Dear Char-Gri-Ha-YOU!: An apology letter to my 4th kid

Dear Char-Gri-Ha-DANGIT!

I guess I should start with saying that I'm sorry that I never call you by your actual name.  I usually just shout out random syllables until I give up and yell at you to stop whatever it is that you're doing. To be fair, I call your siblings a bunch of random stuff, too, so maybe that one doesn't have anything to do with being the youngest. But there are some things that are totally different for you than for your brothers and sister. And I know they're there and I'm sorry. So, here goes. I am sorry for the following things...

Your Medical Care
I'm sorry that we are iffy on your medical care.  On the plus side, we have never driven you 45 minutes to the world class children's hospital emergency room in the middle of the night because you were vomiting. Just throwing up. No other symptoms. That was your sister.  After the hypochondriac phase of our first child, we swung way back the other direction and assumed we could handle anything. One of your older brothers has a permanent scar from that 2nd degree burn for which we did not seek medical attention, but should have. Oops. No, we're probably about the right level of emergency response with you, but I have no idea what any of your stats are. I don't know how much you weigh or how tall you are. Or what shoe size you wear. I don't remember which illnesses you've had or in what order. Sorry. I can probably look it up, but I don't know. Periodically I quiz myself about what you're wearing while I'm in the carpool line to pick you up and I'm never right. Which brings up my next topic.

Your First Day of...
I am not all that excited about preschool. I realize that this is your first time in Pre-K, but I've been here 4 times. Well, 5 if you count the time I, personally, was in preschool. Whereas I was totally excited to be the Mystery Reader for your sister (Oh, I'll get to see what her class is like!), I signed up for yours thinking, "I'll sign up early so I can get it over with." Oh, I'll actually love being in there and seeing you, but I'm also thinking, "You go to school for 12 hours a week. I need this one back." In fact, I posted a really cute first day of school picture of you, but it wasn't your first day. It was the second. Or third. I'm not sure, Daddy took that picture. I'm sorry. I love you and I'm proud of you, but I do not think everything with your fingerprint on it is adorable and I don't need ornaments with your picture on them. Speaking of pictures...

Not the First Day of School

Evidence of Your Existence
Daddy takes lots of pictures of you because you are adorable and hilarious. They are very rarely, however, the kind of thing a middle schooler would like to see of themselves in 7-9 years. They are frequently with your lovey, or under a blanket fort, or running away from us. I have almost no pictures of you because I am constantly catching you right before you careen off a cliff or into traffic and thus the pictures I could take fall by the wayside. I also don't even bother to get pictures where you are smiling or looking at the camera. We have thousands of pictures of 3 kids smiling and you off to the side somewhere doing whatever you felt like at the time. We just don't care anymore. We got a picture, all of you were in it, we move on. But your wedding rehearsal dinner video is going to be embarrassing because that's all we have.

The Only Kind of Pictures We Have of Your Face

Your Emotional Pain
While we're talking about embarrassing things...I'm sorry we laugh at you every time you cry. Its just that you're the only one that's still a little bit of a baby and your crocodile tears are incredibly cute. Also, you cry for hilarious reasons. You wanted to drink your milk on the floor. You wanted your monkey to pick you up from school. You wanted anyone but your brother to hand you a plate. But you also cry because no one is listening to you and that's probably true and I'm sorry that we still think it's funny. I'm sorry.

You fell on the Appalachian Trail and got a bloody nose. You are crying, however, because I picked you up to comfort you. and you were offended. Hilarious. So I took a picture. Sorry. 

TV and Movies You Watch
I'm sorry that your little voice gets drowned out by bigger ones, especially when you pick TV shows. You have never seen Sesame Street or Caillou. When you discovered Word World existed you lit up in a way that made me really guilty that you've never actually watched an age-appropriate cartoon. You do have a pretty good vocabulary from Martha Speaks and you know a lot about animals from Wild Kratts, but you don't have any idea who Dora is. Sorry.

Your Toys
You don't have any age appropriate toys. I'm sorry. You have a bunch of brothers that you wrestle like a maniac, but I'm pretty sure you never had stacking rings or that popper thing you pull or blocks. You do know how to read and can name all the months of the year, but that seems to be primarily through osmosis while I gave you random "school work" to do while I taught your brother those things. If you one day really need that phone you can pull on a string, I'll get you one. I'm sorry.

