverer, a tutor, a fundraiser solicitor, a verbal wikipedia, and a brave enough soul to do at least one project with glitter and a toddler.

I have given more hugs, changed more diapers, answered more questions, and smiled at the always surprising randomness that comes only with being a mom more times than I can count.

I have also raised my voice too much and too often, lost my temper over inconsequential things, and pitched a few fits that put my toddler's foot-stomping to shame.

(That's transparency, folks.)

I'm not perfect.  Not by a long shot.

My children afford me a small glimpse of the grace of my Heavenly Father.  I mess up daily, and yet they always manage to forgive me and love me anyway.

Thank God for that.

Some days are hard, but all of the days are rewarding, even if it's after the fact that I realize that.  There are times when I find myself wondering, "Why did I even have kids anyway?"  Then I wander into the living room and find them folding towels (or should I say "folding towels"?) together.  And then I remember...

It's so I don't have to do chores all by myself anymore.

Okay, that's just a small perk.  But even that heaping pile of disheveled towels is an example of the amazing blessing it is to be called by God to be a mom.  He picked me for this adventure, and he gave me these three perfectly imperfect children.

It's no small task, and maybe I won't win Mother of the Year, but I do know this...

...I'm going to be the best I can be.

And I'm just going to love them.

Happy Mother's Day to all of the beautiful, talented, inspiring, less-than-perfect women in my life who have taught me so very much about being a mom.  You rock my socks off!

To the women whose mothers have already left us, and whose babies were taken before the rest of the world could love them along with you, my heart is with you today.  Big hugs and love from me to you.

Best Mother's Day Present EVER

I got some tremendous gifts this year...from new clothes and a beautiful beverage dispenser from Kirklands for all of the entertaining I wish we did but don't actually (Thank you, Sam!) to a suitcase full of handcrafted paper items since he "didn't have any money" (Thank you, Ben!).  I got some crafts that the kids made in school, complete with handprints in some form or another (and I absolutely LOVE that!).

This one tops them all though.  And in the interest of brevity, I will simply post a picture so you can peruse for yourself.  Feel free to click on it if you can't read it clearly.

Priceless.

Becoming "Mom"

I turned twenty just two weeks before delivering my firstborn, thereby excusing me from that stigmatic "teen mom" label (not by much, but enough that it counts).  Sam and I had finished up our sophomore year of college the May before.  We spent the summer working, applying for better jobs, taking classes, and buying a new home.  It seems like we squeezed about ten years into those few months.  On September 5, 2003 at 10:55am, I became a mom.

The thing about becoming a mom is that it happens in an instant.  And, for me, the instant was so fast that reality didn't have a chance to set in.

Disclaimer:  Before I go any further, I should clarify that I believe life starts at conception, and therefore motherhood begins in that different, particular instant, but I truly didn't feel or understand the magnitude of my new role until I held that tiny baby in my arms.

I remember just after I finished my final push and saw Ben for the first time, after the Stork Squad checked him out and gave him the a-okay after seeing meconium in my water, when they placed him on my chest and I held him for the first time.  It was like an out-of-body experience.  I might as well have been watching myself on tv.  There I was holding that tiny little boy.  I had to tell myself, "He is mine."

Not surprisingly, he came out hungry (and he still is to this day, even 10 minutes after a meal).  We worked through nursing, and he was a champ from the start.  That is when it really occurred to me.  Even though I had carried and nourished him for the past nine months, I was responsible for the complete care of this little man, this person.  He was coming home with us.  To Sam's and my house.  If I wanted to run to the grocery store, he had to come with me.  If I wanted to go for a walk, I needed to pull out the stroller.  If I wanted to take a shower, (I would soon find out) that I would need to wait for the opportune time perhaps during a nap or moment of contentment (which would be few and far between).  I hadn't just birthed a son.  We had a brand new, perpetual sidekick.

I learned that becoming a mom was the ultimate lesson in selflessness.  I no longer had the luxury of making choices based on what I alone thought or felt.  I weighed everything based on not only myself, but my child and my family.   I became an unintentional advocate.

