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)