Yesterday Lillian came out of her bedroom and announced that she put Cliffy to bed for a nap. I said, “Wow! How’d you do that?”
“I laid down with him in his bed and we ate potato chips.”
“You did what?” I exclaimed.
“Relax!” she said, trying to calm me with her expressive hands. “The chips went in his belly, not his bed.” Then she reassured me, “It’s not like his bed is all chippy or something.”
For Clifford’s second birthday, we are trying to give him the gift of sleep. Well, I’m pretty sure I should start singing “Dream On.”
Scream on
And since it is not working. Take a look at dear S.T. over there on the right. That’s pretty much what Richard and I look like.
We are sleepless. On the edge. Screaming. (Inside, of course.)
But why?
Because last night we were awakened by a loud crash, only to find Cliffy standing on his dresser. Here we thought we baby-proofed by removing everything what wasn’t nailed down. Apparently putting things out of his reach only entices him to climb to reach. He pulled out the drawers of his dresser and climbed right up like a staircase.
He gets an A for effort. An A for ingenuity. And we get a big fat F for failing to think that he would even do something like that.
Today, on this his final day as a one-year-old, the crib comes down and the mattress will rest safely on the floor until I find a craig’s-list special toddler bed. Every little thing will be removed from the room (and atop the dresser) and we’ll have to see what happens next in the Adventures of Cliff.
Until sleep is granted to all, I will just continue to dream on (as I’m sure my dear exhausted spouse will as well) that during my busy day, I could catch just a little bit of this:
Dream on
In the middle of the night, when I’m sitting in the dark living room, holding sweet Clifford, through my exhaustion, all I can think of is how truly grateful I am.
Cliff is a climber. At bedtime, he pretends he’s asleep so I’ll leave the room. And before the door handle latches closed, I hear him climb out of his crib. Then a little celebratory giggle. The key is to stand crib-side long enough so that he actually falls asleep as he’s pretending to sleep waiting for me to leave. And sometimes that takes a long time. If he raises his head, I cluck once or twice so he knows I’m there. And he quickly resumes the fake-out position.
I don’t think he’s ready for a big bed because he’ll never stay put. Except, I’m pretty sure with the way he hops the side of the crib, there’s not much of a difference. Perhaps I’m not ready for the big bed.
He’s almost two. He quit nursing early. After suffering through biting at every sitting for four-months, at 10 months, I finally got the hint. He wanted to see what was going on. I gave him his first bottle then, which he happily quit in one day just a few months later. And he’s never looked back. Although he doesn’t say much, he plays and responds like a big boy. We had to stop strapping him in his seat at table because he complained the whole time. And not just once–I’m no push-over. But for months. As soon as we’d take him out of his booster seat, he’d scoot his plate to another chair, kneel up and eat. So, it only made sense. In his own non-verbal way, he’s very determined in asserting his independence. At lunch time, when he’s finished, he brings his plate to me at the kitchen sink without prompting. It’s one small thing. But it gives me hope. And I know a least a little more civility will (eventually) follow.
Wha? Who me?
So when it’s dark and I’m alone with him because he’s climbed out of his crib (again) at 2 a.m., I can only count my blessings. Next year at this time, he’ll be rounding the corner to three, most-likely potty trained and needing two-piece jammies instead of one-piece fuzzy footies. He’ll be too long to hold the same way with his head on my shoulder and knees folded fitting perfectly the length of my torso. Who knows, he may actually be able to tell me a thing or two. I’m sure by then he’ll most likely have suffered through many more wounds from his wildness. More split lips and skinned knees are sure to follow him. He’ll so quickly go from toddler to preschooler in the same blink of an eye that brought him here from swaddled bundle.
He's dressed like an animal ... because he is one.
I’m not really sentimental about it, but I sure am appreciative. I still pinch myself in disbelief that we even have been granted the gift of this little guy. He’s certainly turbo-charged the chaos-o-meter in this household.
So, this morning, as I again moved all the dining room chairs to living room (to stop him from pushing them to climb on the kitchen counter), all I had to do is take one look at at that beautiful, wound-up brown-eyed boy–who was trying with all his might to move the piano bench into the kitchen–to be reminded again exactly how grateful I am. And I am easily pulled to my knees in thanksgiving.
In addition to more prayer and observing church fasts, etc., some of my Lenten promises are
I’m not exactly sure how dirt cheap doing all this is. But I guess that’s the point of the sacrifice. I find it pretty much time consuming. Which takes me back to my idea of lentamente. And I’m wondering if I’m doing exactly what I didn’t want to do, and shooting myself in the foot.
The good part is, I do offer the darn tedious tasks and stuff-bagging as prayers. When I question what I’m doing, my heart does go back to Christ. In a round about way. But it makes it to him. I know I’m making my family’s life a little better, more peaceful, less cluttered, and since my family is actually a product of my love for my spouse and our commitment to one another — through the sacrament of marriage — bound by God’s saving presence … I remember why I’m even tackling the task to begin with: it’s because I’m insane. And I know that even in my insanity, Jesus still loves me … see what I mean?
