Stages of Life

My mom and I were shopping a couple of weeks ago and happened upon a sign that describes my father's life fairly well at the moment:

The Four Stages of Life
1. You believe in Santa
2. You don't believe in Santa
3. You are Santa
4. You look like Santa

My father gave in this past year and stopped dying his hair and mustache. He made this decision somewhere between the time we dropped Kevin off at his house and he brought her to the hospital to come meet her little brother. Having a baby I could adjust to...seeing my dad actually look like a Grandpa was another thing all together.

I think one of the hardest things about growing up is watching your parents get old. My parents and my in-laws are both dealing with health challenges that we all thought were a good 15-20 years away. Suddenly our invincible parents aren't so untouchable anymore.

When I was little, I knew my dad was superhuman. He was the strongest, smartest, funniest man I knew. He could answer any question, solve any problem, and he always had the money for ice cream (even if he didn't spring for the idea of going to get some at Casper's). I never worried that he couldn't carry me to my bedroom if I fell asleep in the car or that he wouldn't be able to help me with my homework. He was the kind of dad that saved up his PTO and I didn't figure out until I was older that Dads don't automatically get your birthday and your school breaks off work. He came to every parent teacher conference, every recital, every ball game, every awards ceremony. He spent an entire school year driving me to middle school so that I could go where my friends attended. He checked my homework assignments, edited my Sterling Scholar portfolio, gave me advice about boys (which was usually just what I needed to hear). He scared off all the high school boys and helped me register for college. When I asked him how they paid for my brother's mission, he told me that if I wanted to go, they would find a way.

And so they did. It wasn't easy.

He taught me that it is okay for diabetics to eat treats and enriched pasta.

Though they probably shouldn't have done it, he found a way to leave home at the very worst possible time and take my mom and me back to Texas, where he got to meet everyone I loved and eat the three-dollar taco plate on Taco Tuesday at Rosa's. While we were there, one of the investigators I had been working with for over a year finally got baptized (I knew all it would take were some handsome Elders asking her), and my dad spent the whole time talking to her parents in Spanish and explaining what was going on.

A week after we came home, he helped me book a plane ticket to go back a month later so I could be at the Temple Sealing of one of the people I taught.

And somewhere in there, when Scott asked for my hand, he was man enough to say okay, even though he knew there wasn't a man alive good enough for his daughter.

He's also the one who turned on the child lock when we got to the Temple on my wedding day so I couldn't get out of the backseat.

Dads have a hard time letting go.

So do daughters.

Turns out, however, that me getting married just might be the best thing that ever happened to him.

Enter: Kevin.

His #1 Fan.

In a season of my life where I realize just how human my Dad is (and I love him all the more because of this), where I see him getting old and withering and struggling to do the simple things that used to come so easily, my daughter sees the very, very best in him.

To her, he isn't sick. He isn't aging. He isn't chronically tired and in pain. He doesn't have any other responsibility in life other than being her Papa.

He is her hero,

If her sunglasses break or her colored pencils are dull, the answer is always, "Papa can fix it." If we are out of purple paint, "Papa will get me more." If she can't sleep at night, "Papa come play me?" If her dad is taking too long to get home from school and her mother just can't handle her anymore, "I call Papa?"

Her pack-pack is continually packed for Papa's house. It's better than Disneyland (where she's never been) or the Temple (which is her favorite building).

She knows, without a doubt, that he loves her. That he will do (and frequently does) anything for her, even if it means setting her in the baby exersaucer that she is two years too old for. He plays dollhouse and babies, he takes her to see the pets, he feeds her crackers and cookies and ice cream. He reads stories and sings songs and rocks her to sleep and shows her love in a thousand different ways.

A few weeks ago, I was rocking and singing Sly to sleep when Kevin peeked her head through the doorway, excitedly whisper-shouting, "Papa sing me this song!"

For a week after we brought the baby home, she kept telling me that she was "borned at Papa's house." And she wanted to go back.

It would not surprise her at all if I told her that her Papa was Santa Claus, and not just because he has a ton of white facial hair. And it's more than the fact that Papa gives her way more presents than Santa does and he loves to eat cookies.

It's because Santa embodies all things good, and she knows there is truly no better person than her Papa.

You want to know why I believe in Santa?
Because he's my dad.

A Mother's Lament

A funny thing is occurring in our family at the moment. Today is my daughter's 1,000th day of life. In a few days I will reach my 10,000th day of life. And within the past two weeks, my husband has reached his 10,000th day and my baby reached 100 days old. That means, for this brief period of time, Kevin is ten times older than her brother and we, as her parents, are ten times older than her.

That's a lot of math for an English major...so let me tell you how this translates into words and feelings.

Yesterday I was snuggling with my sick little baby and watching Peter Pan Live! while Scott took Kevin Christmas shopping so she could pick out a present for me. 

Side note: I asked her what kind of present she was going to get me. She, of course, answered "Purple!" because everything is purple these days. I told her I would like a book. She told me she would get me a purple book. Seeing this as an opportunity to give her father another clear hint at something I really want for Christmas (the Dr. Seuss collection found at Sam's Club), I told her I would really like a "Cat in the Hat" book. A few hours later, after Scott had already loaded her into his car, he peeked his head back through the door and accused me of planting ideas in our daughter's head. "I just asked her what she wanted to get you and she said a Cat in the Hat book!" Good job, baby girl.

As I snuggled with my little man, watching the beginning of the story of the boy who never wanted to grow up, I thought about what a paradox growing up is--at least in the eyes of a mother. You want your children to grow healthy and strong, to learn and to overcome and to become successful contributors to the world. You can't wait to see what they make of the talents that you can see budding in them now. Part of you is excited for the day when you take your adult daughter out to lunch and hear her talk about her life (the same life that used to be yours, twenty-some-odd years ago). Part of you can't wait to see your son helping his dad with home improvement projects, dressed in a tux for Prom, offering to reach the things in the high-up kitchen cupboards that you can't get, even on your tippy-toes. 

What wonderful moments those will be!

And yet...

