MollyMadonna.com

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real life. (94)

A friend came over with her kiddos this morning, and within ten minutes of them arriving, I’d delivered her a not-100%-clean coffee cup, navigated tears from our youngest, inadvertently offered her children a snack without checking with her first, and shoveled dog poop out of the yard as the kids ran around us. As you can imagine, I was feeling like a hospitality rock star.

I should clarify that this isn’t a friend who drops in every week and just knows to expect some chaos here and there when she visits the little blue house. (I’m sure we’ve taken good care of that assumption now for playdates moving forward 😉 ). Her newest little love was born in February, and I just met him today, if that’s any indication of how we’ve only managed sporadic visits to date.

Our kids all *kind of* remember each other from playdates past, but it takes them a natural amount of time to find their dynamic together when we gather, so the first little while is a bit of a settling in kind of space. This happens while we mamas hunker down with coffee and dive into conversations ranging from parenting and school choices to life at home and the days we both spend trying to balance our creative selves with the daily challenges of motherhood.

It’s refreshing and honest, which is the very thing our hearts need when we gather the littles for a few hours of fragmented visiting and playtime. We’ve never hung out just as mamas sans kiddos, but we agree every time that we should. Someday, before our kids are grown, we’ll make that happen.

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I’m not sure what it is about the pressure we can put ourselves under as moms to have things all together when a new friend comes to visit, or when we’re out and about day to day, praying that our kiddos will be on their best behavior and won’t require some crazy measure of discipline out in public. I’ve gotten “the look” from a glaring stranger more than once before as I’ve guided one of our littles through a rough moment, and I know what that feels like–it’s awful.

Sometimes, it seems like parents whose children have long since grown up, or folks who haven’t parented, or even moms whose young children are having a great string of days (I’m totally guilty), can easily forget that kids will be kids, no matter how amazing their parents are or how much good might be happening behind the scenes.

As parents in the midst of a public display of attitude or frustration from one of our babes, it feels like all eyes are on us, doesn’t it? It only takes one sour experience with a perfect stranger to begin to doubt our parenting abilities, or at least to question whether or not we can head out into the world on a given day without feeling somehow inadequate, even if only for a moment, and even if we’ll never see said stranger again.

Why do we do this to each other, friends? Parenting is hard enough without needing to offer any extra pressure in these years of sleepless nights, trial and error, and doing our very best to raise amazing little people who will someday grow into commendable, contributing members of society.

When we remember the shoes we’ve walked in ourselves, it sure seems like we should be able to muster up empathy and compassion for our fellow parental warriors. We are all in the same boat, really, battling the same battles and the same lies and the same insecurities as every other parent we meet.

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My time today–with this blessing of a friend and her sweet family–fueled my thinking on all of this, because there sure is a whole lot of grace being extended when we share our space together for even sporadic stints of time. My kiddos had meltdowns today. There were challenges over toys and not wanting to share our things and navigating the waters of who gets to do what and when and with whom.

So why did it work so well, and why am I left feeling refreshed and motivated as I look toward the rest of today, and even beyond that?

Because when we receive grace and we extend it, mutually and without condition, life just works better. There’s room for getting real without hesitation, for parenting in public, for hearing one another and seeing the mamas in front of us for the strong, diligent, creative, beautiful women they really are. I know, because I sat across from one such grace-filled friend today, and it was good for my soul.

Real life is gritty. It tests and pushes us, but it also moves us forward. Perfect and all tied up with a bow have their place–in dreamy newborn photos and Pinterest birthday parties and edited images of life in 2″x2″ squares when we want to capture only the good and not so much of the hard. And oh, do I love sleepy newborn pics and Pinterest dreaming and Instagram goodness, but what I really need more of is the grit and honesty of real life with mamas who are navigating their way through the daily, just like I am.

Today was beautiful for all of its messiness. I put on a pot of good coffee and burned a sweet smelling candle, and she brought over homemade cookies and watermelon for us all to share. And we changed diapers and I shoveled piles in the backyard and there were full-scale meltdowns and the chaotic noise of littles chattering while their mamas attempted fragmented stories at lunchtime.

