rolling along

The baby rolled over last week.  She was rolling, front to back, teeter-totter, for a couple months.  However, it has been sporadic, like losing her balance when placed "just so" on her elbows.  This time, she actually pushed on her hands and flipped herself over.  Pleased as she was with herself, she continued to do it, and prove that it's no longer a fluke.

Development. Check.

I felt excited, but also a bit nonchalant.  Of course babies roll over.  Why not?  This is only one little milestone in a series of milestones in a lifetime of little things that each human accomplishes, then moves along to her next challenge.

Still, it's probably the final time I'll celebrate this one for my own child.  It's also one of those little surprises and developments for myself.  It sounds obvious, but I'm finding myself taking little steps and achieving little things right beside my roly-poly baby.  I'm learning about babies with expected delays in development.  I'm learning about Down Syndrome.  I'm learning and re-learning and re-learning again that every person (including every soul in my home) is unique and interesting and yet not all that different from one another.

A friend shared a really sweet story with me the other day.  It brought tears to my eyes, partly in widening my mind to hopes and dreams for my daughter.  The tears were also out of guilt - for not having those hopes and dreams before hearing that story.

I don't know what to expect with her, but I'm learning to rethink it all - even to remember that I should have expectations.  Maybe that's something to celebrate in and of itself.  Maybe it's like rolling over on purpose - just engage some new muscles in the right way, at the right time.  It's big, it's small, and it's part of growing toward more mobility.

Perhaps it will cease to surprise me when my baby - this baby - is on or ahead of schedule in development.  Perhaps I'll learn to really celebrate those things.  Perhaps, as another friend advised me, every little development will be a big deal.  I'll get online and blog about it Right. At. That. Moment.  On the other hand, perhaps I'll continue to learn that she's a baby, and babies do these things.  There will be balance and progress, however uncoordinated and imperfect, for us all.

stinkin' ethics

Sometimes life is messy... literally.  I'm getting really, really tired of diapers.  Even though the boys have generally been out of them and using indoor plumbing by their 2nd birthday or so, I still have a baby in diapers and I'm starting to grow weary.  I've heard of "EC" for a couple years, but thought it was basically a bunch of hippie voodoo.  

Then I tried it, just on a whim, and the baby has been really responsive.  She's still in diapers. but a couple times a day she uses the toilet.  Amazing.  Maybe there is a light at the end of this tunnel.

Unfortunately, Obi-3, who is 2 1/2, has decided he's not really interested in being consistent with his use of indoor plumbing.  If he's busy playing, or just otherwise obstinate, he'll go in his underwear.  If there's one thing worse than changing wet or stinky cloth diapers, it's changing wet and stinky underwear on a squirmy kiddo.  Ugh.

I've tried all the bribes, techniques, rewards, and patience we used to get him toilet trained.  Sometimes it works, but he seems uninterested in all of the motivators that were really exciting a few months ago.  A good friend was over recently, and shared that her daughter regressed in the same way.  She figured out a habit-forming bribe that worked, and shared it with me: get a toy, or something the child really (REALLY) wants, have it sitting out and tell the child he must go 5 days with no misses in order to have the reward.  Five. Days.  She figures that makes a habit.  For her daughter, it was a doll house.

My boy wants his own guitar.  He loves musical instruments, and wants a real one to play.  After yet another miss, a bath, and mounting exasperation this morning, I decided to give it a try.  I told him that I would put up a picture of his very own guitar, and he could have it (the guitar) when he had five days of no accidents.  We'd put stickers on the picture to count the days.

He looked thoughtfully as we pulled up pictures of guitars online, and then said, "Obi-3 wants a ukulele."  (He speaks like Elmo - always using his name instead of a pronoun.)  No kidding.  The child who struggles to enunciate "orange" somehow managed "ukulele."  Oh, and he wants a red one.

Okay.  MamaToo can be bought.  I found this red ukulele that I can get here within days.  I showed him the picture, said we'd get it for him in exchange for the desired habit, and promised to put the picture up while he works on earning it.  "If you can keep your underwear dry for 5 days, I'll get this ukulele for you."

He replied, "No.  Obi-3 no want ukulele."

I looked at him, puzzled.

"Obi-3 no want guitar."

I started to get a little worried.

"Obi-3 wants BAN-JO."

Banjos appear to run at least $50.  They do not, from my initial searches, appear to come in red.  They are not commonly stocked at the online retail mega-stores, which means I need to make phone calls to local music shops to see if it's even an option.  A banjo.  Seriously?!?

And really, I think he's probably driving a hard bargain because he won't be bribed. If I find a red banjo, he'll want something else - an accordion or harp, probably. The child is a serious example of political gridlock.  Or, maybe he just has amazing ethics.  Frankly, I'm not sure whether to be impressed or frustrated.  Either way, it appears that the only thing I'm in control of changing is his pants.  Ugh.

beautiful

It was moments, literally, after her birth.  My midwife was on the phone with the birth center.  I had finished a shower and was dressed for our trip there.  Our daughter was snugly wrapped in a blanket on our bed, and my husband closely admired her with his perfect love.  I sat next to him and stared at my first - my only - daughter.

There are things that a somewhat-anonymous blog don't let you know about us.  For example, I try not to have a lot of photos posted, so you might not know that our boys look a lot like my husband.  Once in a while, people who knew me or my brothers as children might say that they resemble my side of the family. Otherwise, everyone seems to think the Obi-boys are little Matryoshka versions of Mr. Kenobi.  Another thing that many people don't know is that I never really hoped to be a mother - at least, not until I fell in love with Mr. Kenobi.  Now, four children later, I still find myself learning how to parent, and often realizing I never had dreams or visions or hopes or plans that many women spend years cultivating. 

So, when we found out we were having a girl this time, I didn't have many specific dreams for her life.  At least, there wasn't anything unusual from my hopes for any of my children. I didn't really want lots of pink, but I wasn't super-picky about clothes.  I didn't start imagining princess play and tea parties, nor dreading the drama or Bieber-crushes.  I may have thought about how sweet it would be to have a ballerina in the household, or looked forward to finally purging all that blue sports & dinosaur-themed clothing, but overall I just felt sort of in shock that I would actually have a girl.  

A daughter.  As the days got closer to her birth, I allowed myself some small daydreams. Maybe she'd like shopping with me.  Maybe she'd even look like me!  Maybe she'd have my curly hair, my oval face, or my long legs.  In the moments after her birth, there had been choruses of "she's beautiful" ringing in our bedroom.  When my husband and I sang the Doxology in breathless joy and he cut her umbilical cord, I had felt excitement to see her and certainty that I loved her.  But here I sat, fresh from birth, staring at my girl.  She didn't look like me.  She didn't look like our other babies.  She... I didn't recognize her.  She slept peacefully, and the newborn checks of heart rate, breathing, everything was "perfect," they said.  Still, I felt... well... something was wrong.  I'm not sure I said anything, but Mr. Kenobi whispered what I was thinking.

Her eyes - she kind of looks like she has Down Syndrome.

The shock hit me like a rip tide.  No.  That can't be it.  The rush of everything,,. a mix of horror and insult and grief and fear and "how could you say that?!?!" ran through my mind. I don't know.  It was overwhelming.  Mostly because I was really thinking, Did somebody just read my mind - out loud?

Mr. Kenobi was hushed, even awe-struck, maybe a tiny concerned, and yet totally and completely in love with her.  He looked at her and looked at me as if it was the happiest moment in his life. I couldn't look at him, for fear I'd burst into tears. I was trying to convince myself that it was all fine.  I felt numb and my mind raced, wondering why she didn't look like I expected.  I tried to tell myself that my mind was clouded from the surge of hormones and adrenalin of birth.  I was still reeling from the unbelievable birth experience, but if we could just get to the birth center, everything would be okay.  I'd have our daughter, she'd be beautiful just like they said she was, and everyone would come visit us and make us dinners and love our family.  If we could just get there...