Your Tiny Legs
We forget you are little. We went to Washington, D.C. during the Cherry Blossom Festival and we decided we didn't need a stroller. You were 2. We made you walk the whole Mall and when you finally fell asleep in the Museum of American History, I just carried you. We have never given you scheduled naps or let you ride when you could walk. I like to believe it will make you tough. It might, however, just make you have ridiculous expectations for your own kids one day. Sorry, future grandchildren.

The First Ladies' Dresses were Exhausting

Your Middle-Aged Parents
I'm sorry that you get tired parents. We are a lot older than we were when we started this parenting thing...both in years and in miles. Oh, but we love you. My hardest thing with you is not spoiling you absolutely rotten due to your charm and laugh and smile and general adorable adorableness. Seriously, you're cute. So I'm sorry that I over-correct and yell at you and give you the mean Mommy voice because I'm raising you to be a responsible man and not a man-child who thinks that charm is a character trait. I'm sorry if that is not always clear.


I hope when you're a grown man you will be able to see past the forgetful Mommy and distracted Daddy to the parents who deeply love and cherish you. You asked me why God made you this week...and without hesitation I told you it was because God wanted another little boy with big brown eyes who loved life and made everyone around him smile. So you gave me one of your smiles...the one that lights up the world around you...and snuggled into my lap.

You are my treasure and joy and I'm sorry when we forget to tell you. And I'm sorry that the only way I'll ever remember this is to write it down and put it on the internet. Feel free to ask my estate for therapy money. We probably left your oldest brother in charge of it. Sorry.  

Grow, Little Bloom, Grow

Such a Perfect Tulip in my Front Yard

I kill things a lot. Not like, animal things, but pretty much all plant things. I have two large peace lilies that I have managed to keep alive for about a decade, but they mostly survive on the force of my guilt. One was a gift at my grandfather's funeral and the other was from the funeral of his sister, so every time they start turning brown and scraggly I water them... because how terrible would I be if I let my dead relatives' funeral plants die? Have I no soul? Fortunately peace lilies are incredibly resilient so this plan is keeping them pitifully alive...so far.

But, basically, without strong guilt motivations I will just let stuff die. Because I am tired and moving seems too hard. Because I am poor at planning things ahead of time and "gardening" is not on my list even when I do make a plan. Because I am lazy. It is apparently not much of a priority so I don't create time for it in my life. It feels wrong, though...

Some part of me, perhaps the part that loved visiting my grandparents' farms as a kid, really wants to grow something. Both of my sisters-in-law are actually quite good at this despite their busy lives and little children and more than average levels of responsibility. They grow things to eat and lovely things to look at and I definitely do not.

The other day my brother's wife offered me extra seeds she will have after her first spring planting in their new house. I told her I would happily accept the seeds, but that I had no idea what I was doing. She said, "First rule of gardening: if it grows, take the compliments. If it doesn't, blame the weather."

I thought of this wise advice when I pulled into my driveway today and saw this:

Mailbox Joy

Tucked around my mailbox are 80 or so tulip bulbs that my sweet relative game me for Christmas. She and my niece snuck over to my house last fall and planted them while I was out of the house for the day. On Christmas, I opened an adorable picture of my 5-year-old niece posing with her handiwork and the information that, although they couldn't guarantee anything would grow, they promised that they worked hard to plant something.

Earlier this week I was writing something else (I'm working on a book even though I'm terrified that it will turn out that I've spent months and months of my life working on the world's least interesting pamphlet) and I was pondering the idea of investment in others.

None of us are going to live forever (depressing thought for the day) and the only thing of real value that we leave behind will be our impact on other people. And that impact, whatever it may be, is never the result of just one moment. There are days and weeks and months and years of words and touches and acts of kindness that go into forming how we influence those around us.

Right this minute, I am writing with little feet in my lap. As I sit here, snuggling a sick boy and his monkey, it is hard to imagine that this act will have a lasting impact on him. By itself, it probably wouldn't. But if I add up the sick snuggles and the words I speak and the moments I offer him attention, they become not just a series of moments, but rather something alarmingly momentous to his life.

A Boy and His Monkey

Our relationships, like the lovely tulips planted by the sister-of-my-heart, need those first acts. They need us to dig and plant and cover with care in the hopes that something will bloom. Even if we have no idea if anything will come of it. Even though we cannot predict the weather in which our efforts will get the chance to grow.

Our children need us to think that way. So do our parents, siblings (both biological and by marriage), our friends, and spouses. What relationships have we forgotten to plant? Where have we been watering just enough to keep it from dying like my peace lilies and where have we just let it die (like every other green thing I plant).

I am so grateful for people in my life who have bothered to plant things in me and for me out of love and grace. I am a better person than I could ever be without them. Let me plant things that grow.

