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.