We walked into the birth center.  We were the only family there, and the place was quiet, warm, and beautiful.  As we were welcomed and settled into the room, the midwife began checking me and our girl for vitals.  I stared at my sleeping girl.  We were at the birth center, but I didn't feel any different.  She had hardly opened her eyes, and I blurted out, "why aren't her eyes open?  Is there something wrong?"  The midwife suggested that the fast birth probably gave her plenty of swelling.  Her advice was meant to reassure - just wait it out today, and we'll surely have lots of time to stare at each other.  It wasn't satisfying for me to hear it, though.  There was something she wasn't discussing with me.  Her smile seemed uncertain.  I was sure of it. I wanted somebody to say those words again - Down Syndrome - or maybe I didn't.  I wanted somebody to say normal.  I also wanted people to stop saying, "beautiful." I couldn't see it.  I could just see, "unexpected."

I felt like a horrible mother.  I wanted to think she was the most beautiful, adorable, lovable human being to ever enter my life.  I wanted so desperately to stop looking for what might be wrong with her and start loving every bit of her.  She nursed, and I was relieved she latched so well, even as my toes curled and uterus contracted with each feeding.  She cuddled up close to me, and I prayed... please God, please... make her healthy... make me love her... what is wrong with us, God?   My head and heart felt like they were on a spin cycle.

I cried, too.  I'm not sure how many tears were just from sheer exhaustion and how much was from fear, uncertainty, and hopes that this was all some sort of dream. It felt like it could be a dream, but I knew it was all real.  I'd try to pray, but there were no words.  I felt completely empty, entirely tired, but I couldn't sleep.  I just stared at my baby.

One of our midwives came to visit us early in the morning.  She has a nurturing spirit and a contagious ease about her.  She listened as we recounted the birth story, laughing out loud as I described bagging blueberries, and sincerely honoring Mr. Kenobi for his care and calm presence during the birth.  She cuddled our girl, and lovingly studied her toes, chubby limbs, puffy cheeks, and full head of hair.  She listened to her heart and watched her tiny, rhythmic breaths.  "Perfect.  Wonderful.  Beautiful."  She left and promised to visit again soon.

Mr. Kenobi kept holding his girl, telling her how much he loved her.  Our boys arrived, eager to meet their sister.  It was love at first sight for all three.  Never have I been so proud of the Kenobi Obi's as when they sat together, clearly enamored with their sister, loving one another, and showering me with adoration. Their love for her was sincere, and incredible. Our family was the way we are supposed to be... for a moment, I forgot my fears and got swept up in the love in that room. With them there, our family felt exactly as I imagined.  In the days to come, my boys would be with their grandma much more than me, and I would long for them to be around - to bring some sense of normal to my topsy-turvy new life.  Through tears of those days, I would reassure my heart with memories of that first morning, before my life changed forever.

Our primary midwife came soon after the boys left.  I came out of the bathroom to see her arranging a lovely bouquet of flowers on the dresser.  "Oh, those are beautiful!"  I exclaimed. "Thank you."  She seemed mildly annoyed with the arrangement, and muttered that one of the center blooms wasn't very fresh once separated from the wrapped arrangement.  It wasn't like her to show anything but perfect calm or optimism around me.  Maybe it was just lack of sleep.  The flowers looked great to me.  I assured her it was still beautiful, but she commented, "It's just not what I expected.  I was hoping it would be perfect."

The words hung in the air heavily as she then smiled at me and asked to hold our daughter.  She cooed and ahhed over her, and asked how were were doing after such an amazing night and birth.  She checked us both for vitals and healing.  She made small talk.  And then, she sighed and looked into my eyes.

"I have to talk to you about something.  After I checked you in here, I left with a hitch in my spirit.  I called A (the other midwife who'd been in earlier) to talk about things.  We're not certain, and A thinks it may be nothing, but I see signs of chromosomal abnormalities...  There are tests to run and things to consider in the days to come, but you should know that she's wonderfully healthy and doing great.  And she's beautiful..."  She said a lot more.  She told us that there were some traits that made her think it could be Down Syndrome, but again she and A were not certain because of the many traits our daughter did not seem to have.  It could be something to diagnose, or nothing at all.  We'd need to consult our pediatrician and do some tests, but there was no need to transfer or do that today.  For now, we were doing well and healthy. 

I was crying.  She told us she knew this wasn't what we expected, but she believed everything happens for a reason.  She went on... Something about our journey and love and our perfect family and blessings... I have no idea.  I'm sure it was lovely and kind.  I was sobbing and couldn't hear a thing. Mr. Kenobi, tears in his eyes, held me close and sat quietly, listening.  My heart was breaking.  My spirit felt crushed.  My exhausted body could no longer take it.  My daughter, yet unnamed by her parents, had received a new identity in my mind.  Chromosomal Abnormalities.

I later told my midwife that the birth center should turn off its wi-fi before delivering news like that.  It was Saturday afternoon, and I'd had about 4 hours sleep since Thursday morning.  I'd birthed a child in a matter of minutes, at home with my husband.  I'd spent hours alone in the hours before dawn, staring at a newborn girl who didn't stare back.  And now, I'd been told she was different at the cellular level. After I calmed down from our midwife's visit, I did the most logical next thing: I googled.

Of course, bleary-eyed me found long lists from my internet search.  Within moments, I'd seen good Down Syndrome links, but there were others, too.  At one of them, I thought I saw something about a mother's hypothyroidism being the cause of genetic disorders.  I have hypothyroidism, and so of course I hastily believed that I was the reason our daughter had a lifetime of health, cognitive, developmental, and identity challenges.  It's all my fault.  I've done this to her! I ran to the shower, and sobbed uncontrollably for what seemed like hours, as the water ran over my head.  Later, much later, I would learn that hypothyroidism is a potential health concern, but not a suspected cause, for children with Down syndrome.

Poor Mr. Kenobi.  And poor baby.  In those hours, where my broken heart and madness nearly took over, he steadily loved her and me.  His compassion and strength were unfailing.  If it were not for my husband, I'm certain somebody would have hauled me into a straight-jacket.  The hours of that day are a blurry, muddled memory.  There were phone calls to parents, there were visits from the boys, and there were tears... many tears.   Between the tears, mostly during the visits, there were forced smiles meant to convince our visitors that I was happy.  We didn't want to tell anyone yet.  I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud. What if our midwife's concerns were wrong?  What if our daughter really was just "swollen from birth?"  What if...

As evening fell, I put my baby against my chest and crawled under the covers.  I wanted to bond with her even though all my previous attempts left me in tears and emptiness.  As we laid there, I could feel her little breaths, hear her tiny sighs in rhythm with Mr. Kenobi's deep sleep beside us.  Her body was so fragile, and yet she stirred intently.  I sat up, figuring she wanted to nurse, and looked at her face.  Her eyes were open.  And for the first time since her birth, she stared at me.  With both eyes, steady newborn-grey, she looked at me.  I stared back in silence. There was so much I wanted to be able to tell her.  I wanted to say I love you.  I wanted to tell her about her brothers and family.  I wanted to say she was beautiful.  But I couldn't.  I just stared back, hoping to hear something, to feel something, for this little one.  She seemed to recognize me.

Mama!  Don't you recognize me?  I'm your daughter!  I'm the one who kicked you as you watched Leno late last night.  I'm the one who was still as you picked pounds of blueberries.  I'm the one with the heartbeat that sounds like rushing wild horses - the sound you couldn't ever tire of hearing at prenatal appointments.  I couldn't wait to meet you - I came days early and in record speed.  I am your daughter.  Don't you recognize me?

I stared at her and began to commit her face to my mama-memory. It was the first in many healing, sweet moments. There would be other times of great perspective, peace, and rest in the next couple days at the birth center.  Friends would visit and look at her carefully, then pronounce her, "beautiful."  Some would ask, "does she look like your boys did?" but none would hear our suspicions about her health in those days and none would voice their own in our presence.  We skyped with my parents, sharing what we knew but also holding out hope that it might not be as predicted.  We began to adjust and think hopefully, without really knowing what we hoped for. We even posted a couple photos on facebook.  And then, I got an email...

"... I just have to ask, MamaToo... was your daughter born with Down syndrome?..."