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Diapers and piles not pictured 😉

It was perfectly imperfect and completely real. I sure hope we can do it again before the baby in my belly is toddling and the rest are all off to elementary school. Life is simply better bathed in grace.

recharged and thankful,

mm

 

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life is not a fairy garden…

…but it’s nice to let our minds go there every once in a while, isn’t it? To tap into our inner child, to get down to a world at eye level and to create something, even if it’s kind of frivolous in a way?

It’s spring break here this week, and I wanted to interject a little bit of off-the-beaten-path kind of fun into our days at home together, so I signed us up for a fairy garden class this morning. You’d think that having preschool only three mornings a week wouldn’t change much, but truly, I’m realizing the impact of time missed at home when we’re out three mornings for school and a fourth for ballet. I’m quite enjoying the slower pace of these past few days (minus the extra squabbles), and I’m anxious for summer to allow us a similar kind of breathing space, if only with sunshine and warmer days to go with it.

At any rate, and as with so many things in life, my vision for this morning’s class was awfully idealistic. We’d get downtown early, maybe go for coffee first, sit nicely together at a table and create these etherial little spaces as a great mom/kiddo/sibling bonding experience. It seemed like the sweetest extra to add to the middle of our week, and it gave us all an outing to look forward to together.

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Naturally, Eloise is trailing a cold and woke up early with a sad cough. I brought her into our bed for a snack and Daniel Tiger on the iPad so that I could sneak in “just a few more minutes” of sleep. Only I didn’t sleep for just a few more minutes. I slept another hour. (It’s gloomy and rainy today, and also spring break, so that’s fine, but…) When mom doesn’t get her day going at the right hour, no one does. By the time we left for our fairy garden workshop, we’d hurried parts of breakfast, battled a nasty squirrel at the window birdhouse no less than a dozen times (should have taken video…), and exchanged frustration in ways I just can’t get excited about as a mom. With three strong personalities around here on a given weekday, we’re navigating new communication waters and having to set new boundaries for all involved. It’s just not very pretty. Nope. It’s not fairy garden like at all.

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So we arrive downtown (even a few minutes early) and get wrapped up in tiny bird houses and miniature things that fairy garden dreams are made of, and for a time, everyone in our crew is co-existing happily again. We get instructions, choose “vessels” and succulents to accompany our miniature delights and we get to work. There are a dozen of us or so, in a smallish space, everyone looking for the perfect accessories to create these tiny, happy little worlds. It’s dreamy. And a bit messy. And good.

Henry has enlisted the help of a shop employee, so I’m busying Eloise with spooning dirt into her self-selected, pale blue tea cup. We’ve picked out a plant “with pink on it!”, a pinwheel, a tiny duckling and, to Eloise’s delight, a squat and adorable pink pig. No fairies here. This garden is all about the farm. Perfect for her in every way.

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Henry’s garden is tall and green. A soft-leaved succulent at it’s center, there’s a bird house, a nest with eggs, a yellow bird, blue stones, and a must-have glow-in-the-dark lightning bug. We moms, we can’t say no to these things when we’re trying to facilitate a dreamy outing, and let me tell you–there’s apparently nothing dreamy about leaving your fairy garden without a lightning bug. Obviously.

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I think things got sticky when I decided that a trio of fairy gardens would look sweeter than a duo in the bay window at home. I did this, partly because these tiny little worlds are adorable, and partly because I wanted in on the fun, too. The kiddos were nearly done with their gardens when I started to build mine, so naturally, their only option to pass the time was to fall off chairs and run around in tiny spaces. Yep. Those feel like winning ideas to two and almost-five year olds. And so, run they did. While I’m quickly putting together a teensy fairy world and trying to find a zen moment in the day (interpret my use of “zen moment” loosely), Henry and Eloise are acting their age and having a great time. In minutes, I’m admittedly getting frustrated, embarrassed, edgy. These kinds of emotions I do not equate with potting plants and creating beautiful tiny things, but alas.