"I am the Lorax Mom.  I speak for the trees my child." ~The Lorax Mom

Things I didn't know I would ever care about became important to me, like what to feed a child who refuses whole milk at age one, carseat safety, whether to send my kid to private or public school, the speed at which other drivers whiz through our residential neighborhood.  I began to be intensely moved by news articles about needy children and stories about neglectful parents.  Reading things like that always made me sad before, but after having a child of my own, they angered and motivated me.  I didn't (and still don't) understand how a parent could ever be that emotionally disconnected from an extension of their very own life. 

Becoming a mom didn't detract from my motivation, it fueled it.  It made me want to do things better.  I not only had to continue on my own path, but I had to set an example for my kids because, like it or not, we are our childrens' inspiration.  They learn by watching, just as we did when we were little.  Whether we didn't like what our parent's did or we thought they were great, it's in our power to emulate the characteristics we want to model for our children.  

Being a mom is a twenty-four hour job.  The local hospital offered a number of classes prior to becoming a mom that may have given an inkling of what parenthood was going to be like, but there's really nothing more valuable or meaningful than the on-the-job training.  It's sink or swim.  I made mistakes and learned from them.  I still makes lots of mistakes, and I will continue to learn from them.  The education I get from my failures isn't at the expense of my kids, it's for their benefit.  Some day they'll realize this, and hopefully appreciate it.

I have learned, since becoming a mom, that the hardest mom tasks aren't the ones you'd expect to be hard.  Changing diapers, getting the kids in bed a reasonable hour, juggling laundry, dishes, carpools.  Those are a piece of cake.  The hard part is sticking to your guns.  It is so much easier to cave when a child is looking at you with those droopy sad eyes asking for just one more piece of candy.  It's a lot easier to ignore a bad behavior than to correct one.  It is so much easier to condemn another parent for his or her parenting choices before you're a parent yourself.  As a general rule in parenting, I believe that if it's easier, it's probably not the best.

I am on child number three now, and it feels like I've been a mom for about a century.  At the same time, it feels like just yesterday that the nurse placed a hefty 8 pound 14 ounce Ben on my chest.  That's the paradox of time through the eyes of a mom, I've learned.  I owe so much to my kids.  Without them, I wouldn't be where I am in this life.  Things don't always play out the way we plan them, and thank God for that.  

So this is my Mother's Day post.  A day late (and perhaps a dollar short), but that's how I roll these days.  I hope you spent the day exactly how you wanted to spend it!  As for me, my kids and I woke up to a home-cooked breakfast, cool temperatures, and a day at Grammie's house.  We even rounded out the night with a surprise dessert at the Mexican restaurant on the way home.  For Mother's Day, I got a free fried ice cream.  Like I needed that.

And for fun - here's a picture of my amazing mother-in-law and her five grands on Mother's Day Eve.  I hope some day I'm lucky enough to be surrounded by so many grand kids that are equally as precious and be that happy about it.

Happy Belated Mother's Day!

The one where I talk about my mom

Since I've proclaimed this entire week "Mother's Week" (at least within the realm of my little blog here), it seems only fitting that I should move on the the part where I discuss my own mom. 

I've talked about Joyce before on my blog.  Perhaps you remember the dead chickens?  Or "It's easier if you do it"?  Here's another classic Joyce moment from back when I was living at home: She happened to walk through the family room as a commercial came on.  As she looked at the tv, she said, "What's gorving?"  All of us burst out in laughter.  It was an advertisement for the latest RV-ing craze, encouraging us to get out and see the states, to "Go RV-ing". 

For those of you who read this and know Joyce, you can probably think back on at least one  interaction you had with her that made you smile (or more likely laugh...probably at her expense).  I know everyone is a unique individual, but just like my Abby, my mom is one of those very unique individuals.