It came from a good friend whose young daughter has Down syndrome.  She had seen our photo online, and wondered.  Her letter was perfect, lovely, supportive, and kind, but it struck dread in my heart.  If she could see it in one photo, it must be true.  If she noticed, than others were probably noticing too.  Maybe that's why so few people were calling... or visiting... Our church services were Sunday, and we figured we'd hear from people as the news broke, but so far we hadn't.

Turns out, ours was not the biggest news for our little church family that weekend.  As our community came together for a worship service and a meeting, they received an announcement.  Our campus, which is one of four locations for our church, was closing.  The reasons made sense, but the timing sent shock waves.  This was the last service.  Everyone was invited to come to other services and campuses in the weeks to come.  There was a time of questions and comments.  They took communion together, sang a song of praise, and hugged one another goodbye.  Meanwhile, we sat in a birth center and stared at our daughter, oblivious to the events unfolding for our church family.  We would not know the news until a couple days later.  When we found out, it was through an email.  The support system, the friends, the community we had one assumed would ride this wave with us.. well, they were all now in the turmoil of their own losses and change.

I often cope with big unknowns by making a list of the things I can do, however small, and taking care of each item. By the time we left Monday morning, we had a pediatrician appointment setup to begin some tests.  We had also named our daughter (a process that took a couple days).  Someday I'll share more about her name, but for now this story has gotten long enough. A friend had arranged for some meals to be delivered to us in the next days.  The diaper service had been called.   We dressed our little girl in her "going home" outfit (also known as her "going to" outfit) and hugged the midwives.  Then we walked out the door.  As I sat in the car while Mr. Kenobi double-checked the latch of the carseat, I felt waves of uncertainty flood over me and spill out my tear ducts.  It just felt like I was taking somebody else's baby home.  Yet at the same time, I knew that she was mine, and I was starting to love her, and even beginning to believe that she was beautiful.  I took a deep breath and held my husband's hand on the drive home.

So, this is the story of how an unattended, unplanned home birth was only the beginning of many unexpected things in our life.  It is the story about how family is precious and health can be uncertain.  It is an unfinished story, and it is already too long in this entry so I will have to wait to share some of the more hopeful and interesting things with you in days to come.  However, because my writing can be notoriously sporadic, I will share a few final details.

First, genetic tests have now confirmed our daughter has Down syndrome.  She also has her mothers' love for deep sleep and my long fingers and toes.  She has the calm demeanor of her dadda, and takes after her brothers in her ability to put on weight quickly in early weeks.  In short, she is doing great, and I'm doing better than I was on that first weekend.  I'm falling in love with my daughter, and catching up to her father's adoration and sweet love of her brothers.

At the advice of pediatricians and others, we have decided not to share much about this diagnosis with her brothers.  To them, and I quote, "she's the cutest, most wonderful-est baby in the whole world."  And to be honest, she really is a pretty remarkably unremarkable baby.  She eats, she sleeps, and she poops.  She's healthy, she's growing, and aside from a lot of doctor check-ins and tests, there's nothing unusual about her at this point.  If you're one of our friends or parents of our kids' friends, we trust you'll respect our choice on this and leave us to navigate the whens & hows of sharing more with our children.

That said,we've started to tell some adult people about her diagnosis, but we're quickly realizing everyone has their own questions, concerns, and even grieving/processing to do as they take in the unexpected reality of our news.  Also, there is the added complications of no regular moms' groups, school activities, or church services to see people in one place.  Our friends and family are spread all over the world, in many time zones, on many cell phone carrier plans.  Add to this the human limitations of talk-time in the midst of our busy family, doctor visits, and the all-elusive sleep, and we've gone a few weeks without sharing our story with many people. So, I'm going to try to write more here, to give updates to more people in one shot, but still offer it somewhat personally.

Truthfully, that is hard for me, because as much as I love the convenience of blogs and facebook for sharing news, I've also had the unfortunate experience of somebody using these technologies as weapons against my heart.  It makes me more cautious, and less eager, to share online.  It's funny.  You can diagnose something like "chromosomal abnormalities."  You cannot, or at least usually do not, get a diagnosis for, "thinks too much about what others think" or "cares how people judge her," nor, "carries the pain of hurtful words."  Yet in the realm of disabilities and problems of this lifetime, these can be far more crippling than Down syndrome.  I should know.  I've struggled to give up worrying about others' opinions for years, and it is often a battle I limp away from with scars and wounds.  In the past three weeks, however, I've felt like God is literally lifting this burden from me.  As a result, I'm sharing in this blog, and will try to continue to do so.

Thanks for reading, praying, loving, and understanding.

Love,
MamaToo

getting here

"How do you keep it together all the time?" she asked, while musing through my naturally-wavy unruliness. I sat in front of my new hairdresser, a mama to one of Obi-2's classmates, who also has a new baby about Obi-3's age. She wasn't talking about my locks.

"What?!" I couldn't imagine that anyone, especially somebody who saw me on a daily basis, would think I have it together. Some days, it is nothing short of divine intervention to make sure I have all three boys with me as we head out the door! As I sat and enjoyed a new haircut, my new friend and I conversed about motherhood, appearances, faith, and fashion. In the weeks since that conversation, her words (and impression) have lingered in my mind.

Today was Obi-1's first day of first grade. Yes. In January. It is a commencement, of sorts... the end of weeks since we were told (at his kindergarten conferences) that his teacher, the principal, and many other teachers strongly recommend he move up a grade. The beginning of a new chapter in life. We could have waited until summer, but they were certain he should jump at least a grade to be more challenged in school. Our beloved kindergarten teacher was willing to keep doing special projects with him, but really thought it would be wiser to move him mid-year. In the days that followed that conversation, Mr. Kenobi and I would weigh the pros and cons of the decision, re-think all of our beliefs about children being young or old in their class, and sit in wonder at the maturity and reason coming from our 6-year-old.

Most of our process had to be kept in the family, as our beloved and trusted friends were affected by this decision. See, our dear friends are parents to Obi-1's good friends, like Miss A and Lil' Joe, who sit next to him in kindergarten. Making a move from this class meant making a move out of some common dreams for us parents. The choice may be wise, but it created heartache and some difficulty in our shared relationships. Thankfully, recent weeks have helped everyone bring perspective back together.

In the meantime, Obi-2 began to read. I would have blogged about this, but his latest development came as we were sorting all of these things out, and I wasn't sure if I was actually happy to see another Obi jumping ahead of his peers. What would it mean if he was like his brother? What if he wasn't? Of course he isn't like his brother - he's a different child! Then again, there are bound to be similarities. Why couldn't I be elated, or proud, and just enjoy this moment in life? Together, it seems, I was most definitely not.

And not to be outdone, Obi-3 began an earnest effort at crawling. Covering a wide swatch of floor as he pulls elbow-over-elbow and rolls back and forth along his path, my baby is mobile. My memories went back to a playgroup in early days of parenting. Noam, my friend's son, began this sort of crawl before the rest of our children. Our reactions were mixed in delight, interest, and jealousy... all of us waiting for our own baby to hit another milestone. As Obi-1 hit developmental milestones then, I smiled and wrote them down in a book (which is stored away somewhere...) Together with other first-time mamas, I tried to keep it together and learn the ropes of parenting. As Obi-3 hits those milestones, I try to just enjoy them, but also think about getting together the child-safety items that will make our home more pleasant for Obi-3 to explore.

At one time, I was a Mama to a single baby. Then, on the day Obi-1 took his first steps, I found out we would have Obi-2. In the mix of emotions of that season, I recall grieving for Obi-1, who would no longer have his mama's full attention. In some moments, I feared he would have to grow up faster. I would have to rely on him maturing if I would be able to balance a newborn and a toddler. I grieved for Obi-2, a child who would never have his mama the way his older brother did. Of course, perhaps that was a blessing! Keeping it together got a whole lot more complicated, and I didn't do it well most of the time.