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We have our gardens wrapped up to go home, each carefully packed into it’s own bag with colored tissue that delights the wee ones as we grab our things to make our exit. But before we can go, the littles need a potty break (and/or diaper change), so we hold off on rain coats and bags and get ourselves sorted out while engaging in further shenanigans and delightful behavior.

I leave the store with two energized and excited kiddos, each swinging their dirt-filled glass and ceramic containers in brightly colored bags and exclaiming goodbyes to the sweet women who have patiently orchestrated our crafty experience. And while I should probably be happy and lighthearted about the whole thing, I drive home cranky and praying for new eyes and a refreshed spirit before we pull back into the driveway, a mere five minutes down the road.

The fact of the matter is, whether we have two kids or seven or none at all, some days just aren’t going to meet our expectations. Many won’t, in fact. In my case, it’s usually because my expectations are too high to begin with, or because I don’t leave enough margin for breathing space. I thought I was getting better at this, but the kids are both at new stages again, and I feel like I’m learning them anew while I go through new stages myself. We’re all a little green in this season.

Sometimes I imagine the dreamiest scenario and know wholeheartedly that it’s not likely to turn out that way, but I still don’t completely let go of the loftiest version. Sometimes I get so fixed on a detail that matters a great deal to me, and I gain tunnel vision toward that thing until I can figure out how to make it happen or I realize too far down the line that it’s time to let it go. There’s merit in my glass half full approach to many things, and merit in the fact that I’m determined and I like a challenge. But I’m not sure that this season of life–with small children running around and so many factors outside of my control, is the right season to have such high expectations of myself or the little people looking up at me. 

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There are three very sweet and very individual, tiny fairy gardens sitting in the bay window this afternoon, and the kids are proud of their work. My little creation probably delights me just as much, mostly because in the craziness and busyness of life, I think there’s value in getting your hands a little dirty, in slowing down to notice the smallest treasures, in getting down to things at eye level. Surely, our fairy garden experience has caused me to get down to my own little world with different perspective this afternoon.

Art and creativity, the opportunity for sweet outings and time with our children–none of these are things I take for granted. Not a bit. The charmed things in life are exactly that: charmed. And while I lamented (for a little while) today over behaviors and strong wills, I am also celebrating the reminder that Henry and Eloise are creative and visionary and determined in their own ways. They genuinely enjoy each other and all of the chaotic joy they manifest together, and they know that they are deeply loved in both significant and frivolous ways. How’s that for a spring break takeaway on this rainy Wednesday? 😉

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I don’t get it right all of the time. Hardly at all. But I do try, and I’ll probably keep on trying. Meanwhile, if you need me, I’ll be dreaming about tiny, quiet spaces and/or playing referee. They’re basically one in the same these days.

xo,

mm

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firsts for everything.

Tomorrow morning, we’ll wake up as we do most weekdays–me, rushing to fit a shower in before Eloise begins calling, Henry, slowly but surely as he warms up to the day (and everyone and everything in it). We’ll meander downstairs for breakfast, and I’ll entertain E in the high chair while Henry plays cars and Legos in the living room as I prep the table for our weekday trio. Tomorrow will look a lot like every other day, right up until we wipe faces and hands and push our chairs in after bowls of cereal, yogurt, one cup of tea.

Then, it’s not on to playtime in the playroom and sleepy-eyed Eloise asking for more milk and a morning nap. Instead, the order of the day is pulling on school clothes, combing hair, double checking a packed back pack. I’ve not arrived at embracing this yet, and I can’t decide if I’m in some weird state of denial, or if I just feel like three school is kind of a chill deal.