There is a part, and it is no small piece, of your heart that wishes they could stay little forever. You can't imagine the day when you can no longer pick her up or he no longer grabs fistfuls of your hair as you lean down to blow raspberries on his tummy. You want to always hear her little voice singing her own version of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and hear him cooing at angels when he first wakes up. You don't want to have to put another pile of barely-worn baby clothing in a too small pile, or break it to her that her favorite sparkle shoes no longer fit. You don't want to think about the day that she starts school or he no longer needs you to carry him from room to room, though you know those days aren't far off.

Your arms are tired, your shoulders weary, your head aches from all the screaming and crying, your feet are calling out for a rest, your eyes are fighting to stay open, and your heart...your heart doesn't want it to ever end.

In the beginning of Peter Pan, there is a line that goes something like this:

"All children grow up. They start to realize this at about age two. You might say, therefore, that two is the beginning of the end for children."

A truer statement has never been spoken.

Kevin's favorite thing to talk about is how she is getting old. Sometimes she will ask to do something and I will tell her that she'll be able to do it when she is a little bigger. Then she will look at me with a big smile on her face and say, "Wook at me! Wook at me growin!" 

Yes, sweetheart, I see you growing.

Then, to add salt to the wound, she will point to her brother and say, "Wook! Wook! He's growin too!"

It's a strange thing to notice, when you spend every day with your children. You are so wrapped up in their lives and involved in their growing, that you don't notice that something has changed until a grandmother points it out or you show off one of their new tricks. To her kindergarten teacher grandmother: "Look how she can count to ten!" To his strong Papa: "Look how he tries to sit up!" To her seamstress grandmother: "Look how tall she has gotten, all of her dresses are so short!" To his playful Pa: "Look how he smiles so big!"

And, in a way, though I am well into my twenties now, there is still a small piece of that two-year-old in me that is still telling my parents to "Wook at me growin!"

And, to our parents, there is still that piece of their heart that begs time to slow down and let me stay young just a little longer.

Balding and Bonding

It really is true what they say--that Satan works on you hardest when the best things are about to come your way.

Boy, has Satan worked on me this year. Although I was never as physically ill during my pregnancy with my son as I was with my daughter, I had a different kind of illness that was much harder for me to cope with. I felt sad and depressed all the time. I quested my ability to be a mother and my decision to stay at home.  I felt extreme guilt that I couldn't contribute to our family's limited finances and was instead leaching them away rather quickly with every doctor and pharmacy visit. None of these thoughts and feelings were prompted by anyone else--they all came from inside my own head. This was a war I fought constantly. I see now that I should have asked for help--and while I knew that then, a major part of me rebelled at the thought of spending any more money on medications and any more time at the doctor's office, no matter how badly I felt.

I was in a dark place. This is most of the reason why I haven't blogged consistently for the last year. I only realized that last week--that I was feeling so much better, I not only wanted to write again, I needed to write again. (Thanks, Mom, for noticing.)

All of that struggle? More than worth it. This little boy, he gives the best smiles. He is so happy and loving, especially toward me. He adores my face, and that makes me feel beautiful. Having a son is an experience I'm so glad I didn't miss out on. There is a special bond between us I never could have understood before now.

I am his everything. Well, most of his everything, since he also has a Daddy and a sister and doting grandmothers and aunts.

He has started learning to use his hands, but I can't get him to reach for toys. He does, however, reach for my fingers, my hair, my face, my arms. I was noticing this the other day when I realized what a privilege and a blessing it is to be so wrapped up in his beginning. My fingers are his first toys, my heartbeat was his first radio. My feet are his first mode of transportation, my ears are his first sounding board. My hair was his first soothie, my lips gave him his first kiss. My chest was his first nourishment (however short of a time that may have lasted) and my arms were his first cradle. I am his first introduction to love, but he has shown me to love in a far greater capacity.

The day I was dreading came yesterday. I gave him a bath and as I was brushing his hair, it started coming out in clumps. I knew it, I just knew it. He would have a bald period in his life, just like his sister, only hers came in June with summer and his has started with the snow. I love his dark, crazy hair, and somehow it makes me so sad to see it coming in much lighter. I'm not a big fan of the bald stage. I mourned about it all day, a little bit.

And then, my reality check came, when I followed updates about my high school best friend's older sister's little boy's third brain surgery. That little boy has no hair, and it wasn't natural growth that took it away from him. It was life-and-death necessity. Another high school friend posted about her little boy's third round of chemo for a brain tumor they found when he was only nine months old. An acquaintance from college was also entering her third round of chemo--and I had no idea she was even sick.

I'm a shallow, shallow person---with a great capacity to love.

I woke up early, early this morning, not feeling well. This is a common occurrence, but somehow this time when I woke up I knew it was for a reason (and not just to use the bathroom). As I was washing my hands, the spirit whispered that I needed to check on Sly. I'm a paranoid mom, so I brushed it off as just general worry and told myself that he was sleeping soundly and I shouldn't disturb him. But the thought came again, this time that he had wiggled his blanket over his face and I needed to go help him. Sleeping soundly or not, I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep until I had made sure he was safe.

Sure enough, after I crept into his dark room, the blue light of the LED nightlight showed me that the spirit was correct (DUH!) and he had kicked his blanket up over his face. Not just a little bit, which sometimes happens, but all the way over his face, There was no way he could have gotten it off, or moved his head enough to get fresh air. I tried not to let myself think about what would have happened had I left him alone, but the thoughts came anyway. I pulled the blanket down, tucked it in securely, but he started to fuss. I got him a bottle and I held and cuddled him for all I was worth for the next twenty minutes. He never really woke up, but he took the bottle. When I put him back in his crib, I made sure the blanket was wrapped around him safely, and no amount of wiggling and kicking would lead to his face being covered. I breathed a sigh of relief, but it still took me over an hour to calm down enough to fall back asleep.

This morning, he was halfway through a bottle when his Daddy woke me up and handed him to me. Remembering the events of a few hours before, I held him close and whispered how much I love him. He started smiling so big that he couldn't keep the bottle in his mouth, as if to tell me thank you and he loves me in return.

