Only mostly spoiled

A long long time ago back when Ben and I were pregnant with Connor we talked about how no matter how many kids we ended up being blessed with, we would want to make extra sure that our youngest kid wasn't spoiled rotten. We said things like "we'll have to be extra tough on them" and "whatever the rules are for our first kid, those same rules should apply to our last kid!" It should be noted that this was roughly the same point in time where we agreed to never have a portable DVD in our car, and never let our kids watch more than a half an hour of TV every day, and always keep things like freezer pops out of our house. Maybe we were a bit idealistic. But just a bit.

Eight pregnancies and four kiddos later, we have long since abandoned most of our first time parent idealism. Portable DVD players? We have two sets so each kid can have a screen. Half an hour of TV? They've usually watched that much before I even get to breakfast. Freezer pops? The kids basically live on them in the summertime.

Still, with each child born, each change in our determination to be strict parents, each relaxing of our methods, we still held fast that we wouldn't spoil our youngest child. We'd try extra hard to be stern with him or her. To be tough. To keep them from being rotten.

Four years ago we had Violet. We suspected that she might be our youngest kiddo - and so we reminded ourselves as we kissed her sweet baby face that we were NOT going to spoil her rotten. We WEREN'T going to laugh when she was sassy and think it was cute. We WERE going to hold her to the same standards as the rest of the kids. We were. Seriously.

But then we brought her home and well....the rest is youngest child history. It isn't like we've totally spoiled her rotten - but she definitely gets away with things that her siblings never would have. And she knows it.

She's a clever girl though. She has made her preference for me totally clear while also insisting that she loves us both equally. She is a giver of many hugs, as sweet as sugar in one minute, and as fierce as a tiger when she doesn't get what she wants. She is a genuine goof ball, has a great giggle, and she is 100% aware of the fact that she has us totally wrapped around her little tiny finger.

Happy 4th birthday, Miss Violet! We love you so much and are learning to just be okay with the fact that you are totally a spoiled kiddo.

The Big 11

Connor turns eleven today and for some reason this seems so much older than ten.

Ten was such a milestone for him - he really wanted to get into that double digits. Despite the build up, ten has seemed pretty inconsequential. Just another year gone by.

But for me, for me, eleven is huge. Eleven means he is just two year away from being a teenager. Eleven means he is seven years away from graduating from high school!

I've never really been one of those people that wanted my kids to stay babies forever. Babies are so much work - they need you so much. In my rush to let them grow up and get into that more independent age, I kind of forgot that it keeps on going. That they keep growing in the desire to flex those I can do it on my own muscles.

No I didn't want him to be a newborn forever, or two, or even five or six. But couldn't he have stayed nine forever? Or even ten?

Evidently not, because the calendar is telling me otherwise.

Here is to eleven years with this crazy, amazing, I have no idea what I'm doing, we probably need more therapy, you crack me up kid.

Happy Birthday, Connor!

And maybe, just maybe, slow down for your momma. Okay?

Getting back into the swing of life.

It's been a long time since I blogged. I've been instead solving my problems with copious amounts of chocolate and coca-cola. Trust me...it makes a fair substitute.

However, I'm tying to cut back on those things and also the size of my thighs, so I need to pick back up and dump all my anger, anxiety, joy, frustration, funny thoughts, and interesting tidbits somewhere besides food.

So, I'm going to try to get back into the swing of a blog.

You're welcome, Internet.

Three little words.

I expected I would hear them at some point as a parent, but that still didn't prepare me for that moment tonight when those three little words were flung at me in a moment of anger. 

"I hate you!" 

I'm daily and often reminded that my children are sinful. Little sinners that are in as much need of Christ's forgiveness as I am. But it is easy sometimes to see their sins as sins of youth. Trying to sneak an extra cookie without permission. Not wanting to put their toys away. The occasional push to a sibling to get a toy back. Not listening for the hundredth million time. But I hate you is not some youthful folly - it is anger. It is an innocence lost. 

And I wasn't ready for it.

I wasn't ready for the fact that my relationship with this child now seems tarnished in a way that can never quite be undone. Like a rip in fabric, it can be mended, and still be wonderful, and useful, but still that tear remains. It may be expertly sewn together so that only the most trained eye can find it. But it is still there. And we both knew it. And it felt different. And we both felt that difference. 

Apologies were rendered. Forgiveness freely given. Hugs handed out. Words of I love you readily spoken. We have mended our tear as best we can for now and over time it will only continue to be mended until it is tiny and minuscule. Nearly forgotten.