We sat down yesterday with the kids to discuss our plans for lent. Each of theirs individually, and ours as a family.
We talked about our family’s theme (which is actually my theme, but I’m the mom … so … what I say …). We discussed the prayer about Christ having no body but ours. Henry quickly reminded me of the song we know with those words. (Which we used as homeschooling anthem a few years ago).
We talked about how each of us needs to think of Jesus before we speak to one another in an unkind tone. How we could all use this season to remember all the things we appreciate about each other — we are all God’s children, and brothers and sisters in Christ. If we think of him in all we do, our relationship with Him will change and with each other, too. And wouldn’t that be nice? And — after all — look at what our brother did for us.
“What?” Lillian questioned.
“He died on the cross.”
“But I don’t want Jesus to die. ‘Cause he’s walking around in my heart.”
Which is good. I’m glad she gets that part (sort 0f) and can only pray it sees her through.
Because after 7 a.m. mass and receiving ashes, she announced she needed to wash her face right away. I explained she could tell her friends at school that Ash Wednesday marks the day that Jesus went off to pray in the desert. And she quickly said, “Why would I want to tell anyone THAT?” Then marched in the bathroom.
Then in the mid-afternoon she melted in a puddle on the floor crying that she was exhausted from coloring her Lenten calendar and couldn’t do it anymore. Not quite how I was hoping this long season would start.
Wait, what’s my theme? Lentamente or insanity. Oh yeah, that was it.
I need my pocket protector.
I know.
But I’m back. And this is why.
The baby who doesn’t talk (at least in English), who will soon be the two-year-old who doesn’t talk … sings.
Feliz Navidad. Actually.
So, not only does he speak Mandarin, Chinese (which I, unfortunately, don’t), he speaks Spanish.
Why? Because, he’s a genius. Dontcha know?
That was going to be my post last weekend. You know … when the going gets tough, wash a load of towels and you’ll feel like you’ve accomplished something big. A whole basket full of laundry, folded in 2 minutes. Ahh. That was my simple post.
But then life happens. I spend days posting what a nincompoop I am, all while people I know and love are suffering through some really hard times. It doesn’t make me any less of a nincompoop, but the fact of the matter is … nincompoopness doesn’t matter. Being able to relate to and loving each other does.
Before I could click that publish button for my mundane little towel post, my dear friend’s spouse has decided to do exactly that — throw in the towel on their 17-year marriage. Without warning. Without chances for making amends. It’s done. I’m not going to tell you their story or allude to anything to be read between the lines. That part is not my story to tell in this setting.
My part of the story is in my own disbelief. It’s all just too much to handle.
There are so many beautiful, happy lives just turned topsy turvy. The mere fact that my friend is hurting and her children are suffering is beyond heart-wrenching. This is not what we teach. This is not what we live. Nor is this what my dear friend and her spouse have taught or lived. She, specifically, has always been one of the best examples of a person committed to her spouse and to her friendships than anyone I’ve ever met. I find myself talking to myself (more than usual … I should add) trying to understand the why and navigate through my own emotions while offering as much support and love that I can. My husband put it best, he said thinking about their situation has become like breathing. Just something we do.
It weighs so heavily on our hearts and minds.
Here’s the deal. People are imperfect. I know. I get it. I guess episodes like this are wake-up reminders our imperfect nature as human beings. I really want to embrace this as part of God’s perfect plan. And I do actually. Because I trust in him. I just wish I knew what is supposed to be revealed through this pain to us mere mortals. Is this her part in sharing in the suffering of Christ? I’m pretty sure she’s shared quite a bit already. And I think whether my dearest girl knows this or not, this must be part of the emptying of herself only to fill herself even more with the love of Christ. I don’t know. Who knows, but God?
I do know, I am pretty sure she’s running on empty. And she’s been working so hard in her growth in her relationship with Christ through the church. I’m taking deep breaths and trusting. And praying for that same trust for her. Whenever she gets there.
For another dose of irony by association, when this was all happening last week–when my dear girl was first learning what was in store for her– Richard and I were at an event that celebrates the sacrament of marriage. It’s an event put on every year, hosted by the local Worldwide Marriage Encounter folks. It was nice. But felt somewhat surreal after the fact.
So, please, pray for my friend. Pray for her children. Pray for her spouse. Pray they recognize and are drawn to the healing power of our Lord and can trust in him.
I may be changing my superhero name to IRONic MOM.
Irony is sorely misunderstood. Take poor Alanis Morissette. She devoted an entire song referring to events as ironic, which were all really just bad luck. Rain on your wedding day is a bummer. Not ironic.
So, for those of you who need a little refresher on irony … ta da. IRONic MOM to the rescue.