Can babies say prayers? I think so.
Can we answer them? Yes. Absolutely.

A Child of God

God moves in mysterious ways.

So do toddlers.

Perhaps that is why the scriptures tell us to become like a little child.

Let me tell you about the last hour of my life (note: it ends here, me frantically blogging and praying the baby sleeps through his sister's screaming fest while also hoping that screaming fest ends in a nap).

It's been one of those days. The baby won't sleep, the toddler is cranky, and all I've heard come out of her mouth today is, "I want daddy!"

I'd finally gotten Sly to calm down by placing him in his crib and winding up his sports star mobile. He loves that thing. It has gotten more smiles than me today. The problem is, the music only lasts for about three minutes before it has to be wound again (which, if I am really fast, is enough time to go to the bathroom but not really enough time to do anything else). 

Kevin came in and after me telling her no to another ridiculous request, she falls on the floor and starts crying. "I want daddy!"

What followed was not one of my best mothering moments, but dang it felt good.

"I want daddy too!" I told her. "I want him to take you away!"

Understandably, more crying ensued.

This was followed by me dialing Scott's number on my phone, turning on the speaker, and handing it to Kevin with the instructions, "Here. Call Daddy and tell him you don't like Mommy," before I picked Sly up out of his crib. 

A few rings and then a quiet but worried, "Hello?" 

Scott has this thing about the people in the cubicles next to him overhearing his conversations with us.

"I don't wike Mommy," a quiet voice answered.

"What was that?"

"I don't wike Mommy!" She says louder.

I can tell he is trying not to laugh, because he knows this is serious business. "Why don't you like Mommy, sweetheart?"

"I was cwying..." she gives him a long explanation, then hands me the phone and walks away without saying good-bye.

"Hi, babe," I say, feeling only slightly guilty that he is having to play referee between us while he is on the clock. Of the two of us, I have the harder job. 

"You know she only said that because you told her to."

"No, she means it today."

"No she doesn't. I'll call you later."

And that is that. My phone battery is almost dead, so I take it into my bedroom to put it on the charger and end up laying next to the baby in my bed for a few minutes, trying to recover my sanity. Within five minutes, Kevin has wedged three baby dolls, two fabric wipes, a gold bead toy necklace, a purse, and toy food between me and Sly.

He starts to yawn and I realize I might actually have a shot at getting him to sleep in his crib if I work it right. I sit up, gather all the toys in my arms, and take them into Kevin's room and dump them on her bed to the tune of another meltdown. 

"I'm going to rock brother to sleep," I tell her, ignoring the crying. "You can play in your room and when I'm done getting him to bed, it's time for a nap."

"I don't want a nap! I want to stay wif Mommy!"

"You just told Daddy you didn't like me."

"I wike you!" she says, trying to convince me. "I wike Mommy!"

Trying not to roll my eyes, I tell her I will come pay attention to her as soon as her brother is asleep.

By some miracle, this quiets her down. I take Sly into his room, closing the door so that there are only a few inches of light peeking into his room. I wrap him up in his swaddle, put up the blanket-turned-curtain over his window, and settle into the rocking chair. I need to calm myself down as well as get him to sleep, so I start to sing. His eyes grow drowsy quickly and he stops wiggling and fidgeting.

Halfway through the first verse of "I Love to See the Temple," a small shadow appears in the doorway and the comes the whispered request, "Child of God song! Sing the God song!"

I keep singing the Temple song and her shadow disappears for a moment, quickly returning with her favorite purple baby doll in her arms. 

I start to sing the words to "I am a Child of God." With each line, the door opens a little wider, but Kevin stays in the hallway. I hear her high, young voice start to match her off-key notes to mine, getting one word in five.

When I start into the second verse, the door opens a little wider. "I get my baby," she tells me, and Sly's eyes flutter. "Okay," I whisper, trying to quiet her down. She comes and sits in the child-size rocking chair next to me, rocking and kissing her baby doll and singing along. Suddenly, it is easier to believe that this is the same child who came up to me first-thing this morning, gave me a hug, and said, "I wuv you!" without being prompted.

The spirit is sweet, the baby is asleep, and I feel like I can like motherhood again  for a few more minutes. I put Sly in his bed, take her hand, and lead her into her own room.

"It's time for bed," I tell her.

"I want Daddy!" she starts screaming again.

And that is the end of that.

I realized a few weeks ago that there is a reason that we sing the song "I am a Child o God" to our young children over and over and over. Everyone thinks it is a song for children--but I've learned better. This is a song for parents, from their children. Most notably, this is a song for parents who are at the end of their rope!

I am a child of God,

And He has sent me here.

Remember, God gave me to you as a gift, so you'd better treat me more like a blessing and less like a  curse!

Has given me an earthly home,

with parents kind and dear.

Remember, you are supposed to be kind and dear and nice to me. 

Lead me, guide me

Remember, your example is the path I am going to follow

Walk beside me

Remember, I need you to be there for me, even when you want to sell me on Craig's list

Help me find the way

Remember, I might just help you find the way in the process

Teach me all that I must do

Remember, I won't always be this way

To live with Him someday.

Remember, families can be together forever (and that's a good thing!)

These children, they are mine. They are Scott's. But they are also God's, and even though I love them dearly, I know he loves them more. When I would like to quit, I remember that God will never quit on His children, so neither should I.

This is the lesson I will try to teach myself the next seventeen times Kevin requests to sing the "God" song today.

(note: she's still screaming, he's not sleeping, and you should probably keep an eye out for that ad on Craig's list)

Little Mother

Sly turned six weeks old today. And I breathed a sigh of relief. Not that he is a particularly tough baby (he is really very good, all things considered), or that the last six weeks have been difficult (though, yes, I guess they have been significantly hard), but because five and a half years ago my mission president told me I could survive anything for six weeks. I often whisper that advice to myself, and when those six weeks are up, I congratulate myself for surviving and then let the next six weeks begin.  It's a handy way to get through life: survival mode.

