If babies could talk...

Let's just be honest, parents participate in many traditions that could easily be construed as strange to a little person with no previous life experience (a.k.a. the baby).  But I think off all the things that parents do, photo shoots must be the strangest.  Popular directions to take in these photo shoots include a random and well-lit location, naked baby, HUGE flower, over-sized and bright colored tutu, a decorative basket or a combination of any of these.  And while parents think these pictures are adorable, what are our children thinking?  Put yourself in their shoes (or booties) and imagine being stripped down and stuck under bright lights.  It's like going to the gynecologist. . . or maybe like going to the dentist with no shirt on.  Either way, it seems like it must be unpleasant.  Curious to delve deeper into the infant mind I asked my research assistant (Andrea) to aid me in an experiment and then write up a detailed report.  Senario- Bucket, half-naked baby, big flower, outside in random places.  Here was the feedback:

Mom, why am I in this bucket?  And why am I just wearing a diaper?

Don't ya think it's kinda bright out here?  And hot?  Oh, I see.  You want to take pictures of me.  Okay, I'll try and smile.

New location, huh?  Courtesy smile number two.

 

 Location number three. . . is this for real?  Where are we anyway?

Okay, you are getting one more cute face and then you are taking me inside and putting my clothes back on.

  I'm so over this.  Let's go inside.  Please.

Did you not hear me?  Give me that camera.

Wait!  I have to sneeze.

Okay, NOW give me that camera!

 I give up.  I don't think you are listening.

 Mmmm.  Bucket. . .

This woman doesn't know who she's dealing with.  Oh, the noises I could make in the middle of the night. . .

 Location number four?!  You've got to be kidding me.  Alright, game on.

Seasons may come and go

Summer, you are coming to a close and soon the ground will be littered with multi-colored confetti leaves as a sullen reminder that the party is over. I’ve already expressed my desire for an extension but I suspect it’s been denied. Moping seemed to slow down my last couple weeks before Paul started school. Unfortunately, it was the bad kind of slow where there is too much time to think. And I didn’t use my thinking time to ponder anything useful like global warming, the national debt crisis, or a cure for cancer. I instead thought about how different my life is today from what I thought it would be.

Four years ago I watched my friends go off to college and I stayed behind working, waiting really, for my turn as I tasted my first real dose of adulthood. I was facing circumstances that my mom wasn’t obligated or even permitted to step in and fix for me. But I was a dreamer and couldn’t possibly believe that all would not fix itself in due time. I would still go to school, just a semester after my peers, and I would eventually graduate, teach high school students how to write and express and read and think, and I would be happy. Then, when I’d least expect it, some insane man, most likely a real estate agent or sales rep for a small pest control company, would show up and sweep me off my feet. He’d show up in the middle of one of my classes with a bouquet of green daises and a little velvet box containing a gaudy square rock that his sister picked out for me. We would get married that summer and honeymoon in Mexico before school started. I would go back to teaching while I’d struggle with years of infertility like my mother, and on my thirtieth birthday I would surprise my husband with the big news: A positive pregnancy test.

That’s the most honest interpretation of my life plan I can recall from so long ago.

But God had something else in mind and sent me Paul. I married young, got pregnant within the year, dropped out of college for lack of funding, and quit my job to start a new season of life: mothering an infant.

As I struggled to keep up with all of the changes I wondered of it was too much, too soon, and too different. Yesterday I sat on the floor with Andrea watching her lick and chew on my watch. Occasionally she would take it out of her mouth, a string of spit still connecting it to her lips, and she would giggle profusely, eyes glowing with pure delight.

I was then taken back to the first six months of her life which I mostly try to forget. I recalled those first few weeks when every cry panicked me-- every noise woke me. Every sneeze was typhoid fever and every grunt was diphtheria. I kept her beside my bed in a laundry basket so I could rescue her if she chocked in the night or feed her before she had the chance to cry. I sat on the couch watching informercials all night as I nursed and examined my new and not-so-glamorous life. I remembered all the nights and days that I laid her down to sleep and hoped the sandman would come save my tired bones. I cried, crouched over on the floor of her room as I listened to her sleeping breath turn to screams within a minute of being put down. I wanted the cup to pass from me. Not in a take-away-this-child way, but in a change-her-to-make-her-not-the-way-she-is-because-I-can’t-take-this-anymore way.

How I’m glad now, watching her tell my watch stories and giggle at the black band, that she is just who she is. The two of us have come so far and because of the trials we faced I’ve come to love her more than I thought possible. Yesterday, while folding a basket of clean underwear, I finally made peace with my new life. My new life that is so different from what I expected—but all my own. (And the season of baby is not so bad now that the season of newborn is over!)