The mother-daughter relationship is destined to be complicated, no matter how perfect the mother or (especially, wink wink) the daughter might be.  I have tried to use my relationship with my mom as a model for how I want, hope, and pray to mother my children, and especially my girls.  There were things she did that I don't want to do, no doubts about that, but there are also a million and one lessons that she provided to me that I want, hope, and pray I can pass on to my kids.

She taught me:

• How to entertain myself...by letting me be (and really, I think this is why my imagination blossomed, grew, and now resembles the brambles surrounding Sleeping Beauty's castle). 
• The importance of regular worship and fellowship with believers...by getting us up every single Sunday for church.
• Frugality...by taking me back-to-school shopping at Ames and the Village Thrift Store, while other parents were maxing out their credit cards at the mall.
• The importance of paying our debts...by leaving me reminders to pay her back on post-its in my room if I borrowed 35 cents for a candy bar while we were out running errands. 
• Compassion for others...by being a part of the Benevolence ministry, the Clothes Closet ministry, and a lifetime of doing for others.
• That it is okay to cry...by letting tears freely flow no matter how many people were around to see them.
• That I "have the rest of my life to work"...by prohibiting me from working in my early high school years so that I might enjoy my childhood.
• That no matter how I perform she loves me just the same...by never putting any additional pressure on me beyond the pressure I was already putting on myself.
• The value of family dinner...by providing a non-optional meal every night for our family of four.
• That strangers are but friends we haven't yet met...by at least attempting to strike up a conversation with every single person within earshot no matter where we are.

I could probably go on and on, but I fear I might lose my readers if my obsessive-compulsive list-making should go beyond 10 items.  (I have to admit, I get the list-making from her.  I just like to think I do it in a neater fashion than on random shreds of paper all over the kitchen.  Maybe someday...)

My mom is definitely one-of-a-kind.  We can probably all say that.  And most of us probably mean it the endearing way I intend it to come across.  My mom is usually the life of the party, but, ironically, hates speaking in front of crowds.  She allows herself to be the brunt of many a good-natured joke, but suffers in silence when the jokes turn mean.   She knows no strangers, would give you the shirt off of her back, and avoids confrontation at all costs.  She sheds tears of happiness, sadness, and general no-reasonedness almost daily, but she balances the tears  with as many smiles and as much laughter.

I always used to think that I was more like my dad than my mom.  With each passing day, I realize that this is not necessarily true.  The reminder may come in the form of me forgetting that I warmed a cup of coffee up in the microwave, failing to be able to find my keyring in the abyss otherwise known as my purse, loading the dishwasher at some insane hour of the night, or kicking my way through a floor full of toys to make a walking path (instead of bending over to move them with my hands...which I swore I would never do).  With each reminder, that creepy thought of "Scary isn't it?" flashes in my brain.  But when I take the time to pause and think about it...being a little more like Joyce might not be so terrible after all.

The phrase "Never a dull moment" comes to mind.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Mom Things - Mother's Day Week!

The mom things this week aren't anything extra special, but I just wanted to give my love to the moms who read these and nod their heads in approval, commiseration, or agreement.  You know what it means to be a mom.  It's a special club of which I could never have imagined I'd be so thrilled to be a part.  I wish you all a very special Mother's Day!

For those of you whose moms are no longer with us, I want to give you a special hug.  And I also want to remind those of us whose moms are still with us to remember to give an extra hug and "I love you".  (Lecture over.)

And now on with the show...

The tidal wave whooshing noise you heard coming from the kitchen was the sound of an entire gallon of tea spilling on your freshly mopped kitchen floor courtesy of your one year old, as you stepped out of the room for 20 seconds for that potty break you so infrequently afford yourself.

As a result, you quietly chastise yourself for taking that oh-so-needed restroom break.  You knew you put them off for good reason.

You have an entire wall of handprint, footprint, and fingerprint artwork from years past posted in your office.  Sometimes you glance at it and cannot believe your babies' hands and feet were ever that tiny.  And that is why you don't take them down.