We are all adjusting around here. It feels like Sly should only be a week old and yet it feels like he is three months old and then it feels like he has been ours forever. I suppose he has, even when we did not know it.

This second baby has been a whole different ball game than number one. They are not complete opposites, but almost. Kevin is our sunshine baby. She was born at high noon and has always been afraid of the dark. Sly, on the other hand, was born in the middle of night and likes to sleep in a quiet, dark room. Kevin was a good two months behind developmentally, and Sly--well, it seems he keeps hitting milestones a lot quicker than I want him to. I have always tried to tell myself not to wish for them to stop growing up so fast or even to grow slower or stay a baby forever because growing up is such a good thing for them to do--who am I to wish that blessing away? But, I will be the first to admit, when Sly seemed to grow out of his 3 month clothes overnight and I put a pair of jeans on my daughter this morning that made her seem more like a preschooler than a toddler....I do wish there was a way to freeze these moments in time so that someday I can revisit these days and appreciate my children for who they are now, today, instead of wanting them to somehow stop growing and grow up faster at the same time (can we just skip potty training altogether, please?).

Last night I prayed for charity. When days are long (because I work all day and there is always something undone) and nights are short (because I never get enough sleep), it is so easy to lose patience and be too quick to reprimand or be unkind to that toddler who is just done with trying to make naps happen. So last night I asked Heavenly Father to show me how he views my daughter and to help me to be quicker to recognize her divine nature and slower to nag her or hurry her up. Lately, I have not been the mother to her that I would like to be. Requests to play in her room or color or play that annoying matching game or read the same book or repeat any of these activities over and over when all I want to do is fold laundry or clean counters or put on clean underwear takes more endurance than I have at the moment. So I simply asked Heavenly Father to show me. And he did.

Today, I appreciate her smiles, her help that is not always helpful, her giggles and how she always gets into trouble without meaning to. I appreciate the time she lets me hold the baby without complaining and the reminders that sometimes I need to put him down and play with her instead.

I suppose that we are both learning to share.

She is learning to share her home, her parents, her grandparents, her toys, her blankets, and her time.

And I am having to learn to share my baby.

Last night, while Scott was hanging out with the young men, I put Sly on his tummy to give him some tummy time (and hopefully wear him out faster so he would go to sleep before 11 pm). I sat there by him, cheering him on, as Kevin enjoyed a bedtime snack at the kitchen table. Her snack was quickly forgotten as she joined us in the living room, cheering her brother on. "C'mon, c'mon! You can do it!" We spent the next several moments totally enthralled in watching him try to remember how to roll over (because somehow the extra poundage he's put on has made this trick much harder). "Mommy, help him!" she would plead with me when he got especially upset. "Not yet, sweetheart," I would tell her. "I think he can do it on his own. Let's watch and see how he does." Within a minute, he had flipped from his tummy to his back and Kevin and I were giving each other high fives.

That was the moment when I realized that as I go about my days, I am not just raising a toddler and caring for a baby.

I am teaching her how to be a mother.

Case in point: two days ago she went to hand me her baby to hold (apparently she knows what Grandmas do) but then retracted her baby and said, "Mommy, wash your hands!" while pointing to the magic soap (the Kindergarten term for Germ-x). Once I had rubbed it all into my hands, she happily handed me the baby I had not asked for and went about her business.

"At least she is starting to catch on," I thought.

And oh boy is she catching on. I often hear her repeating my words to her brother. "It's okay, it's okay!" "Big burp, buddy, big burp!" "Does that scare you?" And when she isn't talking to him in her newly-acquired, high-pitched motherese voice, she is trying to kiss his cheeks and hold his hand and stuff a binky in his mouth. I often find her reading to him, shushing him, and trying to stuff toys in his hands and face (he did not so much appreciate the Little People Cinderella she shared with him the other day). And though my first response is to scream, "Be careful!" when she gets too close, I often realize that she is just trying to do the things she sees me doing (because, you know, his cheeks are just so kissable).

I tell her daily she is my best helper. And though it offends her father, it really is true (although there is MUCH to be said for a husband who willingly gets up with the baby night after night!). She is always quick to help take care of her brother.

And me.

So we take turns holding him. She provides the burp cloths and I do the burping. She reminds me to eat when I get so busy that I would probably forget the importance of "break-sas." She lets me know when he is "hun-gy!" and when he needs to "wiggle" and makes sure he has a buddy nearby when he gets lonely laying on a blanket on the floor. We both beg him for smiles and get excited when he does new things.

And when I think of everything that she is, all the talents and skills that define her, I now add two words.

Little mother.

And, while I am taking a selfish moment to blog, here she is making sure he has a binky and entertainment and wiping up his spit-up. "Dere you go! You're okay! Don't cry!"

For the rest of his life, I may be his champion, but she will be his cheerleader.

How lucky is he?

The Story of My Life

Many of you have wondered where my "Rinda's Reads" reading lists have disappeared to. Unless you count rereading the Hunger Games and Harry Potter series in their entirety (entireties?), I haven't gotten a chance to read anything new or worthwhile since November (ten months ago, if you catch my drift). Something has been missing in my life.

I had twenty LOVELY minutes today where I got that something back. My wonderful, thoughtful husband got me a new book for my birthday. Not just any book, though--he wanted to make sure it was something I haven't read and would love. So what did he do? Texted the husband of one of my bestest friends and said, "I want to get Rinda a book for her birthday. Does your wife have any ideas?" And because his wife is one of my bosom book buddies/kindred spirits, she knew exactly what I had read and what I hadn't and what books I'd already read and wanted to own. That's a good friend.

Anyway, I got a new book for my birthday (in July. Like five weeks ago.) Remembering all the wonderful hours I spent reading while pumping, feeding, and cuddling my newborn Kevin, I decided to save said book until after Sly arrived. I picked it up in the hospital and read about a chapter. Since then I've read 1.5-5 pages a day (which, for me, is not much). Usually this is a sign that I dislike a book. After three weeks I would have given up on a book at this rate...but the thing is, I knew this book was excellent. I treasured the few pages I snuck in here and there as I pump what little remains of my sad, sad milk supply in an effort to avoid mastitis.