Which brings me to today. Milestones come quickly, like mile markers on a long, speedy stretch of interstate. I often pause and wonder, how in the world did I get here? How did I become the person who packs a lunch for a first-grader? Had Obi-1 been our only child, I'm sure I would have sat in the car after taking him to his new class and had a bittersweet cry in my minivan. (Of course, if Obi-1 were our only child, I likely wouldn't drive that stinkin' minivan.) As it was, I had Obi-2 and Obi-3 in my arms, and a dog who needed to be fed at home. For the sake of all of us, I needed to keep it together and stay focused on the present.

In a continuing series of moments, some covered in milky spit-up and some with more sounds of whining than cheers, mothers like me hold it together. Sometimes I savor and photograph these fleeting moments, and other times they're barely witnessed amidst the noise of a full life. Honestly, I'm rarely thinking about the impression I might make on hairdressers or strangers at the grocery store. It's often just a necessity; hold it together, or lose it.

My gym teacher used to say, "wherever you go, there you are." So here I am. A mother sending off a first-grader, encouraging my four-year-old in his reading, and celebrating the crawling awkwardness of my baby. Someday, perhaps I'll really pull it all together. In the meantime, here we go.

kids say

"Do you ever write these things down?" I was asked while relaying one of my son's recent quotes. I got sort of sheepish... "Well, yes, sometimes I blog them, but I haven't done that much lately."

I've received a few comments from folks this week who think I should write more. Thing is, I don't have much time, so it may not be very well edited or considered. Still, these comments did highlight my week for different reasons...

It was evening, and Obi-1 was going to a kids' program with our neighbor while the rest of our family went to a small group time at a friend's house. I fed Obi-1 cereal for dinner, and was explaining to a hungry Obi-2 that he would get "breakfast for dinner" at our friends' home... let's call the friend Monica. Obi-2 wasn't pleased with needing to wait. Obi-1, meanwhile, decided to be helpful and explain the up-side of his little brothers' patience with dinner.

"You'll get dinner at Monica's, Obi-2," says the kindly older brother while scarfing down cereal.

"I want dinner here, now" replied the 4-year-old.

Obi-1 searched for a good selling point, and came up with this:

"But Monica is a better cook than Mama, Obi-2."

"WHAT?!?" I didn't contain my surprise from across the kitchen counter.

Assuming I hadn't heard him properly, Obi-1 repeated, "Monica is a better cook than you, Mama."

"But she's vegetarian!" I sputtered.

"What's that?"

"She doesn't eat meat. You like meat!"

"Oh." Obi-1 paused, enough for him to think about how much he likes meat and me to regret pulling that out as the only reason I can possibly be a better cook than our friend. Ironically, the whole conversation had apparently appeased Obi-2, which further frustrated me. After considering the new information about vegetarianism, Obi-1 drew a conclusion. "Well, she's still a better cook than you."

Evidently he's not as attached to meat as I thought. He also doesn't seem to follow that the butternut squash recipes I've been trying to talk him into trying come straight from her kitchen. I was thinking all of these things when my oldest child noticed I was pouting. He offered a sort of consolation-prize compliment. "But Mama, you make better Cheerios."

Gee, thanks, kiddo.

Now, this... I recently put up a little chart of "feelings" pictures to help my kids increase their vocabulary and recognize their emotions. Especially when dealing with Obi-2, I'll take him to the chart when he's upset and try to get him to concentrate on finding a match for his feelings. It gives us a springboard to work together and get him calmed down. From there, we can negotiate a solution without him launching into a fit.

So today, I was checking email and he was coloring a picture. Out of nowhere, he walked over to the chart and started scanning through the clip art images. After a few moments, he called to me.

"Mama, do you know how I'm feeling?"

"No, Obi-2, what are you feeling?"

He smiled, pointing to two pictures. "Happy and Loving."

Awwww.... now I feel happy and loving, too. I swooped him up for a big hug and told him awesome it is to be his Mama. It just makes me want to go make some of my special Cheerios for him.

why are you here

"I think I'm going to become a stay-at-home mom," I declared to a few people this morning. Some of them were puzzled, while others some could relate to my sentiments. What does it mean, anyway, to be a "stay-at-home" parent?

Whatever prompted it, I'm back in a season of critically thinking about my life and purpose. Perhaps it's the feeling that life is zipping by at an unparalleled pace. Or the words of a mentor earlier this week, reminding me that I really won't remember all of these details of life, and it's worth a few seconds to write (or blog) them down. Perhaps it's that I'm working part-time and bringing home a small income. Or maybe it was the rush of happiness I got when I cancelled out of a meeting this morning to stay home and bake cookies with my 4 year old.

In any case, I set out to enjoy my job today. I made my family a good breakfast. We walked to school in the morning, taking in the autumn crispness and good exercise. I made oatmeal-raising-craisin-chocolate-chip cookies with Obi-2, and sat down to write stories with him. After taking Obi-2 to pre-K, I joined Obi-1 in the cafeteria for lunch (a weekly tradition we've started on the day I volunteer in his class). He's always happy to see me, as are many of his friends, who scoot over on their little bench so I can sit with them. I smiled, thinking warmly of the impact stay-at-home parents can make in the little (and big) lives around them.

And then I faced the honest inquisition and quit wit of kindergartners. Over our sandwiches, the kid across the table looked at me, squinted his eyes, and said, "Why are you always here?" Conversation stopped at the table. Earnest little eyes stared up at me, eager for an answer. I searched for the right, concise reply to show them that they are loved and valuable, even to those who aren't paid to spend time with them. In the moment I paused to think, an answer rang out beside me.

"Because she doesn't have a job."

Ouch. The words may have come from a 5-year-old, but they stung with the fortitude of looks, back-handed compliments, and outright criticisms I have received from so many adults. All of the challenges in articulating what I do started to creep in and spoil my day. I reeled, and meekly replied, "this is part of my job."

It didn't matter. The darling girl next to my son had answered the question to everyone's satisfaction. Everybody, that is, except me. In an effort to force myself to have a sense of humor, I texted her quip to my husband and a couple friends (who were all at work). Surely this would prove funny to me in the future.

My phone rang with a message; a friend whose marriage is struggling needed an ear for a couple minutes. Without noticing that this, too, is part of my work, I excused myself from the rest of lunch and stepped out to take the call. After volunteering my Friday evening to help with childcare for their family, I returned to help in the kindergarten classroom, sounding out words like "car" and "green" with children who struggled to stay seated around their little tables. Later, I moved into the pre-K class to draw circles of glue and shake glitter over shape cutouts.

All the while, I felt a bit deflated, like I wasn't sure it mattered as much as the time of somebody working in a cubicle or corner office. Why was I here? Wasn't I busy with real work? Didn't I have something to do?

All of my answers seemed hollow, and I was stewing over it because a 5-year-old said I didn't have a job. Well, that, and because so many friends, family, and perfect strangers have said or implied the same.

After school, I headed to the car with the boys and checked my phone. I realized I had missed a reply from my husband, shortly after I sent him that little boy's question and little girl's reply. It just took a moment, and I smiled with tears. He gets me and my job, even when I don't.

So kid, why am I there all the time?

"because she loves her kids so much that she'd rather be with them in a noisy cafeteria than do anything else for any amount of money."

obi-1 goes to kindergarten

When Obi-1 was born, I received and read a lot of advice. Today, a couple snippets stood out in my memory. This, from a well-referenced author:

"...studies have shown that toddlers who have a secure attachment to their mother tend to adapt easier to new play situations and play more independently..." (Dr. Sears on attachment parenting)

And this, from a good family friend:

"...encourage your child to have other people involved in his life. It will be a blessing to both of them and create a well-rounded young person in your family..."

I received this advice with skeptical ears. Obi-1 was the baby who would cry if I left the room or even set him down. I wondered if I'd ever have a moment - day or night - apart from him. My adjustment to motherhood had many speed bumps, and I felt awkward and tired, trying to balance my own identity with a baby who didn't want to leave my arms.

Today, he was the boy I could hardly keep up with as he ran down the hall into kindergarten.

It's the First Day of School. It's been on our calendar, and now it's arrived. It's a day full of squeaky new sneakers, freshly cut hair, and a new lunchbox. A chance to sit at a new table with friends, new and old. A start with a teacher who has a soft and kind voice and has raised boys of her own. A return to a school we love and a principal who always seems freshly caffeinated and ready with a smile and high-five.