In one night your children will track clayey mud in from the backyard across your newly laundered bathroom rugs, spill a gallon of tea on your freshly mopped kitchen floor, and climb the counter and pull a plate from the bottom of the stack resulting in an avalanche of melamine dishes falling out of your recently organized cabinet.  For your sanity, you know that the only possible ending to a night like this is an early bedtime.  For everyone.

Your four year old's crocs have holes on the top of the toe where they were worn out from doubling as bike brakes for an entire summer.

It's amazing how long kids can be entertained with nothing but a sheet draped over some chairs in the living room.  The drawback is that they never, I repeat never, want to take it down.

You've "caught" your three year old nursing one of her babies.  When she noticed you noticing, she replied, "Babies get bottles at school."

You admit that you need to tone down the road rage when your three year old yells from the back seat, "Get out of the way, people!"

When you volunteer in the classroom your kindergartner jumps out of his seat, runs across the room, and gives you the biggest, proudest "This is my Mommy" hug possible.  You soak it up and smile because you know he won't always be this happy to see you at school.

You had no idea how rewarding it could be to perform any of the following tasks on another person:  cleaning out ear wax, clipping toenails/fingernails, and clearing out booger noses.

Again, I say....

Hope you mothers, and those of you with mothers and mother's in law have the very happiest of Mother's Days!

Then there were three

Okay, so I didn't wait until tomorrow....
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Dearest Sarah,

Because we already had one boy and one girl, and we were prepared for you either way, your daddy and I decided to let your gender be a surprise.  We went to the "big" ultrasound and informed the technician that we did not want to find out the sex.  (Well, I didn't want to.  I'm not sure your Daddy was thrilled about the idea, but he humored me.)  As a result, for nine months, you were known only as Shep 3.  Despite the progressively worse aches and pains of subsequent pregnancies, I can honestly say that I felt more connected to you as a precious gift growing inside of me because I didn't know what to expect.  I could only imagine.  You may not know this now, but my imagination is a little wild.

I guessed that you were a boy with every passing steak and pizza craving.  Then guessed that you were a girl with every passing chocolate milk craving.  Your daddy and I made list after list of names, trying to decide on one for both genders.  (If you thought settling on one name was hard, try agreeing on two!)  We still have the boy name in reserve for someday, just in case, but the girl name was particularly hard for us.  We finally settled on Sarah, which means "princess".  And it couldn't be more suitable for you.

Your birth was an exciting one.  Grandmom & Grandpop were preparing to fly to Scotland for their first ever international trip, which just so happened to coincide with your due date.  Grammie had one foot in the door of a bus about to attend a field trip with her second grade class.  No matter.  You were ready.  A mere six hours later, you were here.  My smallest baby yet weighing 8 pounds even.  (True story, I told my OB that I knew you were smaller.  Moms just know these things.)  Your hair was a sandy blond color, and I swore you looked exactly like Ben.  Time would change that, but it wouldn't matter.  You were beautiful then and you are beautiful now.

Thanks to your two older siblings, I had a lot of previous on-the-job newborn training.  So I feel like instead of being all angsty and stressed, I was truly able to enjoy you as a tiny baby (yes, even when you were crying, crying, crying).  Instead of trying to fix things on my own, we worked through them together.  We make a great team.  Here we are practically on the eve of your first birthday, and I have a whole heart full of memories with you already.  Some of them are funny, like how Daddy got you to sleep propped between pillows on top of the dryer of our rental condo because we refused to give up our annual trip to Destin, Florida when you were but one month old.  Some of them are sweet, like how I used to wear you in the Sleepy Wrap and do step aerobics on the Wii Fit, determined to lose some of that baby pudge, only for you to inevitably fall right to sleep from the up and down motion.  Some of them are bittersweet, like how I watched you crawl under your crib and giggle with delight last night, having such fun but acting so suddenly grown up.

It's always been somewhat easy to provoke a smile from you.  Laughs are a different story.  We are slowly figuring out that you prefer rougher play, in the form of Daddy throwing you up in the air and catching you.  We are also discovering your tried and true tickle spots that guarantee a smile, and sometimes your signature "heh heh".  That's as big of a laugh as you give, but we will take it!