I Have Pretty Hands (a compliment of motherhood)

I have four kids.

Sometimes I'll be doing something like reading the newspaper or running errands and I'll remember...as though I've forgotten... that I am the Mommy.

It's surprising and ridiculous and somehow inconceivable...how did I become the responsible adult in the lives of FOUR human beings? Clearly someone in charge has made a terrible mistake.

The first moment that Jay and I were left alone with our oldest child, she stopped breathing. She turned grayish blue and the nurse came running and we were terrified. And then they made us leave with her 36 hours later. To take home. To our house by ourselves where we mostly ate dinner on the floor while watching Seinfeld reruns and staying up crazy late binge watching DVDs of 24 (no Netflix yet).

I cannot POSSIBLY be the Mommy. I have pink hair.

But I AM the Mommy. And the Mom. And the Mama. I'm the finder of school pants and the re-builder of Lego sets. I'm the healer of cuts and scrapes and hurt feelings. I am the soft place to land and the watcher of countless "amazing" dance moves.

I am also the cleaner of pee soaked sheets, the nurse to vomiting children, and the wiper of behinds with diarrhea. Motherhood is a mixed bag.

A few weeks ago, my three year old lost his mind at bath time. I don't know if you are aware, but three-year-old children are clinically insane. They lull you into this false sense of security because they are adorable and squishy and can form intelligent sentences and then BAM! they go nuts because you cut their sandwich wrong.

Or they lose all sense of significance over small events. "I wanted to take the wrapper off the straw by myself" becomes a wail of pain as though flesh were being flayed from his body. It is not appropriate to flail about on the floor because you had to wear a green shirt instead of a purple shirt because you peed on the blue shirt. I don't really care if you even wear a shirt at all.

Anyway, he pitched a fit because it was bath time and then he pitched a fit because I made him get out of the bath and we wound up sitting on the floor in his room while I wrestled him into underwear and pajamas and he got so red he turned purple and had great big fat alligator tears rolling down his face.

Because this is my fourth kid, I found it hilarious. In the beginning, I would have been worried that there was something wrong with him. As a new parent to a three-year-old I would have looked for deeper meaning to his disobedience and inability to control himself. Now I know that tired children act like crazy people and you really just need to get them to sleep.

So in that moment I started to stroke his sweaty little tear-covered face and tell him that I love him. That I didn't want his day to end like this. That he is a kind boy with interesting things to say and I love him so, so much. That I am so grateful I get to be his Mommy.

He sighed, took a shuttering, shaky breath...

And screamed, "I DON'T WANT YOU AND YOUR PRETTY HANDS!!"

My bony, unkempt, pretty hands

I have pretty hands. Not because they are visually appealing. The crooked broken finger, knobby knuckles (is it really because I crack them?), and bitten-down finger nails prevent any kind of aesthetic pleasure. No, my hands are pretty because they are gentle. Because they are strong. Because they help change clothes and clean off dirt and make dinner and build shelves for Legos.

I have pretty hands because an irrational three-year-old was soothed and comforted and then angry that he wanted to let go of his fit and rest. Which is still hilarious.

How many Mommy compliments have I brushed aside because they came from one of those four people while still listening to the implied criticism of people I don't even know? When I feel less than because I no longer have a job...when I'm bummed because my stomach is jiggly...when I look at someone else's Insta-perfect account and feel like I'm missing out...why do I even care?

Why do so many of my thoughts and feelings of disappointment in myself come from the random people I don't actually care about?

Because, dammit, I have pretty hands.

My pretty hands shape the world of four entire human beings. How they view the world, what think about themselves, and what they learn about God and the universe is molded in my hands. They are their own selves, sure, but my hands are the beginning and end to their days, the comfort in their fear, and the only home they know at this point.

I have pretty hands. I pray I use them well.

A Love Note for Moms on Mother's Day

This is the time of year when we moms kind of awkwardly accept cards and flowers and breakfasts in bed because, somehow, this is what men and children think moms want. And it is sweet and we love our families and we appreciate their kind words. But we also feel a little silly. Because we are Mom and it’s our job and who knows if we’re even doing right?

No one knows, really, if you’re doing it “right.” But there are some things I do know about you just because you are called mom.

I know that you were surprised by how freaking hard it is to have a newborn. Not only were you sleep- deprived and covered in goo, but you couldn’t figure out how you might ever find your way out of the darkness that is the newborn cave and crawl your way back toward your old self. 

And I know that at the same time, you were petrified of leaving that baby with anyone else because even if you had no clue what you were doing, you were also all in and crazy protective of that tiny lump of humanity you made.

