Little Cotton Nighties

It’s amazing how after two years in a cardboard box, tiny little socks and hats and nighties still smell like tiny little babies. 

And how boxed up nighties can bring back memories of long, late nights.  Nights with little sleep.  How those nighties were huge on my little tiny babies.  And yet they wore them, every.single.night.  How their arms would never stay in the sleeves.  And how my babies would always wake up with their hats slumped down over their eyes because their heads were so tiny.  And their socks would always come off with their kicking, and get lost somewhere within those nighties. 

I can remember waking up to the sound of hunger flailing its skinny little arms and legs at me.  And being so frustrated because I just wanted to sleep.  I would jump out of bed and throw my pillow.  And then I would kick my pillow.  And maybe punch it. 

And then I would walk into a tiny baby’s room and I would melt as soon as my eyes rested on that face.  The most beautiful face I had ever seen. 

I would cradle a child in the crook of my arm, and nestled together in a warm blanket in the dark, I would feed that child.  And I would wonder what she would be like.  Or when he would talk.  When I would hear little footsteps.  When I would hear “I love you, Mommy.”  I would feel, for a few moments, that time stood still.  And it was breathtaking.

I have trouble getting rid of these things…these little nighties.  I press them to my face, and breathe in their scent, and my heart dips and swirls and for a moment, I remember.  And so, I will put them back in their cardboard container and they will rest there with little tiny socks and little tiny hats and little tiny blankets that I can’t bear to part with.  I will arrange them safely among the velvets and silks and organzas, the coming home outfits and the other, memory-laden treasures that I have kept.  

In a few months, when I can hardly remember what it felt like to be the mother of a tiny little baby, I will have these things to remind me…if only for a moment.

A November Day

I walk home from the corner on this cool morning.  Brown leaves spin and twirl and float to the ground where they crunch delightfully under my feet.  Two of the kids are on the bus, on their way to school.  Ella is still in bed, and Henry has just run outside, in his jammies, yelling to me that he finished his homework and now he’s going to play his ds.  Alrighty then. 

It is unmistakably November here in Virginia.  The gray trees painted with lichen are nearly bare now, but for those few brown leaves yet to make their breaks on the wind.  The air is cool.  The clouds are gray and low and cover our little town in a cozy fluff.  Shades of gray.  I love November.

I spend the morning cooking spaghetti sauce and meatballs.  Ella dips her egg in ketchup (ew).  She watches Monsters inc.  She loves Mike.  I know most of the lines in that movie.  She thinks it’s funny when I imitate Roz (I’m watching you Wazowski…).  I have to agree.

After breakfast, we play Caribou and go fish.  We get dressed.  We brush teeth.  I clean up the kitchen.  Contentedness fills me up.  

After lunch, Henry is off to school and Ella and I return to play.  We do puzzles and sing abc’s.  She is tired. 

So the naptime routine begins.  Close the shutters, turn on the fan, and the nightlight.  Read two books.  Olivia is her favorite these days.  She calls her “ia.”  We rock for a few minutes, and she — true to form — fights any type of snuggle I try to provide.  I sigh, and tuck her in bed. 

She delays.  She names all of her dogs.  All of her cats.  All of her babies.  The lamb.  And the bear.  I must repeat the names after her or the fussing ensues.  I realize I am enabling the behavior to continue, thank you.  I covertly remove a few of the aforementioned beings from the bed, kiss night-night, and slip out. 

This is the time of the day that is (supposed to be) my own.  A brief 90 minutes of whatever-I-want.  That usually tends to be laundry or cleaning or something of that nature, but I can do it uninterrupted and in the quiet.  Today, I planned to sit and pay the bills with a hot cup of tea and a soft, fluffy blanket.  I wanted to look out the window and into the deep of those lichen-covered trees.  You can see the landscape clearly now that the leaves have fallen…the hills and the ravines and the fallen trees.  I wanted, today, to enjoy this beautiful gray. 

Ella, unfortunately, is not having any of the nap.  The third time I go in there, I finally understand. Her nose is running.  She is a prickly mess. 