You don't say much yet, but your daddy and I joke about your full body "Uhn" noise.  It's usually the result of you seeing someone else eating food.  Oh yes.  You've inherited your mother's love for all things edible.  It was touch and go for a while when we first started you on solid food, but you quickly came around and now there's nothing you won't eat.  Nothing.  This includes whatever dried up pieces of week-old, unidentifiable chunks you find in the crevices of your high chair.  So, thanks for not being picky.  I guess.  You have a reputation to uphold after earning the nickname "The Shark" from one of the church nursery workers for virtually attacking the other children upon catching the scent of an open snack.

While you do tend to want down more and more often with each passing day, I am thankful to be able to tote you around a bit longer.  You remain a snuggle bug, freely offering hugs to anyone who will take them.  And, I'm afraid, you seem to have learned the "princess kiss" from your big sister.  We'll have to have a talk about that with you girls sooner or later... 

I'm convinced that you are the perfect combination of your big brother and sister.  You carry a bit of Ben's determination, some of Abby's mischief, Ben's body type, and Abby's eyes.  Your hair color is somewhere in between theirs and the tips sport a bit of curl.  You surely didn't get that from me.  In noticing all of your similarities to both of them, we can draw but one conclusion.  You are uniquely Sarah.  And it is so awesome to see that.  Yet again, I am witnessing my ability to love someone grow, not diminish or transfer.  You are so very lovable.

Thank you for showing me that we do grow wiser with age, and that with wisdom comes the freedom to relax a bit more.  I cannot wait to see what this world holds for you, my beauty, my Sarah-Bear, my princess. 

My love always,
Mommy
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Follow these links for Big Brother and Big Sister's posts.

To My First Girl

Dearest Abigail,

It feels strange to refer to you as Abigail.  Though we picked this beautiful name for you, it is hard to think of you as anything but our spunky, spirited Abby.  Some day you may grow into your strong, sophisticated given name.  You may not, as I am still just Jennie, rarely Jennifer.  It simply suits me better, as does Abby for you.

Before you were born, I could tell you were going to be different from Ben.  While I carried you, you never (EVER) stopped wiggling around.  You were strong and feisty, even in my womb, punching and kicking.  When you heard an unexpected noise, it felt like you were going to jump right out of my bulging tummy.

Your delivery was different too.  When I was finally able to push you out, we realized it was a longer, more difficult delivery because you came out face up.  You wanted the world to see your face.  You wanted to see the world.  You came out sunny-side up because you are our little sunshine, complete with a head full of blond hair from the get go.

You came out frustrated too, but in a different way than your big brother.  You have always just been ready to go.  You shattered all of Ben's (impressive) mobility records, taking your first steps a week shy of 8 months.  You were a mobile phenomenon.  People would look at your tiny little body running (never walking) around and just laugh.  They couldn't believe it.  And yet, having spent those intimate nine months carrying you, I could.  You are a mover.  That's just a fact.

There are a lot of other things that define you aside from your incredible gross motor skills.  Above all else, there is your zeal for life.  You find fun in every single thing you do.  When you do something, you delve into it wholeheartedly, so much so that it might seem reckless to the casual observer.  What they call recklessness, I call passion.  You have two speeds, full throttle and asleep.  And even up to the minute you fall asleep, you are in motion.  Perpetual Motion.  When it comes time to create an email address, you might consider using that one (perptualmotion@somethingorother.com).

You are the most loving, affectionate child I've ever met.  You never run out of hugs and kisses.  Sometimes, you give out "princess kisses" which (I'm afraid) last a little longer than most people feel comfortable sustaining a kiss with a three year old.  (Thanks go to Disney for teaching you how to make out with people.)  You can brighten up a bad day with one flash of your smile and a full speed run - crash into the legs - turned into a hug.