Good bye, Summer! Good bye to your stormy nights and humid, cloudy days. Goodbye to your sweltering heat and cool, dry breezes. That’s the thing about you seasons, whether it is changes in climate or phases in life, you weren’t meant to last forever. But when you come again you will be just as different as I. In case we don’t recognize each other look for a young mom chasing a little girl. . . and smiling.

Splish splash

There is something very exciting about watching your first child experience a myriad of firsts.  I remember Andrea's first bath and her first big poo, her first sounds, smiles, and Christmas.  Paul and I recorded these events in her baby book, and I took lots of pictures.  But this week as Paul finalized his preparations for his masters program starting on Monday and Andrea's first summer came to a close I realized we never took her swimming.  Friday we drenched her in sunscreen and ventured out of our dark basement apartment to bask in the summer heat and some chlorine.

It's taken us a very long time to help Andrea adjust to baths.  When I brought her home from the hospital I discovered her amazing talent of peeing during diaper changes.  She not only scored high points for quantity of urine, but aim as well.  Her little squirts somehow managed to seep their way up the changing mat into her mullet and I would call for Paul to rescue me with a baby tub of bath water.  Poor little Andrea's face would turn a sad shade of violet from the pressure of her screams, but I hoped as she got older her tears would turn to giggles as she splashed in the tub.  Seven months later my wait ended and my sensitive and cautious baby decided that bath time was no longer fatal (provide I ensure she not drown).  I took this as a sign that she was ready for the pool.

Perhaps it was a little too soon.  I hadn't even put her into the water when she began to whimper, so I started slow.  I dabbed her feet with the chilly water before carefully dipping them.  Inch by inch her fair skin entered the pool until she was sitting on the top step of the kiddy pool.  She continued to complain and scrunch her face from the bright sparkly water.

The combination of bright sun, chilly water, screaming children, and splashing fountains no longer seemed Andrea-compatible.  I gathered her up in my arms and walked around the lazy river as she clung to my swimsuit and buried her face into my neck.  My sister, who came along to support her little niece, commented on Andrea's strangely cuddly behavior.  I worried this was too much for her.

Paul and my little brother found us to take a turn holding Andrea so my sister and I could soak in the hot tub.  Because she seemed so uncomfortable in the bright sun Paul retrieved her over-sized hat and within minutes she was fast asleep against his chest.  Apparently, she was just tired.

After a little nap we were ready to put Andrea back into the water.  Armed with her hat and a toy, she was all smiles as she sat on her kiddy pool step and practiced some light splashing.

I was so impressed with her new attitude I let her play for a while and took her for a few more laps around the lazy river.  She seemed be enjoying everything now (with the exception of the waterfall).

We left the pool while she was still happy hoping she'll want to go back.  I know I do!

How I'll talk to my girls

I can't stay quiet any longer.  This has been bugging me since the end of June when a certain article began to circulate on facebook on how to talk to little girls.  I think it was my band teacher who posted it first, and since he often posts interesting links I read the entire thing.  It was well-written and riddled with statistics that I had studied in my major at BYU.  I just love me some statistics!  Yet there was something about it that I didn't like.  I just wasn't exactly sure what it was.  Before the day was over the article was posted again and interested in my own reaction I read it for the second time.

If you haven't already had this article appear on your news feed I will sum it up for you.  Lisa Bloom relates an experience of meeting a little girl and resisting giving her compliments regarding her outward appearance.  She explains that the trend in our country is to tell girls how beautiful they are first, instilling into them that worth is correlated with good looks.  Bloom then issues a challenge to not speak to little girls about their physical beauty at all.  Ask them about books and politics and the environment.  Make them think and emphasize knowledge and ideas.

Sounds great, right?  Girls ARE investing too much in their appearance.  Then what is it that bothered me so much about this article?  I think it was the idea that beauty doesn't matter much at all.  It was too extreme for me.  While the obsession with being skinny, hot, and acne free in this country is unhealthy, beauty still matters.  And I have proof.

[a]Psychologist Alan Slater of Exeter University believes that "humans may have a biologically ingrained preference for beauty."  To test his method he showed pictures of faces to adults and had them rate the faces as more or less attractive.  When these pictures were shown to babies, average two and a half days old, he discovered that "babies invariably stared longer at faces which adults had rated as more attractive."  He received the same result with babies only hours old.

Amid this study and many others similarly conducted a common factor began to emerge.  The "beautiful" faces had one thing in common: Symmetry. Found in animals as well as humans, this attraction is just as much a survival instinct as a aesthetic preference.  Three words: [b]"higher mate-value. Scientists believe that this symmetry is equated with a strong immune system. Thus, beauty is indicative of more robust genes, improving the likelihood that an individual's offspring will survive."  Can well help that we like to look at that which is lovely?  No, we're born that way.  However, beauty is not 100 pounds or a large cup size or a small nose.  That is a product of media and peer pressure.  That is what we must be aware of.