Jason reminded me tonight that this might be the last time Henry is home “all of the time.” That from tomorrow until forever, Henry will leave the house at increasing intervals and be away from here, in some capacity, every school year. Maybe this is true. And maybe I should be making a bigger deal of it in so many ways, but I haven’t. I do like our little man right where he is, and right where I know how he’s doing, so it’s possible that this is me being naive. We get to go to school with him for the *entire* one hour intro-to-three-school day tomorrow, which probably (no, definitely) softens the reality of the first day of school a bit. I mean, I’ll walk into his classroom with him and will stay there the whole time, and then we’ll drive home sharing about the hour and his teacher and his cubby and all of his new great friends…together. Check back with me on Friday. Friday I might be one big ball of a mess.

In these early years, there are so many firsts–and they happen one after another after another, so very quickly. Eloise, for example, has learned to stand up on her own, to take a handful of steps, and to say about 20 words, all in the matter of less than a month. Talking and walking? Those are crazy-big firsts! At three, you likely potty train and wear undies successfully for the first time, and then maybe you ride a bike for the first time, and suddenly? Suddenly you’re a grown human being who meanders off to school on his own and gets accepted to college on scholarship to become a doctor/engineer/fireman/writer/hero over night. I will blink and they’ll both be married adults with children and professions of their own, right? How many parents have felt this way in these past several weeks as yellow buses roll on down the road for yet another beginning of another school year? Normal, normal stuff, I’m sure of it.

For some reason, though, I’m not excitable on this one. I’m excited for Henry, don’t get me wrong. I know he’s going to love school and everything (ok, mostly everything) in it. I know he’s going to grow wings this year as he learns Spanish and makes new friends and becomes even more independent. I also know that when I walk into that building I feel present in it, and when I walk away from it, I don’t. It’s like I’m standing in my own yard, and I know that the future is just on the other side of that fence. But I won’t look over. I’ll accept and acknowledge that it’s there, but I haven’t greeted it or said hello or baked it a pie and welcomed it to the neighborhood.

Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. Maybe Henry and I will do that together. Kind of like holding hands and jumping off the side of the deep end of the pool together on the count of three, only he’ll learn how to swim on his own this time, and I’m going to have to let go of his hand.

there’s a first for everything. (spanish immersion) three school included. you’re going to be so great, buddy–i just know it!

El Señor te bendiga y te guarde, henry. te quiero un montón loco!

tu mama

 

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father’s day gifts from years past.

Last week, I was invited by Dollar Shave Club to join a blogging campaign that celebrates Father’s Day gifts from years past. In case you’re unfamiliar, Dollar Shave Club is a fun new subscription razor service that ships top quality razors and grooming supplies to their members for a few bucks a month. You should check them out 🙂 I had no idea one could really personalize their shave, did you? I’m also loving this option for post-shave goodness for your face. Who knew shaving could be so refined and classy? Clearly, I have a lot to learn!

I’m always up for a fun challenge, so I’ve decided to take a trip down memory lane to consider all of the fabulously amazing gifts I’ve given my dear ‘ol dad (you’re not really that old, Dad, but it sounded right, ya know?) for Father’s Day. For the past few years, I’ve been the creative genius behind Henry’s gifts for his daddy, too, and this year, I’ve got Hank and Eloise covered again. I consider it my right–OK, my privilege, to celebrate the awesome men in my life with phenomenal and overly generous gifts. Things made out of paper and glue and markers and such. I’ve been gifting for Father’s Day for at least the past twenty eight years (but probably longer, I’ll have to ask my mom), so I figure I’m basically a Father’s Day gift giving guru. I’m sure if you asked the dads in my life, they’d agree.

Alright. Maybe not. I might be halfway decent at picking out cards, though, and I think I can recall and handful that I created in moments of sheer brilliance. Here’s one thought for you…the perfect card to the dad of your children (in my case, my husband, Jason) when they’re wee and small and can’t really make cards yet themselves. This beauty was Henry’s gift to his daddy when he was just over a year old, waaaaay back in 2012:

ten things father's day card

I used a brown stamping ink pad for H’s little handprints (it might take a few tries to get a really good set, but the times I’ve inked the kids’ hands or feet, the first, pre-melt down try is almost always the best). Then I carefully tore them out for that rough-edged look and glued them to a homemade, folded card (card stock and scrapbook paper). Last, I added the little “10 Reasons why I love my Dad…(I counted)…” bit to the front for bonus cuteness.