All summer, Obi-1 has been so excited for the all-day program at this wonderful little neighborhood school. As the months sped by, he got more and more eager to get into class. He hasn't quit smiling when he thinks about it. While he woke up early and dressed in the outfit he'd set aside last night, I took advantage of a little quiet time to get my spirit prepared for this day. I'm excited for Obi-1's excitement, but if I'm honest, I'm also sad to see him head into classes every day, all day.

For six years, I've been the primary teacher in his life. In the deepest parts of my heart, I'd love to homeschool. However, the more shallow parts of me know I can't do everything well, and I don't want to put my child in a little experiment when it's neither needed nor wanted. So, I am thankful that we have a good school and teachers to influence him in this season.

Today we packed a lunch, ate breakfast, and walked to school. Obi-1 went skipping and running, talking about all of the wonderful things he looks forward to in kindergarten. Obi-2, running to keep up, was excited to start Pre-K later today (which is, in itself, an exciting first!). And I, MamaToo, was pushing Obi-3 in a stroller and grabbing my camera to capture the memory.

happy birthday obi-1

All he could think of wanting for his birthday was a party at the park (“the one with the rose gardens and soccer fields”), with Eddie’s Pizza and carrot cupcakes. He imagined a party with his best friends and family in attendance, and everyone playing games outside and loving his cupcakes.

His best friend moved to St. Louis this summer, and for the first time ever, won’t be at Obi-1’s birthday celebration. A few additional friends and grandparents are out of town for the Labor Day weekend, and others can only come if the party is early in the day.

So, we scheduled the party for lunchtime.

Eddie’s Pizza doesn’t open until late afternoon.

So, we found an alternative pizza place.

I promised I’d make the cupcakes myself. I may have accidentally doubled the amount of carrots required for the recipe.

He declared he prefers carrot muffins better, anyway.

And, today we woke up to pouring rain, which is supposed to continue all day long.

So we’re having the party in the pizzeria, where kickball and water-fights won’t be part of the celebration.

Though this sixth birthday seems to launch my baby ever closer to independence, many of his own ideas for the day have not come to pass. He could be mopey. I could be mopey. But instead, we’ve figured out each challenge together and come up with alternatives. We’ve prioritized and re-prioritized as a team. The process of planning a celebration reminds me of how much older he - and I - are getting. I am proud of him for the maturity and grace he’s shown at every turn. He’s transforming in front of my eyes, and I can hardly blink because I know how quickly time passes.

There are many “firsts” for the firstborn. Next week, we’ll enter a new season as Obi-1 starts kindergarten. The baby who could never go more than a couple hours without me will be with classmates all day, every day. The child who has ushered me into motherhood will continue to propel us into the grade-school years. I still think of him as a little boy, but even that is quickly changing. In his eyes and words are hints of a young man - charming and smart, thoughtful and loving. The infant who wanted nothing more than his mother’s constant hold is giving me a hug and rushing off into childhood.

So as I enter a day full of “other” plans, I hope both he and I can enjoy some moments of sheer celebration. May memories be sweeter than preparations. Happy Birthday, Obi-1.

I love you,

MamaToo

o mama where art thou

So, it seems I have fallen away from updating this little spot of internet. Guilt could overrun me, but there is so much going on that I can hardly take the time to feel guilty. Here's a sampling of what has kept me from blogging lately...

Gardening.

We officially have a garden this year, and it's actually producing veggies! Our lot is quite shady, with many trees. As nice as that is to hide out from the heat, it has made growing sun-loving veggies nearly impossible. In years past, I planted tomatoes in pots, hoping to keep them in the sunshine to ripen. I ended up hauling them around to different spots in the morning and afternoon, finally moving them to my neighbors' yard! This year, in a final attempt to grow my favorites, I talked Mr. Kenobi into a planter box in the one consistently sunny area of backyard. Then, we talked our neighbor into letting us trim her maple tree back so that more morning sun could get to our spot. Last week, I hauled several tomatoes over to her in appreciation!

We have lots of tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, cucumbers, peas, pole beans, and a large herb garden, and harvest season has begun!

Projects.

When my parents came out to meet Obi-3 and visit us, my dad (Papa) helped Mr. Kenobi reconfigure our deck and build new stairs. Mr. Kenobi then stripped the whole thing, and we've nearly finished staining it. Before, the deck was basically a large pass-through to the yard, and I couldn't see the kids if I was inside. Now, our deck has become an elevated part of our small landscape, and flows right out the backyard for fun times I can oversee while making dinner!

Dad also taught me to spray paint while he was here, and I'm just a bit more crafty now! At only a month into his little life, Obi-3 slept for over an 8-hour stretch. It was the first time since early pregnancy that I'd had such a nice night sleep! I woke up so energized that I pulled out two sets of chairs we'd stopped using, setup a little shop in the backyard, and began painting. Now I have "new" chairs, and we're in process of finishing the wooden seats for the white ones so that set will sit on our "new" deck.

Running Around.

With capital letters, no less. I signed the boys up for swimming lessons, which are every day around noon. It is a lot of running, but they're loving it and I'm happy to see them really learning to swim. In one summer, they've gone from reluctant to get their faces splashed to full-on crawl strokes and easy floating. Meanwhile, I sit by the side of the pool with baby Obi, and chat with other parents I would never have met otherwise.

In addition, to go with that fresh produce from our yard, we've done lots of fruit picking at local farms. Strawberries, blueberries, a few raspberries, and even peaches - and the jams, frozen fruit, and pies to go with them! Picking is all within a few miles of home, and yet so rural you can really feel like you've traveled far.

Receiving.

This is the hardest part, quite frankly. Nearly all of my summer has been filled with receiving grace, help, meals, and love from others. Why is that so hard?!? We had meals delivered for nearly a month after Obi-3 was born. We have had parties planned and hosted to celebrate our family. We've had, (as mentioned), neighbors and family help us create backyard space to enjoy together. Friends have taken the noisy older boys (another post entirely) so that I could relax, take a nap, or return to staff meetings.

Reflecting.

Honestly, it's overwhelming to receive such help. At times, I just want to be self-sufficient. I want to be able to do everything myself. To have it "together," whatever that looks like. To make fantastic homemade meals with fresh produce, and sit on freshly redone furniture in a sparkling house, and have everyone smiling after every day. I'd like to do it all, do it well, and do it all myself. It seems I'm not much better than a toddler when I think about it that way!

Truth is, I don't have it together. There are mornings that getting everyone - including myself - breakfast is a major accomplishment. There are moments when I am filled with frustration at young behavior, and have to remind myself that my children need a lot of help and grace, too. There are days when I sit down and cry because it's harder than I thought it would be to be a mama of three. There are evenings when I reflect on something from the day and think, "I should really blog this."

Some things can only be done by me, like feeding Baby Obi, blogging, or sleeping. So I think, "blog, or sleep?" And the answer to that - well, you can tell from the post lists around here... Thanks for understanding.

Love,

MamaToo

to coffee or not to coffee

That is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

the potential of infant insomnia and baby acne breakouts,

which may or may not be related

to a nursing mother's caffeine consumption,

Or to begin the day at half pace,

struggling to catch up to the energy and ideas

of three young boys.

And by not partaking in a morning cup?

To sleep-walk through a routine of breakfast,

eaten standing at a kitchen counter while rocking a baby,

leaving one to find herself eating that same,

though unfinished, cold toast five hours later at lunchtime.

To long for the snapping brain synapses

that only seem possible with the aid

of a full night sleep, or a cup of joe...

True confessions:

With my firstborn, Obi-1, I did not drink coffee through an entire pregnancy and the year I nursed him. Never. I even kept away from most opportunities for chocolate. As I recall, my reasoning was something about caffeine and its impact on brain development. Something like that...