Science aside, there is another reason that I believe beauty matters.  It's a gift from God.  In Doctrine and Covenants 59: 18-19 it says, "Yea, all things which come of the earth, in the season thereof, are made for the benefit and the use of man, both to please the eye and to gladden the heart; Yea, for food and for raiment, for taste and for smell, to strengthen the body and to enliven the soul."  Our Heavenly Father wants his children to have joy and he knows that joy comes from many places and all our senses.  This is evident in His temples.  If beauty didn't matter why would He require that so much time, effort, and money put into beautifying and maintaining temples?

Temples are places for God to dwell, but temples are not just buildings.  [c]They are our bodies.  Shouldn't we treat them just as well.  Taking care of our bodies by keeping them healthy, well-groomed, and clean we are creating a beautiful environment, inside and out, where God will want to dwell.  He tells us to use what we've been given [d]"with judgment, not to excess, neither by extortion."  It's clear that the statistics given in Lisa Bloom's article are all examples of a misuse and abuse of what God had given.

"15 to 18 percent of girls under 12 now wear mascara, eyeliner and lipstick regularly; eating disorders are up and self-esteem is down; and 25 percent of young American women would rather win America's Next Top Model than the Nobel Peace Prize. Even bright, successful college women say they'd rather be hot than smart"

And I'm not a proponent of this kind of abuse.  But I will not stop telling my daughter she is beautiful.  Nope, this is not the answer.  I will instead teach her what true beauty is, which is radiating joy and the light of Christ.  [e]Susan W. Tanner says, "Happiness comes from accepting the bodies we have been given as divine gifts and enhancing our natural attributes, not from remaking our bodies after the image of the world. The Lord wants us to be made over—but in His image. . . by receiving His image in our countenances."  And I think that is beautiful.

[a] http://www.futurepundit.com/archives/002338.html

[b] http://www.jyi.org/volumes/volume6/issue6/features/feng.html

[c] http://lds.org/scriptures/nt/john/2.21?lang=eng#20

[d] http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/59.20?lang=eng#17

[e] http://lds.org/general-conference/2005/10/the-sanctity-of-the-body?lang=eng

Babysitting

A couple of weeks ago I received an unexpected phone call from my high school clarinet teacher.  Once upon a time I watched her children everyday after school while she taught piano and clarinet.  Although that was four years ago, she was in need for an adult babysitter to come spend the night with her kids this week while she went to visit her husband far away on a military assignment.  I said yes. . .

Because I'm a masochist.

Had I not been a nursing mom perhaps watching all those children wouldn't have been so difficult.

My clarinet teacher has five children.  The oldest was at girls camp, but I was still completely overwhelmed by the other four and Andrea.  If I sat my daughter down she instantly burst into tears because she was in a strange and very noisy place, but I struggled wrangling the eighteen month old with only one hand.  Those two had to just take turns crying.  Paul worked late most days and arrived just thirty minutes before bedtime to provide me with some relief.  By then Andrea was hysterical with hunger and exhaustion.  Paul would take her from me so I could bathe the other baby and put her in bed.  Then I would set him in charge of the other children while I found a private place to nurse.

Nursing wasn't the only challenge.  The eighteen month old has had some health problems since birth and is a terrible sleeper.  Having one of those myself I anticipated long nights.  My clarinet teacher had been giving her baby melatonin, a natural sleep hormone, to help her stay asleep all night.  She gave me the instructions on how and when to administer the melatonin, but our first night at the house I was unable to find the bottle.  I searched and searched while the two babies screamed and Harry Potter blazed in the background.  Unable to locate it she had to go to sleep without.  Andrea was put to bed next and I didn't expect a very smooth night from her either.  She barely makes it through the night at home in her familiar bed.

Much to my surprise, everyone slept great which I can only attribute to divine intervention and a faulty baby monitor. . . he he.  Discovered that the last night there.  Poor Andrea.

The reason I've regaled you with this amazing story was to not put you to sleep but to declare to you my intentions to never reproduce EVER AGAIN.

Just kidding. . .  though I'd be lying if I denied saying that at least seventy-eight times in the last week. 

Paul reminded me that women typically have children one at a time, not four, and can make adjustments at the arrival of each new baby.  Still, what I really want to say is this-- to my dear mother, who never had just one baby and in a two year span found herself a mother of three: My hat is off to you.  It's harder than it looks.

Overall my clarinet teacher has great kids and as hard as it was juggling the two babies, the other three were saints.  For that, I'm so thankful, so I shouldn't complain.

Still, I don't plan on house/babysitting again for a good long while.

Summer

I wish this was the summer that never ended.