Irony is:
Posting on your blog your three small successes of motherhood (yesterday’s entry) while your 22-month old is right over your shoulder sweetly singing as he is emptying (decoratively, mind you) an entire bottle of syrup on the leather chest and carpet.
Now, after your try to quickly (which with syrup is impossible) clean up the mess then scramble to get everyone in the car to pick up the older kids and you pick up that same 22-month-old darling and he pukes on you, THAT is just plain bad luck.
Got it? Happy to be of service.
After my last few posts of what a nincompoop I am, I’m here to post a few small successes. That’s a regular Thursday feature at Faith and Family Live. There is a little graphic, but linking to it is not one of my small successes. But wait, today, I’m focusing on the glass being half full…
1) This morning, I matched plastic lids to plastic containers and threw out (recycled, actually) the leftover oddballs, all while Cliffy napped. I got rid of enough to fill a Target bag. Yield: A Target bag full of space in my cabinet AND containers that will actually be useful!
2) I remembered one of the haiku I made up while up with the baby last night. I count syllables/sounds (or “on”) in my sleep instead of sheep. Stupid? Yes. But keeps my brain at just the right level of occupied and bored. Otherwise, I’d get up and start typing.
A haiku for a rotten night’s sleep
Mom mom mom old mom
Screams brown-eyed baby through the night
Coffee cannot save me now
Notice my nuanced reference to season? As in my season?
3) I stopped the baby just in the nick if time BEFORE he was about to put M & Ms in the heat vent (to which he pried the grate off).
Those little things DO add up: More space in our crowded house. Feeling slightly creative AND not cleaning up melted chocolate. Score.
That should be my superhero name.
After this morning, I need a serious refresher course in motherhood. Whenever I think I do okay, my kids quickly remind me, “I don’t know nuffin.”
I'm a supa hero.
It started with an extra-early wake up. Followed with Lillian insisting I take her termperature because she was quite sure she (once again) had a headache and could not go to school. Why couldn’t she go? Because she was not going to wear a the skirt she had decided on yesterday. Because the pockets bother her. When she put on her second choice, she decided the waist band was “noying” her. And proclaimed again, she must have a headache.
While this is going on, the little man of the house is running at full-force with a toy shopping cart banging into closed doors. Which is every door, because we have to protect rooms from his wrath. As a diversion, he runs into my legs, as I stand attempting to make sandwiches for those heading to school. We’re planning to repaint two rooms, and I think for a moment, why? But water damage, child damage. Got to be done. Wait, is there rubber paint?
Out storms Lillian. With a summer dress in hand (which regrettably didn’t make it to the right spot after Florida), “I’m going to wear this.”
“No, you’re not,” I calmly reply.
“I said: I. am. wearing. this. I will wear a sweater.”
“No, you will not.” I’m still remarkably calm. An audible hmph echos behind the slammed door, in the nick of time as the shopping-cart operator crashes into it full-bore.
I take away the cart. He squeals and runs off with his little padded jammy feet to find something else to destroy.
Lunches are packed. Gloves and scarves accounted for. Two out the door. (Not the two I wish were leaving …)
“When I have PE. I am wearing a DRESS!” I hear behind the door. The ultimate declaration of defiance in the world of my 4-year0ld who knows she cannot wear a skirt or dress on PE (physical education) days at Montessori school. She has to be able to clearly see her feet without the obstruction of a puffy garment. (And she’s all puffy. All the time.) PE isn’t even until tomorrow. So, is this the set-up for what lies ahead?
After given some acceptable choices, she finally agrees to an appropriate dress. Chooses tights that don’t match. But who cares? Then insists that she wear her snow boots and take her school shoes. I should note that her snow boots are hand-me-downs from Henry that she has adorned randomly with little sticker gems so they could have “twinkle toes.” A sight, for sure.
Thrilled that she even got dressed and dropped the headache bit, when she orders me to go warm up the car and take her to school so she’ll have time to change her boots, I jump. Who cares that it was a half-an-hour early? I am just grateful to strap her in the car and unstrap her anywhere but home. (I know. I’m rotten.)
I take her to school and share a bit of my woes. Dear teacher thoughtfully reminds me to set out her clothes the night before. Which with Lil is truly an exercise in futility. After all, how can Lil make a decision about what she’s going to wear tomorrow when she changes her clothes 5 times a day based on which imaginary world she’s in. It’s what she does. And pretty much what she lives for. And a part of her I appreciate. Most of the time. Just not today.
Okay. But there’s the happy ending. Once in my van, I got a text from our oldest away at school. Reminding me she loves me. Thinks she’s lucky to have me. (Me? Remedial Mom?) Thinks I’m hilarious and sweet and misses me completely.
For that moment, until Clifford screams at me from the back of the van and chucks his sippy cup, I feel like a superhero. Instead of like this …
BOILED ALIVE!
Five Halos 