And today, after I'd taken my unhappy little baby to the doctor for fourth time in three weeks (seriously, I don't think we've gone a single week this whole year without visiting a doctor's office!) and spent several minutes praying for the patience to appreciate my creative, chatty, beautiful daughter, a miracle happened.

She went to sleep.

He went to sleep, all cuddled up on me.

AND I GOT TO READ. Something that wasn't Curious George or the Berenstein Bears.

For more than one page.

For like fifty pages.

And suddenly, it seemed that life could be beautiful again.

And, as so often happens in truly good books, I came across a piece of genuine wisdom that perfectly sums up my life at the moment.

"Life does often get in the way of one's reading," agreed the Major.

Thank you, Major Pettigrew.

So there's your answer, folks. Life has gotten in the way of Rinda's Reading.

But if you want to read a book that I am quickly falling in love with, even though I'm only halfway through it, pick up Major Pettigrew's Last Stand from your local library. Never have you loved a 68-year-old widower/retired military Englishman so very much.

I am His Mother

Yesterday was a big day for me.

I failed and I succeeded all in one day.

We brought our son home on Friday. Folks, he is truly adorable. And though labor and delivery is never fun, I would do it all over again to have him here and to be able to look into his round little red face covered with tiny pimples (because his mother was very hormonal) and one little dimple and remember what happiness feels like. For the last several months, I just haven't been able to feel happy. Or joyful. Or passionate about anything but sneaking a treat and getting some extra sleep (which was undoubtedly uncomfortable anyway). The minute I delivered that baby, I just felt...better.

There were so many things I was hoping would go differently this time around, and for the most part, everything felt pretty near perfect. Yeah, would have been nice to say I could have done it without the epidural, but I'm convinced it would have taken three times as long to get him here without one. Yeah, would have been nice to hold him right away, but there was something so magical about watching his daddy be the first parent to snuggle him--and lucky for us, the doctor took her time cleaning me up, so I got to sit and watch him marvel in our new little miracle. Not only that--but we got that moment. The one where the baby comes out and you know he is okay, so you look at each other and there are tears and that unspoken communication of "look what beautiful thing we created!"

Yes, Italy was kind to us indeed.

We got to bring Sly (*not his real name, but since it seems to be the thing to refer to my children as my little brother does, this little man has been Sly since before his parents were married) home less than 48 hours after his birth. Actually, he was home 37 hours after he was delivered. I can't even tell you how many hours old Kevin was when she got to come home! We are so blessed that everything has been different this time around.

Except...one thing.

The one thing I counted on being different has been very much the same as it was with Kevin.

I wanted so badly to be able to nurse this baby. I mean, really get to nurse him, not just the whole pump-and-bottle routine I did with Kevin. I always thought that the reason she never learned to nurse was because she was so old before she got to try. Now I know differently.

The first time I tried to nurse Sly, he latched on right away and did great. It was a bit painful, but I expected it to be that way. I fed him twice that night and then, at about 7:00 am, my nurse came in and instead of bringing him to me, told me that he'd had a slightly low blood sugar reading so they were going to give him a bottle. I asked if they wanted me to nurse him but they didn't seem to think that would bring him up fast enough, so I agreed. He still latched throughout the rest of the day, but we were supplementing with little bits of formula through one of those small tubes I'd come to loathe when Kevin was in the NICU. He was still in my room and at my chest, though, so I counted my blessings. By the end of the day I was very sore and slightly bloody, but we were doing it!

Scott took Kevin swimming the evening we brought Sly home. I was resting in bed and listening to the baby monitor when I started to feel that something wasn't right. When I went in to check on him, Sly was looking slightly shaky. I was worried about his blood sugar getting low again, so I tried to nurse him. He just screamed. So I gave him a small bottle. He was fine a few minutes later.

This became our routine: try to get him to nurse, succeed in making him scream, and finally give up and feed him a bottle. Each time he would latch for less and less time until he refused to try to latch at all.

So I decided to enlist the help of my old friend, The Pump.

I have a love-hate relationship with that thing. Scott and I agreed when I stopped pumping after six months with Kevin that if it ever came to that again, we would go straight to formula.

I didn't give in so easily to this plan, though. If I can just get my milk to come in, I thought, then maybe it will be enough to get him to latch again.

I pumped and I pumped and I pumped. Each time, I was getting nowhere near the colostrum amounts I should have been getting. And my milk still didn't come.

Have I mentioned our son is over nine pounds?

The kid would have been starving had he been trying to live on that alone.

I prayed and I prayed and I prayed for a solution. Was there something I hadn't tried? Was there a magic answer? Could a lactation consultant fix our problem, or were we beyond help? Would be going straight to just bottles now be giving up too easily?

I sat there, in my son's room, in the middle of the night and listed the pros and cons of breast vs. bottle in our specific case. The main two pros in the breast feeding column came down to bonding and pride. The pros in the bottle list were much longer and made more sense: I could get more sleep so that I could be a nicer person to both of my children and my husband (Scott confessed that this was his main reason), pumping was a hassle, I could give up the insulin and get back to a normal health routine much faster, he could be fed by grandparents and bond with them, my milk wouldn't be enough even if it did come in, we might get a date night once in a while, he would be a much happier baby, I would be a much happier mommy...the list went on and on.

And I knew then, at two am, that failing was my answer.

I'll admit, I felt sad. I felt guilty. I couldn't give my child what he needed from me, and now anyone could fill his needs--nourishment would come from a can instead of from me. I'd never get to use that adorable and thrifty nursing cover my mother-in-law helped me make. I'd never get to know what it felt like to not have to pack bottles everywhere we went. Breast is best--and all along my goal with this pregnancy was to give this child his best chance at life. Neither of us would be getting the benefits if I gave up now. As a woman, I felt very much a failure.

That morning, Scott went back to work. I was on my own with a two-and-a half-year old and a four-day-old for half a day. I was nervous. I was tired. I was emotionally drained.