And so I scoop her up.  She says “miss you, Mommy.”  She sweeps the hair from her face, and this time she relaxes in my arms.  She drifts off to sleep so quickly that I want it to slow down.  I hold her, and I watch her sleep.  I watch her eyelids flutter, and I hear her little snuffly breaths puff in and out.  

And I love her so deeply that I can hardly stand it.

This is it?

There is a line in a song called Fifteen that says something like

“this is life before you know who you’re gonna be…” 

I heard this song today and I realized, heavily, that I am probably already “who I’m gonna be.”  I wondered if there was more. 

I wondered if there is more for me.  Am I going to do something considerable someday?  Something significant?  Or will I remain in this small corner of the world…in this small house…unknown as I am.   Is this it? 

And then I reflected upon my life as it is… 

Yesterday, I bought groceries. 

I did homework with a 5 year old boy. 

I diapered and clothed a two year old little girl.  Several times.

I fed children.  Many times. 

I cleaned up after children.  Many times.

I paid out allowances.

I worked on accounting.

I dusted.

I cleaned the shutters in the kids’ rooms.  (That was gross, and sorely overdue.)

I helped organize my daughter’s room.  (Also sorely overdue).

I trimmed the plants in the yard.

I helped my son and daughter with their homework after school. 

I filled and ran the dishwasher.

I cooked a warm, nourishing meal for their supper.

I read them books and tucked them in bed.

And then, exhausted, I too drifted off.

This is it for me? 

This is it.  I am their mom.

It is dirty at times, and it is mundane at times and it is thankless at times.  And it is nothing that millions of other women haven’t already done before me with their own children. 

The rewards are intangible, and they are known only to me.  I am paid with the feeling of a small hand clinging tightly to mine.  I am paid with red ringlets and wispy blonde locks. 

I am paid with the perfume of little boys that have been playing football outside….I am paid with their ruddy cheeks and their skinned knees and their freckles.  

I am paid with the drawings of a little girl.  Depictions, always, of her and me, together.  

I am paid with their laughter and with the breathtaking view of them as they sleep.  I am paid with the warmth of a child in my arms, his breath on my neck, the sound of his voice in my ears. 

I am paid with the smallest child, asking simply “Play…me?” 

Here in this little house, I am sculpting human beings. 

I am molding little hearts. 

I am forming little minds. 

I am responsible for the very lives of four small people. 

Is there truly anything bigger than this?

The Sounds We Hear

They bound off the bus and over to me.  The boys still fall into me as I give them hugs and plant kisses on their tousled little boys heads.  When will that end?  I wonder when will they feel too big to hug me in front of their friends…

They run all the way home…can’t slow these boys down. 

I made brownies this afternoon…the boys cannot sit still while they eat them.  Wiggling.  Kicking their feet.  Bobbing their heads.  Giggling.  I don’t understand the need for constant motion.  But now and then I like it.  Right now, I like it. 

The house is quiet.  The normal sounds…

the washing machine…

the children playing football in the basement (even though they know they’re not allowed to)  Blue 42…

and someone crying because he was playing football in the basement (even though he’s not allowed to) and ran into a wall…

Ella, taking out all of our cups and spoons for tea…

footsteps thumping up and down the stairs and through the house on hardwood floors that echo more than I ever would have imagined possible…

Ella screeching because someone took away the DS (that she’s not allowed to play with)…

little boy whispers about spying…

and complaints from little girls about little boys who are spying on them…

and laughter.  There is a lot of laughter, too. 

Those normal sounds are hushed. 

I hear instead the dreams of a little boy.  Remember when we dreamed of what we would be? 

William says

Hey Mom…  This is what I’m going to do.  I’m going to retire from football when I’m 38 and then I’m gonna be a secret agent.

Then he slips on his secret agent sunglasses (which remind me strangely of a pair that I had when I was about 15), gives me a hug, and sits down to do his homework. 

So I write, while he writes.  And I answer questions like “Hey Mom, how do you spell nocturnal?”

I hear Henry in the basement playing with his friend.  Ella sleeps upstairs.  And Kate is at Art class. 

This is just how I thought it would be–motherhood.