I opted to finish the inside on a separate piece of card stock that I could glue in last, just in case I made any printing mistakes as I wrote it all out. If I had just gone for it, I would’ve undoubtedly misspelled something or goofed up the lettering on the final product. Then I tried to channel my inner one year old and wrote out the following list:

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To wrap it up, I glued the blue piece in, and we presented the card, sans envelope, to Daddy at his place at the table on Father’s Day. I think simple goes a long way, especially when the kiddos are small. We always make sure to treat dad to a great meal (whether cooked or grilled at home or out on the town), and we give him the five star treatment all day. Now that Henry is getting bigger, he likes to create things for Daddy all of the time. I have no doubt that this year’s Father’s Day installment will be his best yet.

So…what kinds of gifts do I remember giving my amazing dad as I was growing up? My sister and racked our brains on this one, and our favorites include tickets to a Cub’s game (for the three of us, plus our spouses as the family has grown) and these incredible, homemade coupon books that included things like hugs, back scratches, help in the yard, walking the dog, no whining for the day, etc. They were always top notch–replete with stickers and hearts and stars and things, and dad always accepted them quite graciously but never held us to honoring them all. Had he done so, we would have…I promise!

Celebrating our dads doesn’t have to be a break the bank kind of thing. I’m not sure most dads would even want that. It’s fun to bless dad with a grill or a fishing pole or a boat when life permits, but most years, making the day count with a great family outing (hiking, a beach day, a ball game, camping), plus some homemade cards and delicious eats, has been a pretty popular route to take in our little fam. I always make sure to get a few stellar photos to remember the day, and I prompt the kiddos to shower their daddy in love all day long. Here’s to the dads in our lives who make Father’s Day something to celebrate! And here’s to celebrating them well, too 🙂

scheming for next week,

mm

 

*This post was not written in exchange for any compensation or product, and the ideas expressed above are solely mine. Cheers!

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eloise josephine–a birth story, part 2.

So where were we, little one?…

Someday you might not remember the upstairs of the little blue house, but there we were: daddy with Henry in his bedroom, trying to keep things as normal as possible, me in the bathroom, gearing up physically and emotionally for what was happening, and Karlye rounding the banister to the second floor, just in time to gather me up as I realized how quickly things were starting to move. I wanted so much for Henry to have a calm morning, and I wasn’t sure of how he’d feel about watching mom in pain, so (barely) between contractions, Karlye helped me travel from upstairs to down while daddy occupied your brother. Someday we’ll talk more about this, but one of the best things about having a doula around is that they just get what’s happening, and often without words. Karlye knew you were really coming along…everything I was doing could show it. I didn’t feel panicky, but my sense of urgency about things was heightening quickly.

I wanted cereal, then I didn’t. I wanted to move from one place to another, then…NO. WAIT. I just wanted to stay in one place. I’m sure it was kind of entertaining, but I suppose you could ask Karlye about that. I camped out in a standing position at the end of our bed, grabbing onto the foot board rail for support. Karlye applied counter pressure whenever a contraction came. I remember the feeling bringing me up to my toes, everything in me curling, even as I tried to relax. Time was moving fast. Daddy was in and out of the room, having gotten Henry to the breakfast table and distracted with food. He’d called your grammy to come over, and was juggling contact with her and the photographer and the doctor’s office as our timeline kept changing. Wait. No, don’t wait. Maybe call in a little bit…No, better call right now. I’d wanted so badly to have time with your brother that morning before we became four instead of three. The best I could manage was to time a super-quick hug and goodbye with him at the bedroom doorway, just as one contraction ended and right before another one began. I won’t soon forget daddy carrying Henry in and then ducking back out again. It was crazy-bittersweet for me. I was so beyond excited to meet you, but processing the end of a different chapter at the same time. And baby, you were leaving me little room for over-thinking. 😉