And, as comfort so often comes to me, it came again, in the words of a book.

I laid Sly on a quilt on his floor and had Kevin bring me a book from his shelf. Reading to them was something I could do that wouldn't favor one over the other, so it seemed like a good option. Kevin brought me two small board books that the Easter Bunny had left in Sly's mini basket. She handed me the one with the bird on the front cover.

"Are You My Mother? By P.D. Eastman," I began to read.

"A mother bird sat on her egg. The egg jumped. 'I must get something for my baby bird to eat!' she said. So away she went."

I know that feeling, I thought. It is always about getting them something to eat. And it is the mother's responsibility.

"Inside the nest, the egg jumped. It jumped and jumped and jumped. Until...out came a baby bird! 'Where is my mother?' he said. He did not see her anywhere."

Interesting, I noticed. He doesn't care about food. It's his mother he wants. But she is so caught up in how to feed him, she doesn't even notice.

And for the next several cardboard pages, I waited for the little bird to find his mother. And I realized that although the mother thought that it was all about the food, to the baby bird, it was all about her. The kitten, the hen, the dog, and the cow could not replace her. Conversely, all the doctors and nurses and mommy bloggers and relatives in the world can't replace what my baby needs from me--and that isn't food. It's love.

"Just then, the baby bird saw a big thing. 'You are my mother!' he said.

"The big thing said, "SNORT!'"

And at this point I had to laugh...because snorting is exactly the kind of sound The Pump makes.

"'Oh no!' said the baby bird. 'You are not my mother! You are a scary Snort!' 

"The Snort lifted the baby bird up, up, up. Then something happened. The Snort put the baby bird right back in the tree. The baby bird was home!"

The Snort machine did the same thing for us, I realized. It put my perspective back where it should be. Through everything I went through with this pregnancy, how can I look at this chunky, pink, beautiful healthy baby boy and consider myself a failure? 

"Just then the mother bird came back."

It isn't about how he is fed,  I realized. It is about how he is loved.

"'I know who you are,' said the baby bird. 

"'You are not a kitten or a hen or a dog. You are not a cow or a Snort! You are a bird, and you are my mother!'"

And now, if you will excuse me, I have to go. My baby boy is crying because he needs me.

Because I am his mother.

Ready or Not

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would still be pregnant on August 12th. August 1st or 2nd maybe...but certainly not the 12th.

I am counting my blessings.

And my stretch marks, medical payments, bruises, and hours of pregnancy left...

Tomorrow is the big day. When we originally found out that we were due on August 17, I thought it would be so neat if he came on August 13th because that is my "MTC birthday" as my trainer put it. Six years ago tomorrow I entered the MTC and started my Texas mission journey. Tomorrow I begin a whole new kind of mission.

Mothering a little boy.

Six years ago, my mind raced all day and time moved so slowly and yet raced past at the same time. I had dozens of things written on my to do list, but only the very most vital things got done, and most of that happened after nine pm that night. Today has passed much the same way. Tomorrow, everything changes and I have no idea what to expect.

That might sound silly, since I've been at this mothering thing for twenty-nine months now. But everything happened differently then. By the time we reached four days before my due date, I was back into normal clothes, a pro at pumping breastmilk and taking care of my girl, and planning my graduation day and her baby blessing that weekend.

This time around, everything has happened according to schedule. The only real surprise we've had is that nothing surprising has happened. The nursery is done, I actually have a hospital bag packed (I may have to blow the dust off of it, since it has been packed for two months), we have a schedule figured out for people bringing in meals, and there is an actual reality that we may be home--with a baby--by Saturday morning at the latest.

I'm sure this baby will find ways to show us he is still in charge and that childbirth (and parenting) is not something I have complete control over. Case in point, last Thursday. I had back-to-back appointments that afternoon, so I had coerced my parents into taking Kevin for a day (and keeping her another day so that I could have a childless "Day of Rinda" and a last one-on-one date night with Scotty). I began the day tired but hopeful that everything would go smoothly. I ended it by crying myself to sleep.

The appointment with the endocronologist (diabetes doctor) went well. We ran a few errands in between and then headed to the Women's Clinic. The doctor was running on time but they still decided to do the Non Stress Test (NST) before I saw my doctor. Baby boy decided not to cooperate and wouldn't give them satisfactory readings on the NST...he was moving enough to keep us all from being really concerned, but not enough for my doctor to give me the okay. Since she had two patients in labor and one waiting for a C-section, she decided to just send me up to the hospital for a biophysical profile (BPP). I'd had one of these at the perinatologist's office the week before, so I wasn't very concerned.

Somehow, between leaving the clinic and making it to the hospital (less than five minutes drive), the plan had changed without us being told anything. I wasn't given a BPP, but rather admitted and hooked up to monitors for what ended up being a three-hour long NST. And, to make things even more fun: enter extremely painful contractions.

I stayed pretty optimistic through the first hour to an hour and a half or so...and then I looked around and started reviewing the day and the PTSD kicked in. There were so many similarities between this day and the day I went into labor with Kevin: it was a Thursday, I went to the Diabetes doctor, it was supposed to be a routine checkup, the hospital room felt dirty and forgotten, I had been told what was going to happen to me rather than asked permission, Scott didn't know what to do and so he settled in a corner and started watching TV, I hadn't gotten to see my actual doctor...there were too many things the same to count them as coincidences. About the only thing that wasn't the same was the fact that this time I wasn't really in labor (that would have been nice, actually).

It is not a good idea to put an almost-overdue diabetic pregnant woman in a dark room with bad cable and non-functioning air conditioning and no water and make her suffer through both snack time and dinner without any food. It is a recipe for an emotional breakdown and that's just what happened, later on that night when the PTSD really kicked in.