My life.

What You Don’t See

Thirteen years ago, I woke up to the gray pattering of rain.  Yellow leaves spun and twirled to the ground.  I sipped my coffee and prayed for the rain to stop.  I had a big day ahead. 

Just a few hours later, I married The Man.  And now, I sit here, trying to think of some way to put thirteen years into a few paragraphs.  That is rather impossible, I suppose. 

I could say that a snapshot of my life looks rather what I imagined it would look like…  The house.  The kids.  Me and The Man.  But that snapshot is just a picture.  And behind that picture is a story of all that two people go through to come to the point, thirteen years later, when that picture is taken.     

It is Barbados.  Cobbler’s Cove.  Rum punch.  And nothing to do all day.

It is Coco, who really taught us how to parent. 

It is Hokie games. 

It is dreaming of our children.  And the birth of those four children. 

It is watching your toddler son recover from a stroke.  Learn to roll over again.  Learn to sit again.  Learn to walk again.  Learn to run. 

It is the special need of another son.  Helping him to hear.  To speak.  To listen.  It is watching him soar. 

It is miscarriages. 

It is losing Coco. 

It is our first home.  And leaving our first home. 

It is finding our forever home.  And trying to rid that forever home of it’s ant infestation.  

It is families.  And it is saying goodbye to some of those that we hold the most dear.

It is friends.  BBQs.  Fireworks.  Happy hours. 

Vacations at the beach.  Camping.  The cabin. 

Collecting acorns. 

Spiders in our ears. 

Carving pumpkins. 

Jumping in piles of leaves.  And being stung by bees for hours afterward.

Turkeys.  Cutting down our Christmas trees.  And decorating them.

And Christmas Eve masses. 

And paper valentines. 

And Easter egg hunts. 

And Easter Sunday bonnets and gingham bow ties.  

It is spring walks to the river.  

It is first steps.  First words.  Lost teeth.

And oh the tantrums.  And the kisses.  The hugs.  Tears.  Laughter.

The soccer games.  Baseball games.  Football games.  Basketball games.

The flu. 

It is coming to compromises.  You get your hoop in the driveway…I get my dog.

It is sipping wine on the stoop and together, watching the neighborhood nod off. 

It is all the dreams I have of a future with him. 

We are different now, thirteen years later.  Our life is different.  It is not exciting…it is not flashy and new.  It is worn, and comfortable and it fits.  It is soft.  Mostly, this life brings the greatest joys I have ever known. 

That is thirteen years.

What I want.

I can’t quite tell for sure

what is wrong.

But you are not you.

You collapse on the couch.

An unhappy lump.

I stroke your hair and your little boy back.

You shiver in your sleep

and now I know

why you have been so…

prickly.

What I want is to hold you.

But your baby sister wants Mama.

Your baby sister wants chapstick.

Your baby sister wants markers

paper

milk

snack

anything.  She wants anything other than

to let me sit

and be with you.

And your big brother needs help with his spelling.

And supper…I have to make supper.

Laundry.

Dishwasher.

Smears and spills and sticky stuff.

And all I want is to sit down

and pull you onto my lap

and kiss your forehead

and wrap my arms around you

until you feel better.

What I want is to hold you

but I can only manage a glance your way as you wake.

You are the most beautiful thing

and the most pathetic

and even now you want to help me.

Help me empty the dishwasher.

Help me set the table.

Help me get Ella in her seat.

Henry.

You make me want to be so much better.

Tonight I watched you 

feverish…sleeping…

and sadness filled me for what I couldn’t give you today.

I fail daily

to be the mother you deserve.

That all of you deserve.

I don’t know how to do this better.

But tomorrow I will try

Again.

An Update on Misery

After that God-sighting, things began to look up.  Actually, there were several more mis-haps, none of which bothered me in the least.  Which is wierd.   