You are endlessly silly, which provides a nice contrast to your big brother's intensity.  It's the perfect complement.  You help him be silly, and he helps ground you.  (Not that there's anything wrong with floating about whimsically.)  You do the most spectacularly funny things, but never on purpose or for the benefit of an audience.  You are just you.  Silly Abby.  And we are so grateful for your antics and off-the-wall statements.  You bring levity to our family.  You are our constant reminder that life is fun.  And you can find fun in anything, whether it's stealing and redistributing the pacifiers in the baby room at school, shaking a stick of a tree during Ben's soccer practice, filling up a cup of water at my office, or suddenly referring to me exclusively as "Momma" instead of "Mommy" with a mischievous grin and a twinkle in your eye because you know it drives me crazy.  

We had a solid two years and seven months of Abby time before you became a big sister.  We weren't too worried about you filling the role, as you have always favored caring for and playing with your baby dolls above all other toys.  Despite our limited concerns, there was almost no jealousy when Sarah joined the ranks of little Sheps.  You were in love with her, just like Ben was in love with you when you were born.  You are endlessly affectionate with little Sarah, and I'm not entirely sure she appreciates that.  I also fear what will happen when she outweighs you (in brawn at least).  You might be safe, as I'm not sure she'll measure up to your spunk.

One of the most interesting things about you is that you are a wild card.  While you seem predictable on the surface, you go and do something that completely contradicts the apparent Abby mold.  You are fearless when it comes to the ocean, swimming, animals, and climbing.  Yet you turn timid at the first crack of thunder, loud trucks, and when faced with being in high places.  The unpredictability is all part of your charm.  A unique blend of randomness that all mixed up together creates you, Abby.  There is no one in the world quite like you.

I don't mean to compare you to Ben, and if I do that often, I sincerely apologize.  You are two unbelievably different, equally special children.  You taught me the invaluable lesson that a mother's love never divides, that it multiplies.  You have taught me that life isn't always so serious.  You've taught me that there is always time for a hug and a smile.  You have also taught me that the candy and sweets need to be kept on a high shelf in a locked pantry (and if you care to share the secret how you can eat all of that and maintain your figure, we could be rich).

Thank you for being you, my little Abby.  I am blessed to call you my daughter.  You are an eternal bright spot in a world full of shadows.  And I so look forward to continuing to watch you light up this life!

Love you forever,

Momma
(There, I said it.)
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Stay tuned for an introduction to Shep 3, also known as Sarah.  In case you missed yesterday, here's Ben.

Pssst. Mother's Day is on Sunday.

In honor of Mother's Day this coming Sunday (ahem, to all of you who've forgotten and/or procrastinated to this point, consider this your reminder), I have decided to dedicate my blog this week to Moms.  I'm not exactly sure how this will play out.  I'm not really one to give myself assignments.  (Okay, that's a bold-faced lie.)  But I don't have a schedule or outline or anything.  (And that's apparently giving me anxiety.)

My posts this week are likely to include an Ode to Joyce (my own mom...God love her), something about mother-in-laws (you reading, Mrs. Lisa?), maybe something serious, maybe something funny (at least in my own opinion), maybe something thought-provoking.  I'll probably brag about myself and try to balance it out with some self-deprecation.  Sound like something you might be interested in reading?  (It sounds pretty lame to me.)

For starters though, I will acquaint you with my own children, my three precious, ever-present sidekicks because, well, I wouldn't be a mom if it weren't for them!  Since it'd be weird to write about them in any kind of traditional, book report-ish fashion, my descriptions will be in the form of a letter addressed to them.  Without further explanation, and (finally) getting this show on the road, here goes...in chronological order...

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Dearest Benjamin,

You came into my life when I was young.  There's no denying this.  At the age of six, you've already figured out that I'm younger than most of your friends' parents.  (Not too long ago, the first thing you asked me on the ride home from school was "Why are you in your 20's when most of my friends' parents are in their 30's and 40's?")  I continue to pray that my age has had no effect on my ability to be a good mother to you. 

