It seems I might really be having a baby sometime soon. I vacillate between eagerness and anticipation to downright terror. Not terror of giving birth. It's the terror of being alone with THREE KIDS UNDER THE AGE OF FOUR. Damned reality rearing it's ugly head.
I know it will work out, just like I know the first 6 months are going to be filled with exhaustion.
I know we will make it work, just like I know it will be immense work.
I know there will be moments filled with laughter of three children, just as I know there will be moments where our home will be filled with the wails of three crying children.
I know our home will be filled with love, just as I know that there will be moments full of stress. So long as the love wins, I figure we're on the right track.
I know there will be unmet needs: Brooklyn's, Elliott's, Kellen's, Chris' and mine. I also know that my amazing friends will force me out of the house for girl-time, helping me to be a better spouse & parent.
I know there will be moments of "heated discussions" between Chris and me, but I also know that we will work to make our marriage a priority because a strong marriage makes for a stronger family.
I see a lot of prayer in my future. Not so much sleep. I see my heart expanding as my budget shrinks. I see that we will find a way because there are so many people who do more with much less.
Okay. I get it. This is happening. I should probably pack a bag or something. I did manage to pre-register for the hospital, so there's that.
Once Kellen arrives, please feel free to visit. With a casserole. Or two.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Saturday, June 2, 2012
My Own Bullying Experience
I was bullied. I can openly admit it. It wasn't one isolated incident. Nope, I was what my mom called an "easy target." She coached me on every possible response to ward off these attacks, to no avail. My young age (I was a year younger than my classmates), combined with rule-following, know-it-all, teacher's pet, crybaby tendencies just made me that easy target. The incident that could make headlines today occurred was when I was in eighth grade--just 12 years old. My family acted on what we felt was the right thing over cheerleader try-outs, trying to act in the spirit of integrity. I was horribly uncoordinated (still am), but wanted nothing more than to be a cheerleader, for in a small town this was the penultimate accomplishment. Finally, I would be liked. When the score sheets showed evidence of changed numbers, my mom acted in good faith. It is quite easy to look back in hindsight and for either of us to second-guess that decision, but it happened and second-guessing doesn't change that.
The outcry in the school was over the top. People I had previously considered friends stopped speaking to me on a dime. Someone I didn't know took the liberty of handing out our family phone number at the high school, with instructions to either hang-up or make foul comments. Trust me, people followed directions well. We shared a phone line with my grandparents--a party-line, which is truly an archaic concept these 20 years later. The prank callers said mean, vile things to my grandfather, a man with more integrity in his pinky finger than these kids would ever know. I distinctly remember running laps in gym class, only to look up and see 'friends' using their hands to mimic a hand-gun, and aiming it at ME. At me. The message was that my life was worth nothing over a complaint about cheerleading? It made no sense to me. I withdrew into myself, my self-confidence taking a hit beyond belief. The entirety of my high school career, I looked sideways at my classmates when they were unexpectedly kind. I no longer socialized with people with whom I had spent hours on the phone, going to the movies, spending the night at each others' houses.
Painful is an understatement, but I didn't kill myself. I never even considered it, to my recollection. What made me different than these kids of today's headlines, bullied until suicide seemed the only option? I can think of several possibilities, but 22 years has dulled me saying for certain. Some things seem to be quite obvious and must play a part. My parents were, and remain, married. My parents, both of them, were what some might call intrusively active in my life--they knew my friends, knew my school assignments, knew my teachers. I heard daily how proud my family was of me. My grandparents and aunt, uncle and cousins lived down the road from us. We were active in our church, members of which couldn't have cared less about the insults being hurled from small-minded peers. I maintained my participation in softball (I wasn't very good at that, either). I had several friends who remained by my side, not caring about the hullabaloo at school. All of this is to say that my parents had made my village quite strong. Interwoven in many directions, my pain was buoyed by support in many directions.
That bullying left its impact on my psyche, I can't say that the impact is erased, even now. BUT I know my parents taught me integrity, demonstrated it, and acted in best faith. I went on to make other friends, participate in other activities, earn a Master's Degree, get married and parent my own children. Even with age I don't understand the mind of a bully--I don't understand finding joy in causing someone else's pain. My parents may have made mistakes along the way, but somehow it all worked to keep my sister and me going, persevering and succeeding. It is overwhelming to take on the challenge of doing the same for my children. I read the devastating stories of these children who see no option but to end their lives and hope with all my heart that the village my husband and I are constructing for our children will be enough--enough to see the worth in their lives and carry-on no matter the disappointments they may face.