Case in point:  I broke the dryer.  Broke it.  You know the little doohicky that clicks when you close the door so that the dryer will turn on?  You know that little thing?  Well, when I was pulling some sheets out of the dryer, they snagged on it and bent it up.  So I thought “I’ll just bend it back down.”  So I did.  Yep, I bent it down and it snapped right off.  “Uh-huh” I said to myself.  So I just figured I’d take some tape and tape it back on there.  And what do you know but it worked.  And also, Dad, I did not use duct tape.  I have not sunk (sank?  sunken?) to that level.  Although I’ve come close a few times.  Anyway, the tape is only a temporary solution, but whatever.

Then I began to try restoring all the files I lost on my old computer.  It took me about three hours but I was finally able to re-download my accounting program free of charge.  Then I began restoring the data files…that only took about 4 hours to complete.  But you know what?  They are all there.  And you know what else?  So is that folder full of pictures that I couldn’t find last night.  Carbonite, I think I may love you…

So in the midst of all this computery stuff, my friend Jenny brought me some Nutella to indulge in.  Isn’t that nice?  Only I can.not.get.the.top.off.  I’ll have to have The Man loosen it in the morning or I’m going to go insane with the drooling. 

I threw together a really nice roast chicken with herbs and artichokes, asparagus, kalamata olives, tomatoes, garlic, onions and white wine.  Then we headed out the door to t-ball.  We were in such a rush to leave, and Henry still did not have his cleats on (even though I’d told him to get ready like a million times) so I told him to just grab them and I’d help him tie them when we got to the field. 

So we get to the field, and he hands me the shoes.  Well what do you know but he didn’t get a matching pair.  Not only that, but he managed to get two left shoes.  One was his left shoe from last year which is too small now, and one was William’s left shoe.  So on his left foot I put the too-small left shoe, and on his right foot I put the too-big left shoe.  And I said how does that feel?   And he said fine, I can wiggle my toes and everything.  And I said then get on out there and play ball.  No one will notice (that your mother is a moron).  And I just laughed.  Kate and William looked at me like I was losing my mind. 

I remember this one family that used to go to church and the kids were always a mess…bedhead, and socks that didn’t match, and shoes untied…you know the ones I’m talking about.  I remember thinking that I would never be like that mother.  Nope.  Not me.  I would have it together. 

I just sent my child out onto the field to play ball with two left shoes on, neither of which actually fits.  And I did it knowingly.  And I laughed.  Now, I am that mother.  

Closing the book on this day…

PS…don’t forget to enter my giveaway!

Monday

Well, it was a weekend full of yuck.  I felt miserable.  Luckily The Man came home early on Friday to help me make his birthday dinner.  I started on the dessert and realized that there was no way it was going to be ready to eat with our supper–it had to chill for 4 hours after cooling to room temp (which took three hours).  So we had brownie sundaes instead, and told ourselves we would eat the pumpkin cheesecake with gingersnap crust for breakfast on Saturday.  Which we did.

Then Ella threw up because I gave her a bite of shrimp and I forgot that I think she’s allergic to shrimp because she always throws up when she eats it.  Brilliant deduction, right?  So we were both up half the night with vomit and vomity laundry. 

Saturday morning the weather was gorgeous.  I went to Henry’s t-ball game (picture to follow), and felt gross.  It actually took my mind off of being sick for an hour though, watching Henry instruct each of his teammates to throw the ball to him if they got it, so that he could get an out.  He’s nothing if not confident.  Good for him.

I came home, ate some lunch and put Ella down for a nap.  Then I watched the Hokies online because the game wasn’t televised.  They won.  It wasn’t the best performance.  But they won. 

Then I took Kate to a party where they did her hair all cute and funky with twists and braids and sparkles.  And there was some blue eyeshadow involved.  A little thick, imho, but it was cute for a little girl playing dress-up.  I was exhausted.  While the party was going on, I did a little shopping.  And I coughed a lot.

Sunday morning I felt gross.  Or gross-er if that is possible.  I did some laundry, made a grocery list, hung a fall wreath and took a nap.  (It wasn’t really a nap.  It was more like rest.  And it wasn’t even very rest-y.  Because I couldn’t breathe.)

Then I went grocery shopping.  That was un-fun.  I have to do it, though, because I’m a freak about the food we buy, and I get annoyed when The Man shops because he gets the wrong stuff.  I make life so easy for myself, don’t I?