With my second-born, Obi-2, I did not drink coffee during the pregnancy, nor the first month of his new life. After that, I sparingly had a cup of coffee - no more than a couple times a month. Usually this was when I met up with other, more seasoned moms while they enjoyed a beverage at our local coffee shop. My reasoning had to do with the brain development concept, as well as avoiding food sensitivities in my newborn.

This time, with Obi-3, I cut back on coffee through portions of my pregnancy. By cutting back, I mean I had a cup of coffee a few times each week. I cut it out completely mid-pregnancy, but returned to the land of the caffeinated in when my midwife said it may help me cope with allergies. I also ate chocolate liberally (I love chocolate). By late in the third trimester, I'd enjoy a homemade latte or coffee several times a week. Once Obi-3 was born, I settled back into routine. With Mr. Kenobi home from work and my parents in town recently, there was always coffee flowing every morning, and I enjoyed it daily.

This time, I reasoned that an alert and happy mama is a safer, more fun mama. Safe and fun makes it more likely that they'll have a happy childhood. You pick - brainy & pretty, or happy? I thought so!

Problem is, Obi-3 has suffered from that horrible affliction called "baby acne," which I'm told is normal, but unnerving. It leaves me wondering about the causes. One source claims that caffeine can create break-out reactions in a baby's skin. The last thing I need right now is to be the reason my poor darling is all pimply.

So, this week, I said "goodbye" to coffee. Note: I said goodbye to coffee at the same time as I said goodbye to the help and love of my parents, and goodbye to the daily attention and capable hands of Daddy Kenobi. Not. Good. Timing.

Here's the rub: Obi-3's face is looking better. Or, perhaps I'm getting so bleary-eyed that my judgement is fuzzy. Yet it does seem improved. Could a cup of coffee each day make a difference, or is it that nifty new calendula cream? I'm not sure.

Today, however, I returned to the caffeine-induced perkiness of motherhood. Honestly, I needed it to get everyone out the door and to a doctor appointment on time. The morning went well, and everyone seemed mysteriously happier.

So, now I'm musing over the days ahead: to coffee, or not to coffee? I think I'll ponder this more after I've finished my latte & brownie...

success and perspective

Some days, success is defined with a "yes" to this one simple question:

Is everyone still alive?

Today wasn't neccessarily one of those days, but it got close at times. My parents, who were here for a week, left yesterday. Mr. Kenobi, who had Obi-3's first week of life fully off from work, plus several days of vacation over the past two weeks, left early for a full and hectic week at his office.

The boys and I were truly on our own, and I was determined to try as normal as possible of a routine as I could. I'm still learning what it means to have three children, and I'm also re-learning the nuances and needs of living in Baby Standard Time. Normal days don't always include meetings or outings. However, today was the staff meeting for my part-time work, so off we went.

The morning hadn't really started well and I'd barely eaten a bite of breakfast in the midst of managing three hungry children in need of my attention. Fortunately, I get to bring my children with me to staff meetings, and at least they were well-fed. On a good day, they play and read in the adjoining room (or nuggle in my arms, in the case of Obi-3) during our meetings. Today started out as a good day, but soured sometime after Obi-1 decided to curtail the game of "Battleship" he had going with his younger brother, and Obi-2 decided to start crying and protesting loudly as Obi-3 drifted off to sleep.

I lost any profession image I might have had when we arrived. The scene drained most of the patience and remaining energy. I started the day with good intentions, but now wondered if I could keep perspective through lunchtime. Instead of cheerily leaving the meeting as a capable and well-adjusted mom, I left carrying a crying 4-year-old on one hip, a diaper bag trailing behind me, and gratefully accepting help from a friend who carried the crying baby. Uffda.

It would have been humiliating, had everyone not been so gracious. I was also so exhausted I really didn't have the energy to get embarrassed. In that loud and sad march to the minivan, I remembered why I originally left full-time employment, and why I'm grateful my family doesn't need a second full-time income during this season of life.

Once home, we regrouped. I fixed the noisy older Kenobis PB & honey sandwiches, and a "fuzzy milk" with our espresso machine as a special treat for lunch. Once everyone was eating, I made an announcement: immediately following lunch, we would have rest time - for all of us. Sometimes, the boys protest naps. Today, either they were feeling as tired as I was, or they realized that protest might send Mama beyond the end of her rope. Whatever the motivation, I received boyish cooperation at exactly the moment I needed it, which is nothing short of a divine intervention.

This is why the day wasn't the hardest I've ever faced (or probably anything to compare with what's ahead someday!) We all napped. You know that phrase, "sleep when the baby sleeps?" Let me expand that advice: Sleep whenever you can. As much as you can. Always.

I slept, Baby Obi slept, and big boys slept. It is amazing what a little rest can do to renew your patience & perspective. Our late afternoon had a fair share of challenge, but these were more private (loud protests in my home are a little kinder to my ego than the same protest in front of friends & coworkers). When Daddy got home, clearly exhausted, he had just missed our neighbor, who had brought us a delicious and satisfying meal for dinner. Wahoo!

As I write this, knowing I have little time to edit, Mr. Kenobi has begun reading the fifth book in the Little House series. He's holding a sleeping Obi-3 in his arms, I've just finished dishes, and we may have a few moments together before he tries to catch-up on a bit more work. We are all alive, and tomorrow is a new day.

he's here

Baby Fig is here!!!

Born June 20th, but I'm just getting things posted. I'm now Mama to 3 sons, and completely and hopelessly outnumbered by handsome. adoring guys around here. I love it.

For statisticians out there:

8 lb, 4oz

22 in long

14 1/2 in head (really the most important stat)

1:07 pm

Truly beautiful according to everyone.

I will try to post a couple photos when I don't have Obi-3 in my arms. For now, love to you from the Kenobis!

nope, not yet

I've never been this pregnant.

I know... one is either pregnant or not. There is no "more" or "less" pregnant. Still, I've never carried a child for this long, so I feel it's accurate to say I'm the most pregnant I've ever been. Today is one week past my due date. Rather than going through all of the reasons this should not be concerning or even abnormal, I'm just going to say this: I'm well within a healthy window of time for this pregnancy.

However, the fact that I haven't had the baby yet is concerning for many other people. Their concern is starting to give me a bit of an identity crisis. Daily, sometimes more like hourly, certain folks check in with me "just to see if anything is happening." One of these people is a relative who will definitely be called when labor begins, since we're planning on her staying with the boys. I have explained more than a few times that she needn't worry about missing the news, but still she gives us a ring just to see if there are any changes.

Here's the thing: if you're one of these people, I like hearing from you. I'm not asking for you to stop getting in touch, because I don't really mind the calls or emails. I actually like hearing from you! The identity crisis begins when there is nothing else to talk with me about, once I reply that I'm (still) not in labor. The conversation looks something like this:

(phone rings...)

Me: hello

You: hi, just checking to see if Baby Fig has arrived yet.

Me: nope. No baby today. I will let you know when it happens. I promise!

You: Really? Are you having any signs of labor at least?

... sidenote: This is sometimes phrased even more personally. I've heard things like, "Are you dilating? Are you effaced? Has the baby dropped?" I'm not sure that people (including some that I don't know very well) realize they are asking about a gynecological exam result... Seriously?

Me: Nothing to get excited about. How are you?

You: Oh, fine. Just wanted to call to see if there was any news.

Me: Oh.

You: Oh. Well, bye, then.

Here's the problem. A few weeks ago, I was an interesting person (or so I told myself). I had people call me occasionally, and they weren't asking about medical results. They, and I, found something else to talk about. When I asked them about life, they had things going on. It was... well... normal.

Suddenly, once I got close to my due date, every reason to visit with me started to fade. I now receive phone calls with a single question. People email or call other people to get an update, so a few folks seem to be designated carrier pigeons. There is no, "How're ya' doin?" with most of these friendly check-ins. There is no, "How are the boys?" There is rarely any news about their lives. It's all about my cervix, and I'm starting to get annoyed at the thought of lots of other people thinking about that too much.

In fact, the extra time has given us Kenobis a chance to get out and have some adventures while we await our littlest Obi. Lately, fewer people have stopped in our home just to chat or have a latte, so we've been sitting outside and catching the neighbors for afternoon playtimes. Since our routine of school and activities ended last week, we've enjoyed a pace of life that includes strawberry picking and museum days. These have been sweet, and given me much to visit about - if only somebody were more interested in those topics.