But yet still I cry. I cry for that loss of innocence. I cry because I know that it will take time before I can look at that child without my first thought being "oh that's the one that hates you." And I cry, because my first instinct was not to comfort my child who instantly regretted those words the moment they left their lips. It was to hurt them back. Thus proving that I am even more of a sinner than they are. 

Still, in the midst of my tears there can be some joy. I didn't hurt them back with words even more awful and hateful than "I hate you" or even offer to give them something to truly hate me about. Instead I simply said "Okay. I love you anyway" and walked away. 

And there is joy that the words once uttered by my child were regretted. How much more painful it would have been if they were not? If we lived in the kind of house were I hate you was just another thing people said? Something that no longer had the power to cause pain? Something barely worth noticing? 

And there is joy in knowing that we are already headed down a path of healing the rift that those words caused. Already I'm thinking about how much I want to hug this child in the morning. To assure them that when I said "I forgive you" that I truly meant it. 

And there is joy because I have been given a husband who was there to comfort me in this moment. To talk to our child about the hurt they had caused. To encourage repentance. And to get ice cream for his heartbroken wife. The kind with coffee - two shots of espresso to be exact. The kind that keeps you up until the wee hours of the morning, providing you with ample opportunity to reflect on this moment. 

And there is joy in being able to share your burden of guilt and sorrow with your best friend who doesn't judge you or criticize, but empathizes and tells you it is going to be okay. And that ice cream is always a good idea. 

The greatest joy though is that some day that rift, that tear, will be expertly mended. Not by me, not by this child - for what hope do we have to accomplish this? No...it will be mended by Christ. And He will do more than mend this tear, He will take all my imperfect, broken, and battered relationships and He will replace them with pure and perfect ones. Ones that will never be torn, never tarnished, ones that will never cause tears or sorrow. 

Tonight I pray for that day a little more fervently than I usually do. 

My kids are growing up and it scares me.

For a few days now my two year old has worn underwear all day. Sure, she's had a few accidents, but she's been kind enough to either have them outside or on the tile in the bathroom floor - which is a level of consideration that I never received from my other kids.

This is great big wonderful news since I've been fantasizing about a diaper free house for roughly the last six years. Six years, that's how long we've been buying diapers. Six years!

With this realization of diaper freedom also comes a little sliver of sadness. This means we have officially left the baby years for now. And it's not just the diapers, I see it in other things too - like the way that there isn't currently a crib up in any of our bedrooms, the high chair sitting in the garage collecting dust and spiders, the lack of receiving blankets in the wash.

As much as I love the fact that I can visit a small zoo now with only my kids and my purse, there are times I miss having a little baby around.

I don't really miss the fussiness, the lack of sleep, the feeling of being overwhelmed - I can't really miss that part, it's still fully here - but I do miss that little person who so deeply relies on me.

As my kids get older they are doing what kids are supposed to do, they're becoming more self sufficient. They dress themselves, start their own showers and baths, tuck themselves into bed. All things that make my life easier, but emptier too.

It isn't that I don't want them to grow up. I do. I like the fact that I can have a conversation with Connor now that is very grown  up or that when I give Sophie the "I can't believe they just said that look" she gives it right back. I especially love that when I wink at Elinor she gets that I am telling a joke now and she loves being in on it. These things are all amazing.

I'm still very much the center of their little worlds. I truly am. But I am starting to see that I'm not so far away from a time when that may not be true. I'm vain enough to assume that they'll always love me and think I'm amazing - I mean, how could they not, right? But someday they'll realize that I can't solve every problem. That some things are even beyond my control. Some hurts too much. That there are troubles in this world that they must and can work through on their own.

As they take on life's troubles and worries and solve more and more of their own problems, I'll take comfort that at some point we have to have faith that God will watch over them and that our parenting skills are enough. Even so, I think I'll miss those sweet little faces that looked to me in every need as the one that could always make things better.

Internet persuasion and reality.

Today was mother's day, which means, that over the last week or so there have been several articles floating around the internet about what exactly mothers want for mother's day. The general summary of these various articles was this: for mother's day, we all just want to have a break from being a mother for a ding dang day.

I get this sentiment. Being a mother is tough work and it seems never ending. No matter how much progress I might to make during any given day, by the time the kids are all in bed I look around and it seems like I've accomplished nothing. I vacuum the floor only to have it covered in food after the next meal. I give baths only to turn around and see that someone found a marker and colored all over herself. *cough Violet* Seriously. Never ending.

So yes, I read those articles and I thought that a day of nothingness would be kind of nice. Good idea internet! This is what I want for mother's day.

But as it tends to do, life sent me a giant dose of reality.

Surprisingly, Ben had to work today. He didn't actually get the day off just because it was mother's day. In fact, he ended up having to work a little bit more than an average Sunday - which meant that we spent about three and half hours with him during the day today.