You are my first born and you exude first-bornedness.  They could write and have written books about you (well, not you exactly, but you are a textbook case); about your first born intensity, rule following, perfectionism, and all out disdain for surprises (as characterized by the melt-down you had the other day when Daddy and I *tried* to surprise you with pizza for lunch on the way home from t-ball).

You've been intense since birth.  You were born frustrated.  You screamed for months.  Others called it colic, but I think it was because something wasn't "just so" the way you wanted it to be.  Finally, you got over it, as everyone told me you would (I admit I was skeptical).  Next, you perfected rolling, crawling, and walking with break-neck speed, especially for your stature (which was nothing less than roly-poly).  If you hadn't been my first or if I'd had other kids to whom I could compare you, I might have been concerned with your lack of talking.  Then, one day, skipping babbling altogether, you began talking in perfect, articulate sentences.  (And, might I add, you haven't stopped since.)

Your brain works so hard, I swear I can see the wheels turning.  When you take a break from talking, I'm convinced it's because you're making a mental list of questions to pose to us to which, sometimes, I truly don't know the answers.  (I mean, what five year old asks  how banks work?)

We spent three years with you as our solitary "only" child.  They were an amazing three years, and I'm grateful to you for all that you taught me about being a mom during that time.  I hope you didn't mind being my guinea pig.  I hope it didn't scar you permanently.  I will always cherish the bedtime routine that took an hour of rocking, singing, slowly transitioning you to your bed, and tiptoeing (only to sometimes hit a creaky floorboard and begin the process over).  Even though we knew it wasn't feasible to do this with number two, nor was it preferable to do with you, it's something special that we had.  And that can never be taken away from me.  Those first three years of your life were tumultuous to say the least.  You attended college courses here and there, watched your parents graduate with engineering degrees, moved into a new house, learned you were going to become a big brother.  And yet, you went with the flow.  You were endlessly adaptable.  And I thank you for that.

Before you became a big brother, I mourned the loss of "our" time together.  I just knew I'd never love another child as much as you.  It wasn't possible.  Then along came that baby sister.  And my love multiplied...not just towards her, but towards you.  I loved you because you were not only my precious son, but you were (and are) an amazing big brother.  You fill the role of doting big brother with ease, even if, from time to time, you have to lock your bedroom door for some quiet time away from those pesky girls.  (I know you're in there working on some surprise art project or ciphering away in your puzzle book.  And just the thought of that makes me smile.)

You aren't always intense (just 99.5% of the time).  Sometimes you are hopelessly silly.  And as much as it pains me to admit, I love seeing you in this form.  Bouncing off the walls, making up nonsensical songs, getting dirty.  It reminds me that you are a little boy, not the little man that you so often seem to be.

You are not without fault.  None of us are.  Despite your perfectionism, you can make a mess at the dinner table like no other, and don't seem to care about the ketchup dripping from your mouth (and nose, and cheeks, and off your shirt, and shorts, and onto the floor....).  You are the pickiest eater in our household, which, I will admit, is probably my fault.  But I'm still frustrated by it.  Your intelligence often presents itself as contrariness.  And, I can almost bet that at any given time there will be three different pairs of your shoes under my kitchen bar stools.  (That is not where they belong, Ben.)

You're six years old.  As a result, I have kissing you goodbye on your first day of elementary school, watching you learn to ride your bike without training wheels, and seeing you swim the length of a pool without floaties, learning to read, your first t-ball game under my belt.  It's funny how these (seemingly small) milestones are so emotional for me.  Apparently, I'm more like my mom than I realize.  (But that's a whole 'nother post altogether.)  

I could go on and on, but since I already have, I will close this now.  Ben, you make me proud to say that you are my son.  I am truly excited to see what the future holds for you.  I have no doubts that "Kid, you'll move mountains."

I love you forever,

Mommy

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...and then there were two.  We'll get to Miss Abby next.

In case you haven't had enough Mom Stuff, check out:  How to Know You're a Mom.