"I can't do that again," I cried to Scott. I can't do childbirth the same way I did it with Kevin. I can't do it alone this time and I can't do it without getting some positive attention from medical professionals (tylenol and ambien don't cut it) and some questions answered and somebody listening to my needs and wants. I felt like the whole time we were at the hospital on Thursday I was just reliving what I'd already been through--and more than anything, I was mad at myself for not demanding things go differently. I knew all he needed was the BPP. I should have made them send me to the ultrasound department instead of letting them admit me. I should have demanded someone get some air flowing and bring me a huge glass of ice water and let me eat a snack. I should have, I should have, I should have...but I didn't. All I did was steal the remote back from Scott so that I didn't have to suffer through contractions and  Seinfeld (I like Seinfeld once in a while, but this was not the right time) and make him get me a cup of water so I didn't die of dehydration and so my contractions wouldn't be as painful.

All evening, I had conversations with God. I was mad at Him. Furious, even. "Why would you do that to me?" I asked. "Why would you make me relive all of that when I'm days away from facing it again?"

I still have no answer. Scott gave me a beautiful blessing that night, but when he didn't say exactly what I wanted to hear ("this is going to be easy"), I shut down and only half-listened (probably not the best idea). I was told that I would get exactly the help I needed--and that should have been enough for me that night, but somehow it wasn't. I was mad, upset, and more than slightly terrified of what it is to come.

In the days since, my heart has softened (even if my cervix hasn't). I have seen many of the promises given in that blessing come to pass. From the smallest things, like multiple texts and phone calls from friends and neighbors making sure I had the help I needed and my aunt being able to take Kevin last-minute during my appointment on Monday, to the biggest things--like baby boy passing his NST at the perinatologist without having to do any extra time (first time he's done that in six weeks!). I was so worried about how I was going to make it through today (because I am exhausted and I have an over-active two-year-old) and make it a happy day for us to remember (it is our last day just the two of us, after all), and Kevin has been perfect. She has played by herself just enough to give me a break, but taken lots of time to let me hold her. AT one point this morning she even suggested we go lay down in my bed and watch a show, like she knew I was going to fall asleep for half an hour and she let me do it!

I am still scared about what is going to happen tomorrow.  I know much of it is out of my control, just as that day almost two and a half years ago was not mine to direct, and just as the day I entered the MTC six years ago was unexpected and long and hard. It worked out then...and even though last Thursday I might have said something different, today I have faith that all things will work out for our good.

I've given you your best chance, baby boy.

Ready or not, the day has come!

Coming Back: An Apology and An Explanation

Hello friends.

It has been a while.

I'm sorry.

I just haven't liked people in general for the last several weeks (months).

But guess what? Our air conditioner got fixed yesterday, so now I am back to wanting to do normal things and not just get mad at every person I see.

So this is good.

You can be grateful that I have spared you all the pregnancy woes for the past three or four weeks. I'm miserable, yes, but I'm also still pregnant, so we will all be grateful for that (So this is what it feels like to be nine months pregnant?). And tomorrow I get my last progesterone shot (on my birthday), with which I have had a love-hate relationship for the last 20 weeks. I know they have worked, but they have also been horrifically painful and inconvenient and made me very, very grumpy. And Grumpy Mommy has not been a very fun person to be around for the past few weeks.

And then there is Kevin. Kevin has been on a roller coaster of emotions herself. And while it really bugs me when people (aka my sister) say "It's just because you are having a baby" (like, what? We are never supposed to add to our family? She wouldn't be into the terrible twos if I weren't ruining her life? Teething has nothing to do with her constant whining and crying and mischief?) she is starting to get used to the idea and catch on. It'll still be a shock to her when brother gets here, but she is all about playing with her dolls and giving loves and kisses to them and she tells everyone about her baby brother (although she will still change the subject if anyone other than mom and dad brings it up). Also, I apologize to anyone I ever said the previous "just because of the new baby" comment to. Even if I wasn't wrong, which I probably was, that has got to be the most annoying thing any pregnant woman with a toddler was ever told. I get it. Never again.

We've also coined two new terms around our house to define the kind of days we are having: Ramona Days and Alexander Days. Both come from some of my favorite children's literature: Beverly Cleary's loveable Ramona Quimby and that cute picture book we all identify with, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Kevin is the Queen of Ramona Days. Ramona Days are ones in which you don't mean to make mistakes, but every time you turn around you are doing something wrong. Things get broken, moms get mad, misunderstandings abound...but it doesn't really feel like it is your fault, you've just made a few mistakes and had some bad moments. Sometimes on these days you feel like being extra cuddly and nice to make up for your blunders. Have you ever had a day like that?

I, on the other hand, am Queen of the Alexander Days. I seem to be having a lot of them lately. These are days when everything counts against you and everything goes wrong and by lunchtime you are so grumbly that you cause even more bad things to happen to you. My Alexander Days usually start with sleepless and painful nights, and then Kevin will wake up before I'm ready for her, and the kitchen will be messy, and people will need me to do things, and I will end up not liking people, and Kevin will have a Ramona Day, which leads me to want to quit Motherhood (ask Scott how many of those emails and texts he's gotten in the last nine months, I dare you), which leads to tears and depression and a messy house and nothing getting done and high blood sugars.

In short, Ramona Days mixed with Alexander Days are not very fun. And while I know there will be plenty more of them in the future, it helps to have a way to label them. Somehow, if I can pass it off as "She's just having a Ramona Day" or "Today I feel like Alexander" then tomorrow becomes an Anne Shirley day. Because you know what Anne Shirley always says-- "Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it."

Quiet Milestones

Today. Today is the day.

Warning: This is a pregnancy post. There is no way around it.

Today I am 31 weeks and 5 days along in this pregnancy.

The last time I was 31 weeks and 5 days into my pregnancy, I had a quiet day planned, much like today. I don't remember much before 10 am, when I experienced that mysterious gushing and a few hours later, after going to work for an hour and making muffins for a family in our ward, I figured out that something wasn't right and I should probably go get checked.

What followed was one of the biggest nightmares and traumatic experiences of my life. Yes, we made it through, we survived, Kevin survived, and everyone is now healthy and happy (unless it is naptime or bedtime, that is).