So I had to mom. Pretty much all day long. It was a total travesty. And trust me, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. Cooking, putting kids down for naps, changing diapers...I even had to vacuum and wash dishes! What kind of world is this?

After my pitty party was over - and the party didn't last very long because no one...no one!...showed up to have it with me - I realized that I didn't really have it that bad.

Yes, today I had to do my mom jobs. Today I had to take care of these little people that live in our house with us. But I didn't have to do it all day. And I don't have to do it every day. Some moms do. Some moms spend everyday taking care of their children by themselves. How blessed am I to have a husband that supports and provides for our family? Lots. Lots and bunches.

And yes, today I had to change diapers and make food. But how many women are desperately praying to have to do these things too, but haven't been blessed with children? I myself know several lovely ladies who desperately wish there were little baby bottoms to clean in their house and little mouths to cook for.

Sure kids are work. But the world would have you believe that they are nothing but work and that you should be afraid to have them, pressured into "taking care of them." You shouldn't. Kids are work, but they are the best kind of work. They are the kind that tell you a nonsensical joke and giggle at their own hilarity. They are the kind of work where you can watch them discover the world around them. The kind where every day brings a little bit of joy.

Tonight, as my children sat all around me and I read them a bed time story I was struck by this thought too - why are we giving mice cookies or taking them to school? I kind of think we should be discouraging them from feeling like they can just ask for things in our house! Oh...and also that I'm pretty much completely and amazingly blessed to call these munchkins my own. Who knew my heart could ever be so full of love for someone other than myself?

So for all the mothers today, I pray for you.

For those of you that got some time to yourself today, for those of you who didn't, and for those of you that rarely do, I pray that God would bless you in your vocation.

And for those that desperately want a baby to hold in your arms, I pray for you, I pray that your burden would be lifted.

The birth story.

Every year on his birthday, I pull Connor into my lap and tell him the story of when he was born. I don't remember when I started this tradition, but we've been doing it for quite a few years. He rolls his eyes, says things like "I know!", and even starts to tell part of the story for me sometimes.

And really his birthing story is quite good. It contains little gems like the fact that the waiting room in the emergency department was full of people who had been in a bar fight and not on the same side of that fight. Security had to step in a couple times and break things back up. It has my fist wheelchair ride...what's not to love about that? There is the part where I asked if I had a boy or a girl and the midwife flipped Connor through the air and stuck his nether regions toward me so I could see for myself. That, by the way, is Connor's favorite part of the story. There is the part where he was born in an hour and that was it. That is my favorite part of the story. See? There's some good stuff there.

Tomorrow is Sophia's 5th birthday, and I was thinking that it might be time to start her on the path of hilarity that is her birthing story, but as I thought about her birth I realized that her story is not really that funny...at least it won't be to her five year old mind.

Baby Sophia

Her story contains things like my doctor having a "family emergency" a week or two before Sophia was supposed to be born and me having to get a brand new physician. It contains words like vacuum...never a good sign in a birthing story. It has a misdiagnosis of dwarfism and the subsequent freak out wherein I read every article about raising a child with dwarfism during the hours after giving birth.

Today I can laugh about some of these crazy things...especially the dwarfism thing. I mean seriously, have you seen the girl? She'll be taller than me before long. But her story is really missing the fun that is an emergency room brawl.

Although Sophia's story isn't all that funny, it is full of really sweet moments. Like the one where my mom and sister walked through the hospital room door in Indiana when the whole night I had been calling my mom on her home phone in Kansas and she had been answering it. Tricksy girls. Very tricksy using that call forwarding magic. Or the moment when she was put back in the hospital because her jaundice had gotten terribly bad and both of her godfathers and my best friend came to see her and be with us in the hospital.

Grandmas make everything better.

My little jaundice girl getting her light therapy. 

Very sweet memories indeed. The sweetest moment with Sophia though happened long before she was born. She was probably a mere nine or ten weeks old in the womb and I was anxiously laying in the ultrasound room waiting to see how things were going. It was that moment when I saw that little heart beating and knew that my baby was still alive. Sophia is my rainbow baby. My bright moment after a storm of miscarriages. She still is that today. God could not have given me a happier, sweeter, more loving girl than my own sweet Sophia Jane. Sure...He's given me two more wonderful and adorable girls. But sweet and loving are not usually how I describe those two. Not yet, anyway.

Happy 5th birthday Sophia! 

And for now, I'll just embellish her birth story to make it more enjoyable for her. I'll tell her that her doctor was a princess...who got into a fight with another doctor princess. Right there in the delivery room. That ought to be enough to put a sparkle in those beautiful brown eyes.