So, in case you were wondering: No. Baby Fig has not arrived yet. However, I am certain we will meet this little one soon. Very soon. I will not offer more details on why I'm so certain, except to remind you that no woman stays pregnant forever, even one who is this pregnant, and I'm not that exceptional.

mama, too

Love your Mama.

Mine is amazing. She's the reason I've often been afraid I won't measure up in motherhood, because she set the bar conspicuously high. She's also the reason I have confidence that somewhere in the depths of my being, being a mama just fits. Perhaps - just perhaps - I've learned a thing or two from her.

There is probably no weekend each year that I'd rather be back in Dakota with her. It's not because my dad would make some grand breakfast, or there would be a fancy brunch after church, or that roses and jewelry are handed out en masse. Rather, I'd be sleeping in after a weekend of spring ballet performances and planting flowers with my mom. Simple time spent with a woman I love and admire, and miss terribly. I get more homesick than ever on Mother's Day, because my mom, who teaches, choreographs, and operates the town's top school of dance, has always spent her Mothers' Day weekends devoted to others. For nearly 60 years, she, and her mother before her (my mom follows in legendary footsteps, too) have dedicated this weekend to The Recital. Unfortunately, I can't go back most years, and it's bittersweet to plant my own flowers and hum ballet tunes from 1000 miles away.

While it's hard to journey through motherhood without her here beside me, I've been blessed with other women to love and model life. There's Grandma, (the "original" Mrs. Kenobi), whose generosity toward her boys, their wives, and their boys, teaches me the Kenobi family secrets of love and humor. And, when I'm feeling like I need somebody who understands me like a mom, there are beautiful women like Grandma Vicki, Auntie Barbara, or Miss Beverly, among other gems, walking beside me.

Other mamas are placed in my life as friends, but they often mother me. They help me through the transitions of life with grace I couldn't learn in a ballet studio. They love my children as grandmas, aunts, and angels. They, like a good mother, call me out when I need correction. They, like my mother, know how to enjoy the fine "S's" in life: shopping, sitting, and snacking. They, like mothers I often admire, balance full lives that reflect more than "just" being a mom, and yet they don't, as our culture sometimes does, resist thinking motherhood is a worthy highlight.

As I've said in my little profile, I never set out to be "just a mom." I never wanted to be called "Mommy" or "a mom," but I've have grown to treasure being called "Mama." In a few weeks, I will again introduce myself to a little Obi, and remember what that name means. My family will rely on me in new (and hardly remembered) ways, but we will also rely on the other mothers in our life. They will cook a meal, speak a kind word, hold somebody when there aren't enough hands, and celebrate this transition with us. They will demonstrate that our heavenly Father understands how precious, practical, and necessary mamas are for His children in this world.

I am often accused of "doing" much, juggling the ever-evolving needs of my family and myself. I spend time getting and keeping connected, and try my best to be who I'm purposed to be. I don't always feel worthy of a celebration, but I'm going to enjoy this day anyway. Mamas are special - and if you let them, there are many who will offer their gifts and enrich your life. Whether it's the mother we are given at birth, those who walk ahead of us, those who walk beside us, or the one who may join motherhood in years to come...

... love a Mama today.

winning

A principle of engineering is this: great constraints promote great creativity. Whether you're tackling a towering structure, a shrinking household budget, or a personal goal, difficult challenges seem to bring out the best design.

My challenge: make it through the week without a trip to the grocery store. We're leaving for a little mini-vacation, and I am pretty certain I can stretch things in our pantry and freezer to fill a shortened week's menu. Unfortunately, my 5 1/2 year old, "Obi-1," has recently developed a slightly picky streak. While we're generally not accommodating to picky eaters, I also didn't want to enter battles unnecessarily. So, last night I made orange chicken with cauliflower and rice. We've had it before, and all liked it. Honestly, I was feeling (perhaps overly) confident about dinner.

My confidence waned as Obi-1 looked at his plate and announced that he didn't like this meal. We ignored him, and continued passing dinner around the table. He announced louder. His voice got whinier. Finally, I looked directly in his eyes and calmly replied, "I heard you. That is rude to say when somebody makes you a meal. Now, let's eat."

Silly Mama... I thought that was the end of the discussion. Ha ha ha ha ha. Obi-1 looked at his plate. He looked at me. He looked at Mr. Kenobi. He did not eat. Beside him, little brother Obi-2 picked up his fork, took a bite, and said, "I love it, Mama!"

After about 10 minutes of dinner conversation and eating, Obi-1 asked to be excused. The plate hadn't been touched. This is not normal for our household, and I knew he was hungry. Still, I don't force food into my kids - if they're hungry, they eat, and if not, they don't. I don't make alternatives, but I've reckoned with enough stomach flu-ridden nights to know that forcing a child to eat can often come back to haunt you... literally.

We excused Obi-1 to get ready for bed, but informed him of one condition: "You are welcome to leave without dinner, but this is the food I've prepared. The next time you're hungry, you may eat this. You will not have other options until you've had this meal."

He looked a little skeptical, so I went on... "this will be available at breakfast, Obi-1." He shrugged and scooted off to jammies. We had a nice night of book-reading, singing, and sleeping, and this morning Obi-1 came toddling downstairs to let me know that his stomach was "grumbling."

"I bet it's hungry!" I smiled. "I'll go get your food for you." I warmed up the plate from last night and set it on the table in front of me.

Obi-1 turned to look at me with wide eyes. "I don't want this! I wanted oatmeal!" Of course. I had expected this, and would make oatmeal because his brother & I would also like that for breakfast. He was invited to have oatmeal after he ate this food. We had a bit more discussion, but I stuck my ground, calmly. He looked at his food, looked at me, and sat unmovingly.

I phoned a friend, who assured me that this is completely within bounds of motherhood. She then warned me that I may need to stick it out yet another 12 hours or so, if my son is nearly as stubborn as hers. Yikes! I received a message from another friend, who assured me this was a completely reasonable battle. It takes a village, people, and their reassurance encouraged me to stay the course.

Obi-1 stared at his food, meanwhile, and then informed me he wasn't going to eat it. I let him know that if he didn't feel hungry enough for it this morning, he could have it at lunchtime. If he didn't eat it before school started at noon, he could take it for snack-time. He didn't have to eat it right now, but there are no alternatives. His eyes grew very wide, probably imagining Teacher Nancy handing out graham crackers to every other pre-K child, and then handing a baggie of cold chicken and cauliflower to him.

Slowly, over the next two hours, my son ate his dinner/breakfast/morning snack. We're not talking about a lot of food. It was simply a lot of hesitation & procrastination. When he finished, I asked if he had liked it. Of course he did.

My dad claims there's a principle about parenting well that is similar to engineering. You're tested in the tough times and circumstances. Some of these challenges are handed to us, and some we choose. As dad says, "Choose your battles wisely. The ones you enter, you must win."

Winning tastes good.

firsts

It has been a while since I could take the time to properly update things here. Much has been happening, so I'll try to create a few highlights for all who faithfully check in on the Kenobis.

It was a Monday evening, and we'd just finished dinner. I was literally on my way out the door for a meeting. Because of our schedules, other people's schedules, and distances across this urban area, I often have to plan meetings for evenings. Thus, it was about 7 pm and I was just leaving the house. The boys had a special "movie night" planned with Daddy before bedtime, and Mr. Kenobi had just finished making popcorn for the occasion. Always eager to help in the kitchen, Obi-2 was getting up on a stool to help pour the melted butter over the bowl of popcorn.

Suddenly, I heard a scream of pain and Mr. Kenobi say calmly, but quickly, "put your hands under the water." I quickly returned to the kitchen to find that Obi-2 had lost his balance a bit and caught himself by setting his hand on the still-hot cooktop. (Sidenote to say: I really dislike glass cooktops. I know many people love them, but I am not a fan for many reasons. For instance, even when it's turned off and it looks "off," a burner remains blazin' hot for a while.)