After Andrea’s birth and the whirlwind of holidays Paul returned to school for his final semester.  He also returned to work, and I practically became a single mom.  Being a new mom is hard on anyone.  I was actually embarrassed that it was so hard on me.  However, it wasn't the sleepless nights and the hours of holding a screaming child that wore me out most (although that was incredibly exhausting).  My real challenge was doing it alone.

Ironic that having a person constantly attached to me launched me into the loneliest time of my life (thus far).

To add insult to injury, when I was around people I was irritable and emotional.  I desperately craved adult conversation and the companionship of a friend yet could not seem to offer those things in return.  Andrea was draining everything from me and the voids in my brain that once housed compassion, hope, and sanity were filling with fluids that seemed to seep from my eyes at every inconvenient moment.  Gross, ya?

Then, on a chilly April afternoon, Paul came home from his last class and was mine again.  And he began a relief effort.  He began taking Andrea so I could attempt naps.  He held and played with her while I decompressed over a warm sink of dishes.  He even cleaned the toilet.  Twice.  In June we took our daughter to the doctor, figured out why she hadn’t been sleeping and four days later she finally slept through the night.

And so did I.

Then, my journey to recover the broken pieces of my spirit began along with my attempts to salvage my once steady image.  Requiring lots of prayer, meditation, and naps, Paul continued to be my co-captain, my sous chef. . . my saving grace.

But yesterday he said something horrible.  So horrible I wanted to cover my ears and yell, "I can't hear you!  I can't hear you!" like was in first grade again.  He said, with sadness in his tone, "Twenty-seven days."  The number of days until he begins his Master’s program. . . and it lingered in the silent air for a moment before slowly falling to my feet.  Had it been tangible I would have stomped on it.  What an ugly number.  His Master's program schedule is not going to be very fun.  It will entail leaving the house at five every morning and returning home at eleven in the evening.

Eyook!

Sorry, that was me gagging.

For him this means very little sleep, very little food, and very little time at home.  For me it means becoming a single mom again.  It means being so alone again.  I remind myself this is only for two semesters, and knowing exactly when this trial ends is a luxury seldom given.  For that, I am thankful.

How I wish this summer would just drag on forever.  There are just some things that don't get old like swinging on a sunny day, watching Paul and Andrea wrestle, and eating my mom's homemade ice cream.

Sigh. . . drool. . .

 P.S. How cute are these boots?  They finally fit her little feet and I love them.

A little bit of goulash

Two weeks ago the Mormon Tabernacle Choir went on tour up into Canada to share their musical gifts and spirit.  Paul's parents are both in the choir and so we and his sisters decided to plan a little surprise for their return.  The basement of their house was pretty much one very large office and we wanted to make a sitting area down there for people to gather, watch TV, and where little baby feet could run around in a relatively contained and safe space.

Before when you walked down the stairs, covering some beautiful brick work was a row of file cabinets. 

Wedged between the wall and these cabinets was a lighthouse painting.  We decided to use this painting as our inspiration for the room.  I like to call it the cigarette lighthouse.  You can probably guess why.

Standing beside the file cabinets and looking down the room there were tables of computers and some additional file cabinets against the wall.

Moving the filing cabinets to the center of the room we used them as a partition to define the space.  Next we found some couches and couch covers on craigslist.

I sewed some pillows to match the painting.

Exibit A: couches after finished pillows.

 

Here you can see the brick where we placed an entertainment center to cover the hole once used by an wood burning stove.  I don't have a picture of that.  Sorry.  But you can see the picture which we hung on the wall opposite the window.

At the dollar store I bumped into a lighthouse similar to the one in the painting except the top was red.  I painted it gold to match the color scheme of the room.

I scoured the house for other golden trinkets to adorn the mantle.  It's still a little bit of a work is progress down there but we got the space off to a good start.

We've also had a lot of family come and visit lately.  My aunt traveled from Illinois at the beginning of June and my grandmother came shortly after she left.  Andrea got to read books and play with her.  My other grandmother is also visiting so Andrea is getting to meet a lot of my relatives.

Cousin Jax also came to visit with his parents and he's been teaching Andrea new tricks like growling and clapping.  She thinks he's the coolest person and always watches him when he's in the room.

I think these two will be good friends some day.

Monday (the 4th of July) we began the day with a patriotic breakfast (which turned out hideous).  Red, white, and blue waffles.

We all dressed in red, white, and blue to show patriotism.

While I picked out a blue bow for Andrea, she saw the flower and would not let go of it.  Paul insisted she wear it too.

Andrea's finally able to sit up on her own and her balance gets better every day.

Andrea's finally sleeping through the night now that I'm supplementing her, and I feel six trillion times better thanks to some full nights of sleep.  She's already gained 3/4 of a pound so she'll hopefully return to a healthy percentile soon.