The outcry in the school was over the top. People I had previously considered friends stopped speaking to me on a dime. Someone I didn't know took the liberty of handing out our family phone number at the high school, with instructions to either hang-up or make foul comments. Trust me, people followed directions well. We shared a phone line with my grandparents--a party-line, which is truly an archaic concept these 20 years later. The prank callers said mean, vile things to my grandfather, a man with more integrity in his pinky finger than these kids would ever know. I distinctly remember running laps in gym class, only to look up and see 'friends' using their hands to mimic a hand-gun, and aiming it at ME. At me. The message was that my life was worth nothing over a complaint about cheerleading? It made no sense to me. I withdrew into myself, my self-confidence taking a hit beyond belief. The entirety of my high school career, I looked sideways at my classmates when they were unexpectedly kind. I no longer socialized with people with whom I had spent hours on the phone, going to the movies, spending the night at each others' houses.
Painful is an understatement, but I didn't kill myself. I never even considered it, to my recollection. What made me different than these kids of today's headlines, bullied until suicide seemed the only option? I can think of several possibilities, but 22 years has dulled me saying for certain. Some things seem to be quite obvious and must play a part. My parents were, and remain, married. My parents, both of them, were what some might call intrusively active in my life--they knew my friends, knew my school assignments, knew my teachers. I heard daily how proud my family was of me. My grandparents and aunt, uncle and cousins lived down the road from us. We were active in our church, members of which couldn't have cared less about the insults being hurled from small-minded peers. I maintained my participation in softball (I wasn't very good at that, either). I had several friends who remained by my side, not caring about the hullabaloo at school. All of this is to say that my parents had made my village quite strong. Interwoven in many directions, my pain was buoyed by support in many directions.
That bullying left its impact on my psyche, I can't say that the impact is erased, even now. BUT I know my parents taught me integrity, demonstrated it, and acted in best faith. I went on to make other friends, participate in other activities, earn a Master's Degree, get married and parent my own children. Even with age I don't understand the mind of a bully--I don't understand finding joy in causing someone else's pain. My parents may have made mistakes along the way, but somehow it all worked to keep my sister and me going, persevering and succeeding. It is overwhelming to take on the challenge of doing the same for my children. I read the devastating stories of these children who see no option but to end their lives and hope with all my heart that the village my husband and I are constructing for our children will be enough--enough to see the worth in their lives and carry-on no matter the disappointments they may face.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Stoopid Desperation.
Remember when I told you about the coolest friend in the history of ever and how lucky I am to have her? Yep. This one. Sometimes it feels like the proverbial gods are conspiring against us seeing each other--various trips, my job, sickness of the kiddies, sickness of the kiddies and sickness in the kiddies have derailed our plans of late. When this happens, we get desperate. Desperate to see each other. This leads to foolish decisions.
What kind of foolish decisions could two moms in their mid-thirties make? A night of drunkenness? Nope. Driving recklessly? No. Spending ridiculous amounts of money on shopping sprees? Guess again.
Our foolishness was based in the decision that we thought it would be great to put 5 kids under the age of 6 together for some fun. One of my favorite authors in the history of ever, Laurie Notaro, once told a tale in which she awoke with the word "stoopid" written on her forehead. To my memory, the word stoopid is reserved for acts beyond mere stupidity.
Our kids had fun. We got to talk, in between wails of frustration and repeated asking for "Aunt Steph, come to my woom," and we had delish order-in Asian food. We even got a couple of passably cute snapshots in between head bumps, cheek pinches, tantrums and squeals of laughter.
Abby loves to mommy the baby.
Addison is finally convinced Brook-brook isn't a babydoll. She even likes her a little. . .as long as Mommy isn't holding her.
The boys finally have something in common--a love for "Cars."
Sometimes STOOPID is totally.worth.it.
What kind of foolish decisions could two moms in their mid-thirties make? A night of drunkenness? Nope. Driving recklessly? No. Spending ridiculous amounts of money on shopping sprees? Guess again.
Our foolishness was based in the decision that we thought it would be great to put 5 kids under the age of 6 together for some fun. One of my favorite authors in the history of ever, Laurie Notaro, once told a tale in which she awoke with the word "stoopid" written on her forehead. To my memory, the word stoopid is reserved for acts beyond mere stupidity.