In near-perfect cooperation, Mr. Kenobi handed Obi-2 off to me and an ice pack, while he went to get our book of health concerns from the shelf. Within minutes, we read the first instructions: do not put ice on a burn. Back under running cold water for little Obi-2's hands! The next thing we read is that burns on hands, faces, or soles of the feet require immediate medical attention, regardless of how serious they appear.

We looked at each other with dread: here we go, on a Monday evening, to an urban emergency room. In between my son's cries, a call to cancel my meeting and ask for prayer, & quickly organizing our family exit from the house, I could only imagine the germy, lengthy, and gruesome scene we'd be entering at the hospital. Honestly, my compassion for my son was only slightly greater than my dread of an emergency room on a Monday night.

The boys instinctively sensed our nerves, and began protesting the hospital visit as well. Obi-2's only experience in a hospital was visiting a friend and her new baby. Obi-1 has him slightly beat, as he was actually born in the hospital. Both were positive experiences, but brief encounters nonetheless. Neither has spent much time in a medical facility (yet?), which is a blessing but also leaves them with great unknowns.

Mr. Kenobi scooped the freshly buttered popcorn into a ziploc bag, and promised all would be okay. We gathered our shoes, coats, and a couple books to keep us company, and set out on the short distance to our local trauma center. I took Obi-2 inside while Mr. Kenobi parked the car and brought Obi-1 in behind us. As we entered the doors, we were greeted with a few questions about the "victim" and his medical needs. Then, as quickly as everything else, we were whisked into a separate "children's ER" area.

I walked in and realized many of my worries were unfounded. Sure, the place was probably covered with viruses, but it was not filled with inebriated folks, gang-related injuries, long lines, or barfing patients. Rather, "Hannah Montana" was on a TV, and cheerful children's posters decorated the walls. We were basically the only people there. No sooner had we seated ourselves to wait than we were greeted by a nurse and ushered into "triage," where she assessed how the evening's events, Obi-2's basic information, and the type of care needed. She was so patient and clearly skilled with little ones, and everyone felt immediately at ease.

From triage, we were escorted into an exam room, where a doctor cheerily greeted us, took a careful look at Obi-2's hand, and began to explain the needed treatment. He was compassionate and patient, distracting Obi-2 and carefully asking questions. Obi-2 had suffered a second-degree burn, which is fairly serious. However, the doctor didn't believe there was nerve damage, and the burns were fairly isolated, which was very good news.

He then explained that he'd have a nurse come in and bandage it up and be given some medication for Obi-2's pain. I know I had a slight grimace at the thought of Tylenol with Codeine, which the doctor recognized immediately. We don't do many medications around here, and this one sounded pretty serious. The doctor perceived my slight resistance and quickly commented that it is only humane to take care of my child's pain...

Thanks. Humane. I felt bad enough that my poor baby was hurt. I hardly needed to be accused of inhumane treatment of my son. Drug him up, Doctor!

So, a nurse handed Mr. Kenobi a dropper of orange medicine for Obi-1, began to clean & dress his hand, and another doctor conferred with our original doctor on the diagnosis. As the nurse wrapped gauze around his hand, I was instructed on the daily care and follow-up treatment. Meanwhile, another person entered the room with a rolling cart and computer. She gathered gather all of our information, insurance card, etc from Mr. Kenobi.

Only then did I realize we had never been asked to fill out a form, let alone the expected pile of triplicate forms, during this whole ordeal. We never actually had to let go of our kiddos, and they'd been so quickly cared for that most of that popcorn remained untouched! In fact, every thing I'd dreaded about an emergency room visit had been nearly wiped away with reality.

The nurse had one more surprise for us. She handed each boy a popsicle as the doctor handed me a prescription for pain medication (so I could continue humane treatment every 6 hours, as needed). We were also given follow-up instructions with a Burn Specialist appointment in a couple of days.

In just over an hour, we had entered and exited the emergency room on a Monday night. Our son was well cared-for, and on his way to a full recovery. He now loved hospitals, because he had a cool "glove" on one hand and a popsicle in the other, and was intensely proud of how everyone told him he was "Very Brave." We were able to stop by the pharmacy and still get home in time for a decent bedtime.

The days since this ordeal have proved just as good. Obi-2's hand is now almost fully healed, with no long-term injury or complications. Both boys think the Emergency Room (and hospital) were nothing to dread, a useful perception as it probably won't be the last time we end up there. We always figured Obi-2 would be the one to introduce us to the local ER, and I'm thankful that it's taken nearly 4 years of his life for our first experience.

Here's to your health & wellness!

mamathree

The name won't change, but the household will.  The Kenobi's are having a baby this summer... and while our "real life" friends (hopefully) already know this, other readers may not have heard the news.

We are waiting until we meet Baby Fig (the current nickname) to find out if we'll have a daughter/sister or son/brother.  So, for those of you who are itching to send us pink or blue items, well... hold onto it a while longer.  I'm not one to decorate a nursery or stock up on a brand-new layette, anyway

I'll admit, not knowing our baby's gender before he or she arrives does raise some interesting challenges.  For instance, we've now used two of our favorite boy names.  The list of potential names seems a bit shorter and more difficult this time around.   Plus, more people seem to have imput this time.  Obi-2 wants to name a baby "Goliath."  Mr. Kenobi likes "Obadiah."  I share this because neither will make the short list!   For fun with current events and biblical trivia, we've told some of our more "red state" friends that we're looking at Judges 4 for names.

Anyway, we won't call our children "Obi" in real life around here.  It is a good bet, however, that Baby Fig will be featured here as "Obi-3," thus continuing on our long and odd tradition on this blog.  If you're wondering why in the world we ever started this tradition, enjoy a little review...

Here's to growth!

-MamaToo

  

beautiful mess

The pressure of writing to "catch up" has kept me from writing at all.  Our life is a wonderful adventure, and sometimes it leaves this mama with more experiences than commentary.  I've also had so much work to do on my computer lately, I just haven't wanted to sit and update the blog.  Oh - but I've wanted to write out my thoughts and memories, as they are so much fun!  So, today I'm sharing a little moment of motherhood that I hope to treasure a while...

Baths, in the Kenobi household, happen at least once a week.  Some families do this ritual daily, but in our house it seems that it's an "as needed" occasion.  The boys have been a little stuffed up lately, so I decided to put them in a steamy bath this morning.  They were less than thrilled with the idea.  Obi-1 and Obi-2, it seems, wanted to do something messy.  Thus, a compromise arose which was entirely fun and photogenic.

I taped pieces of paper to the walls of the bathtub, and got them down to their skivvies before setting them in the (empty) tub.  The hot steam vaporizer was turned on to quickly warm the room, and I filled four plastic bowls with finger paints.  They were a little incredulous that I would let them paint on the walls or in the tub, but quickly and joyously started creating.  While I watched and snapped photos, they painted masterpieces (or at least painted) with increasingly messy hands & environment.

I can be known to be one of those moms who resists messy art projects, because... well... they're messy.  In this case, I embraced it!  By the end, they had filled several pieces of paper with their designs.  We had all laughed and enjoyed the moment.  When the art was cleared, I simply filled the tub with sudsy water & bubbles, gave them two clean washcloths to "clean" the tile, and let them play.  Within moments, everyone (and everything) was sparkly.  

It's ten in the morning, and I'm updating this blog, enjoying a latte and admiring some small things:

1. Squeaky-clean boys before lunch.

2. Boys who can take deep breaths through their nose.

3. Tile and tub that's cleaner than when the day started - and I didn't have to do it.

4. Beautiful pieces of childhood art.

5. Fantastic (mostly unpostable, due to the skivvies) photos of childhood.

Here's what I want to remember about this season of my life:

Sometimes you get discouraged,

because I am so small

And leave my little fingerprints

On furniture and walls.

But everyday I'm growing

And soon will come the day

That all those little fingerprints

Will surely fade away.

So here's a little handprint

Just so you can recall

Exactly how my fingers looked

When I was very small.

(I don't know the author of this poem.  It was on a project I did in nursery school...)