But something about being a pregnant a second time is forcing me to relive many of those experiences and wonder why I didn't do things differently. I've always said that it would take more courage to have a second baby and now I am discovering that sometimes it is hard to muster that courage--even when you don't have any choice. Do I know enough now to do things differently this time around, or will I have to go through six IVs and not get my epidural until the very last second and then not be able to hold or nurse my baby right away again?

Is it even possible to plan for Italy when all you know is Holland?

So many questions. No answers.

Just a lot of waiting, hoping, and praying.

Every child is different, and so it follows that every pregnancy will be different. There have been some things that have been easier this time around (a significant decrease in morning sickness, better overall health, and not having to balance three jobs and a full class load with pregnancy) but also things that have been much more challenging than hourly dates with the toilet.

In addition to the blood sugar checks, abundance of appointments, daily insulin shots (total is nearing 350 shots I've given to myself in the last twelve weeks), weekly progesterone shots (which sometimes feel like getting stabbed with a three inch long quilting needle, depending on the nurse), carpal tunnel in my wrists, back pain, cramping, and other general pregnancy symptoms (I left many things out)...there is the mental game I have been playing with myself for the last few weeks.

It isn't just a general round of being depressed. It isn't that I've suddenly become a cussing queen (my grandpa would be proud) or that I have turned into an introvert who now struggles being in large crowds and holding conversations or being around people in general.

It's the fear and the knowledge that I have so little control over how this pregnancy will end. We have so many questions, the biggest of all being when will he come? But then there is also the question of if he will spend time in the NICU and how much time he will spend there and how we will balance everything if that is the case. There is the question of how big he will be and if I will be able to deliver vaginally or if we will be stuck with a C-section and how do you recover from that while taking care of a toddler and newborn all day? And how will Kevin handle all of this? Are we ruining her life, or making it better? And how do we balance a child at home and one in the hospital? And what happens when grandparent detox meets new baby brother meets a teething toddler? How will we survive?

For now, we have survived today. That is something. The hospital bag is halfway packed, the nursery is 80% put together, and we have a name picked out.

We aren't ready, but we are.

Fathers of Daughters

It was yesterday, 10:00 pm. Since the sun refuses to go to bed, my Kevin refuses to go to bed also, and neither of her parents were up to fighting bedtime for an hour, so we just let her stay up. We're weak like that. And exhausted.

So when we finally decided to attempt bedtime and family scripture study last night, we agreed to read half as much as we usually do and call it good and hope to get to sleep before midnight.

I started reading. I made it through a few verses. By the time I got to the middle of the page, I couldn't hear myself think, much less comprehend what I was reading. 

I looked over and Scott and Kevin had started an epic game of "stick the stuffed kitty on the top of daddy's head and laugh hysterically when it falls off."

I shook my head, smiled, and kept reading until I had gotten all the way through our normal routine of reading two pages. The two of them barely noticed. 

It's just their thing. I'm starting to get that. It's what they do.  Like how after dinner, she crawled into my arms, looked at Scott, and said, "I need a tickle!" or how she runs away from him every day when he gets home from work until she decides she just can't help but hugging him.

Or how, the night before, when she wouldn't go back to bed after teething pain woke her up at 2 am (seriously, are we ever going to catch a break?), she eventually woke up all four of us (baby brother included, he loves middle-of-the-night parties), and as she was enjoying a snack of graham ("gaham") crackers dipped in milk, all of the sudden she looked at Scott and asked,

"What happened? To your face?"

Here's the answer: she happened.

There should be something special about every relationship between a parent and a child. There is something so beautiful about mothering a daughter. There is something untouchable about that cliche "Mama's boy." But that daddy-daughter relationship? I'd venture to say it results in more tears, giggles, butterflies, shotgun sales, hugs, kisses, and smiles than any other relationship on earth.

So while this daughter of ours drives us completely nuts, it still breaks my heart when I wake up to her crying at the crack of dawn, moaning, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy to work!" because she heard his car drive away as she was waking up.

And I've gotten used to certain behaviors where he has shifted the focus from me to her: Saturday morning cuddles. Matching his tie to her Sunday dress instead of mine. Planning our weekends around what activity would bring a big smile to her face.

I remember talking to my dad on the phone a few months ago and complaining about how I had spent all day doing things for my daughter--reading, playing, battling, feeding, cuddling--and how she wouldn't even give me a hug but the second Scott walked through the door, she ran to him with open arms and planted a big kiss on his cheek.

I could hear the smile in my Dad's voice when he said, "That's just what daughters do to mothers."

And I realized: that's exactly what I did (and still on occasion, do) to my mother.

My dad's statement wasn't a commentary on the daddy-daughter relationship as much as it was him revealing a truth to me: no matter how close I get to my daughter, I will never be her daddy, which means he gets all the kisses and hugs and I get the leftovers.

Good thing #2 is a boy. 

Because guess what else I've realized in the past few weeks? 

Momma's boys make the best daddies.

Rinda's Reads: Kevin's Picks for Father's Day Shopping

It has been a while since I've posted a reading list update. I don't really have any new grown-up reads that have overly impressed me, but I thought I might lend a hand to some of you doing Father's Day shopping this week.

Here is a book for Dads that I found at the library yesterday. It truly is adorable and even Scott said we may have to buy a copy for ourselves to add to our collection:



Daddies do it Different by Alan Lawrence Sitomer
This book follows a pattern of a little girl and her parents and the differences in the way they do things--when Mommy gets her dressed, everything matches and her hair looks perfect. Daddy, on the other hand, likes to combine stripes and dots and put lots of gel in her hair to make her curls go crazy.

And a book for Grandpa's:



How to Babysit a Grandpa by Jean Reagan
One of Scott's brother's families gave this book to Grandpa Fowler a few years ago. This year we decided to give it to my Dad (aka Papa) for Father's Day. There are lots of helpful instructions (like appropriate snacks and how to get Papa to nap) for any little one "babysitting" a grandparent.

And if you happen to have a Grandma with a birthday or some other holiday coming up, you could check out the book that we gave Scott's mom for her birthday this week:



How to Babysit a Grandma by Jean Reagan
This one is just as cute as the Grandpa one!