I can still see the light in our room, the pale colors, the texture of the morning and the heat and the intensity all blended into one space. In a very short time (no more than half an hour from when she’d first arrived), Karlye and I both decided it was definitely time to get to the hospital. No such thing as a “low key morning at home” for you, my dear. You were ready to be here. Your grammy arrived as I came down the hall. I took one last look in the hallway mirror and thought a thousand things. Your daddy was re-routing the photographer to the hospital and juggling bags and checking in with me and settling Henry…a dozen tasks in a matter of two minutes. We thought we’d never rush to the hospital again, living so close, and here we were, practically running (ok, shuffle-waddling) out the door!

I stopped at the back gate and took as deep a breath as I could manage. The summer air was perfect, the sun, shining. I trailed one of those “life will never be the same again” thoughts in my mind. It wouldn’t be. In a good way. Your daddy had turned the car around for me and helped me up. Between contractions, I asked him (or probably told him with some intensity) to take me to the front door of the hospital. “Don’t go to emergency. I am NOT sitting in a wheelchair,” I tried to explain. Karlye drove separately and met us there not minutes later. I couldn’t believe how fast your dad was moving! He helped me out at the front door, parked, and had all of our things back to meet me in the lobby in probably 60 seconds flat. I think maybe the part where I said I felt like I was holding you in sort of hustled everyone along…

From the hospital doors, down the looooong hallway, into the elevator and up to the birth center, I had eight contractions. Eight. They were exactly as on top of each other as they could have possibly been. I stopped with almost every one, except for maybe two–I was pretty convinced that I might have you right there in the hallway, and I just. needed. to get. to. a room. Probably no less than six people asked if we needed a wheelchair. I know I made the morning at least a bit more interesting for one little boy and his dad as they walked out of the hospital. Ha.

As the elevator doors opened on the birthing center, a woman walking by asked if we were leaving. Nope. Just standing on the floor of a birthing center in an elevator, carrying around a huge belly and having a contraction, I thought to myself. Nothing could have seemed more ridiculous to me in the moment. “Oh, good,” she’d said as Karlye answered her, “because it doesn’t look good.” “It doesn’t NOT look good,” I remember saying to her. “I’m having a baby.” Oh, mama. I suppose being in labor makes us all say things we wouldn’t otherwise. I waddled down the hallway toward the nurses’ station, where my doctor stood waiting. Just as when our nurse came around the desk before I delivered your brother, this moment was one of great relief for me. We’d made it. Or as our Dr. announced, “Here she is. And under her own power!” Yes. Everything was feeling fairly victorious in that moment. There’s something about labor that does this to a woman. You feel like you could do just about anything. Because you can. It’s the greatest rush I’ve ever experienced.

At this point, I remember standing (or probably bending) there awkwardly for a moment, and finally saying, “So, where am I going?” in the general direction of the nurses’ station. I’m all for visiting and such, but I was ready to be in one place and to stay there. “Room 106,” the nurse pointed. Just barely down the hall from where we’d done this before. I made my way into the room, and grabbed onto the *rolling* bedside table just in time for another serious surge. Not my best move in all of this, but your dad was quick on his feet and secured that thing while supporting me in a flash. Karlye was at my other side, and I stood there, working through each contraction with some intensity, until the nurse came in. Maybe minutes had passed…maybe…but this whole story is still such a drawn out movie in my mind. I’m so grateful. When the nurse asked me to get on the bed, I think I must have looked at her as though she had four eyes. I told her no. As much as I do try to be gracious, transition in labor is no time to say more than what’s practical or necessary. She wanted to measure my progress, and I agreed, but on my own terms. Her next words were confirming and relieving and encouraging all at once. “You’re complete. I’ll let your doctor know.” And suddenly, we were in business.

 

I wasn’t going to do this, Miss Eloise, but the very best part of the story comes next, and it deserves an entry all to its own. One more day to wait…I promise it’s worth it! Your big debut…tomorrow, my love.

happy nine months to the sweetest, spunkiest nine month old i know!

mm