Our kids had fun. We got to talk, in between wails of frustration and repeated asking for "Aunt Steph, come to my woom," and we had delish order-in Asian food. We even got a couple of passably cute snapshots in between head bumps, cheek pinches, tantrums and squeals of laughter.
Abby loves to mommy the baby.
The boys finally have something in common--a love for "Cars."
Sometimes STOOPID is totally.worth.it.
Monday, November 28, 2011
On Sharing and Empathy
My Monkey is a sweet one, you know, when he's not being almost three and shouting "No!" He shared a horrific stomach virus with mommy. Horrific. Seriously. He was vommies for almost 24 hours and then was sicky even after that. I was praying that the rumbling in my tummy was a foray into hypochondria, but alas, he shared.
As I crouched over the toilet, Monkey kept saying, "You shrow up, Mommy? You shrow up?" I grunted an affirmation. Next I know, he has toddled off and brought back Minnie and Lovie. "Here go, Mommy. Minnie make you feel better." This was the Holy Grail of kindness--anyone spending any time at all with my Monkey knows that these are his most prized possessions. The boundless sweetness was not lost on my limp, listless body in the throes of nausea.
I was still proud of his sharing, even when 4 minutes later he came and reclaimed Minnie and Lovie. He needed them. Mommy had better recover fast.
As I crouched over the toilet, Monkey kept saying, "You shrow up, Mommy? You shrow up?" I grunted an affirmation. Next I know, he has toddled off and brought back Minnie and Lovie. "Here go, Mommy. Minnie make you feel better." This was the Holy Grail of kindness--anyone spending any time at all with my Monkey knows that these are his most prized possessions. The boundless sweetness was not lost on my limp, listless body in the throes of nausea.
I was still proud of his sharing, even when 4 minutes later he came and reclaimed Minnie and Lovie. He needed them. Mommy had better recover fast.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Redeeming Myself. . .
I need to redeem myself a bit. Turns out that when you link a blog post on Facebook your husband who never reads your blog will then read the post. Then your husband might feel you've said that he's inept. Le sigh. I'm not saying this happened at my house, per se, but just in case. . . Let me list some things that are obvious about my husband:
1. My husband cooks. A lot. And it's even good stuff.
2. If I wake him up, he willingly changes a diaper and rocks the baby girl.
3. On mornings we are both home, he always lets me sleep. Not sure if this is self-preservation or just kindness.
4. He makes me cocktails. Anytime I ask.
5. When I ask, "Honey, would you . . .?" The answer is almost always yes, even if a sigh accompanies it.
6. I'm controlling. He still loves me.
7. I'm bossy. He still loves me.
8. I'm lazy. He still loves me.
9. Two words: grocery shopping.
10. No complaints about girl's night. I need way more away-time than he does, but he gets it and let's me do my thing. He's also never complained about the passel of girlfriends that came with our marriage. He even genuinely likes them an appreciates their relationships with me and how they love our children.
11. He always tells me I'm pretty, even when it's clearly a lie.
12. He once told me my gray hair looked like "blond highlights" to him. He was serious. . . at least I think so.
13. Did I mention I'm bossy and controlling? Yeah, those are pretty big things.
14. He's been known to bring me flowers 'just because.'
15. He's a loving, hands-on, thoughtful, consistent father to our chitlins.
1. My husband cooks. A lot. And it's even good stuff.
2. If I wake him up, he willingly changes a diaper and rocks the baby girl.
3. On mornings we are both home, he always lets me sleep. Not sure if this is self-preservation or just kindness.
4. He makes me cocktails. Anytime I ask.
5. When I ask, "Honey, would you . . .?" The answer is almost always yes, even if a sigh accompanies it.
6. I'm controlling. He still loves me.
7. I'm bossy. He still loves me.
8. I'm lazy. He still loves me.
9. Two words: grocery shopping.
10. No complaints about girl's night. I need way more away-time than he does, but he gets it and let's me do my thing. He's also never complained about the passel of girlfriends that came with our marriage. He even genuinely likes them an appreciates their relationships with me and how they love our children.
11. He always tells me I'm pretty, even when it's clearly a lie.
12. He once told me my gray hair looked like "blond highlights" to him. He was serious. . . at least I think so.
13. Did I mention I'm bossy and controlling? Yeah, those are pretty big things.
14. He's been known to bring me flowers 'just because.'
15. He's a loving, hands-on, thoughtful, consistent father to our chitlins.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)