Then I came home and did more laundry and read books with Ella while The Man made supper.  We ate, showered the kids, read more books and tucked them in bed. 

I searched for about an hour on this computer for a folder of pictures that is apparently gone.  (Did I mention that I have a new computer?  Yeah.  I have a new computer.  The other one croaked.)  I read blogs and went to sleep.  

Today, I woke up with a headache.  I’m tired.  I don’t feel well.  And I have a full week of stuff to do, not the least of which is restoring a bunch of accounting programs.  Which I have been putting off because I dread it.

Before school, William argued with me about wearing a coat.  It is 52 degrees.  I said wear a sweatshirt or a light jacket.  He couldn’t find his sweatshirt.  So he had to wear a jacket.  (I guess that is another instance of how I ruin all the fun around here for him).  This was like a repeat performance of Friday morning.  Only this time I kept it together and hugged him and told him I loved him and completely ignored his anger.

Then I got home from the bus stop, and the first thing I notice is Kate’s homework folder that she was supposed to bring to school.  And I think very briefly about bringing it up to the school for her.  But then I decide that she has to take responsibility for her work.  And it makes me almost cry because she is typically so responsible.  And I think she left it out for me to sign so it’s half my fault.  But she should have completed it before this morning, 5 minutes before we’re supposed to leave. 

Now I’m sitting here, and the reality of it being laundry day creeps in and I know I have a lot of laundry to do.  The washing, the drying, the folding.  The piles of laundry everywhere.  I am swimming in the every-day mundane tasks of motherhood.  Normally, I feel joy in the mundane.  But today, it just feels overwhelming. 

Ella is beside me.  I watch her squeeze her bagel and make a complete mess of the cream cheese and think she is just the most precious thing in the entire world.  And my.heart.leaps.  Wow.  I am lucky to be her mother. 

And then Henry asks me if I want to see his muscles.  How glad I am that I am a mother of boys. 

That was what I needed.  A God-sighting.  Right there.

This is a post that is pretty much about nothing in particular.

I have a sore throat.  And I’m tired.  And I’m sitting here, hoping that it rains.  Rains hard.  Because then soccer practice will be cancelled tonight. 

Is that so wrong?

I know.  It makes me a wicked, wretched, fun-ruining kind of mom.  (One of the littles asked me the other day why I always had to ruin all the fun around here.  Which totally makes me laugh.  I think I asked him to wash his hands or something.  I am SO mean.  I also make them wear sweatshirts to the bus stop when it’s less than 60 degrees outside.  I know, I know.  Horrid.) 

I still hope it rains. 

Now I’m going to go snuggle up with a cup of tea and read me some Beverly Cleary.  (Still doing to pre-reading.  There is no end to that in the near future, I’m afraid.  My daughter came home with a book from the book fair that I began to pre-read and let me tell you I got no further than page 2 before I closed it for the forseeable future.)

Go back to your lives, people.

Spicy Apple Juice–Not a Recipe

One day your daughter will tell you that the apple juice hurts her tongue.  And you will think she is nuts.  And then the next day your son will tell you that the apple juice is “spicy.”  You sniff it, cautiously, hoping not to vomit.  And then you will say “Henry, you’re crazy.  You asked for that juice, now you drink it.” 

Never mind that the apple juice container has puffed up and is weebly.  And never mind the pfffffffffft sound you get when you open it.  Yeah, don’t worry about that.at.all.  It smells normal, so that’s clearly all that matters.  Clearly.

On the third day your daughter will tell you — again — that the juice hurts her tongue.

That, plus the pfffffft, and the weeblyishness are all holding hands in your brain now.  Interesting.  Now you will taste the juice.  Vomiting is a good possibility here.   

And then you realize the reason for the children’s early morning buzzes for the past two days.  (Totally kidding.  Don’t get all freaked out.  No one was buzzy.)

Please, if your juice bottle is puffy, and you hear the pffffffft, discard.  

P.S.  I ate three baggies of chips while writing this.  Which has nothing to do with the apple juice fermentation but I thought the chip-eating should be documented.