I know that you sometimes think things like “I would like just one day where no one says ‘mommy’ 187 times in a row without taking a breath.”

And then, late at night after the kids are in bed and you have chocolate and/or wine, you think of your friends and family who couldn’t or didn’t have children. Or, even worse, the ones who’ve lost a child and then you take back all those frustrated thoughts and maybe even sneak into their rooms just to watch them take one more breath.

I know that when people at work without kids complain about how tired they are, you think, “oh my GOD, you have no idea. If only you could see what my night is like.” But you don’t because you are a grown-up and a professional and it wouldn’t matter anyway. You just do your job with a vague sense of mom guilt and then make dinner and supervise homework and fall into bed.

I know that when your husband comes home from work and you’ve just finished yet another round of Stay-at-Home-Mom chauffer/maid/volunteer roulette, you wonder if anyone will ever respect you again if you only wear yoga pants for the rest of your life. But you don’t ask anyone what they think because you are a grown-up and you own your life choices and it wouldn’t matter anyway. You just take care of your household with that same vague sense of mom guilt… and then make dinner and supervise homework and fall into bed.

I know you mentally berate yourself for your extra-jiggly parts or your deflated parts or the parts no longer in the same place. No one should be aware of fat on their back, right?

But I also know that when your kids were asked to fill out their mother’s day lists they said you were “snuggly” or “gave kisses” or “hugs me.” Which is kid-speak for “you are a soft place to land, to find comfort, and to feel unconditional love.” Not one of them mentioned your back fat.

I know that you cannot let go of that time you yelled at your kids for their behavior in a store or at their grandparents’ house and you worry that they will remember it forever. And they might. But they will probably think it’s funny and only bring it up to mess with your head. Because children are like that.

I know that, logically, you recognize that your kids’ youth soccer ability as having little to no relevance in their lives. But I know that you are also ridiculously proud when they score a goal on the kid who was making a daisy chain.

I know that you don’t really want or need any more school-made cards or ornaments or works in clay. And that you are trying to find a way to dispose of them without breaking anyone’s heart. Except that then you sigh and think of how they will grow up and leave you so you put them somewhere safe where you can look at how tiny they once were. Stupid school crafts.

I know that every single day you love your babies. They drive you crazy and they test your limits of patience and they destroy everything nice in your home. And yet nothing lifts your heart more than a pudgy hug that leaves handprints on your shoulders.

I know that when your child is sick your world stops. And that when they are just a little bit sick, you revel in the sweaty head tucked under your chin and the particular heavy weight of a child who is really, really asleep.

I know that sometimes, when you think about the future, all of the fears and unknowns of their lives almost overwhelm you and you feel short of breath for a few minutes.

I know that you would give anything to ensure their future health and happiness, but that you also know that isn’t possible. And somehow it is all worse that you would gladly lay down your own life for theirs, but no one is ever going to ask you to do so.

I know that there is no one on earth over whom you will ever have as much influence as you do over your children.

And I know that that thought both terrifies and inspires you all at the same time.

I know that you had no idea what you were signing up for when you became a mom, but that you cannot imagine the person you would be without ever having kids. I know that is true even though you have absolutely no problem imagining being alone…on an island…with chocolate…and a drink with an umbrella…for maybe a week or so.

I know that you are trying. Really, really trying to do this whole mommy thing exactly right. Except that there is no right and the fact that you’re really trying is the biggest part of getting it as close to right as possible.

I know that you need other moms--for advice, for commiseration, and just for a break from talking about Jake and the Neverland Pirates. And every now and then, you also need them to tell you you’re doing a good job.

So, here it is from me. You are doing a good job, your babies think the sun rises and sets on you, and you are exactly what your kids need.

Happy Mother’s Day

Best Mom Tip #177: Enter the Momlympics

 The Momlympics are just like the Olympics except that instead of elite athletes making you feel inferior because you canNOT run a mile in under 4 minutes, they have moms competing in categories for which only motherhood can prepare you.

Thus far, the Momlympics includes the following events:

Schlepping stuff:  If you have ever used your mouth to carry something like your phone because your hands were filled with a school bag, two sippy cups, a random sock, car keys, your own purse, a water bottle, and a baby, you have been training for this category.  Then you thought, "did I just put my PHONE in my mouth?!! The same phone I set on an elliptical machine at a public gym in case the school calls about one of my kids and that I then let my toddler play with? I am clearly going to die of norovirus."

Clothes Changing:  In a car, in a public restroom stall, in the booth of a restaurant, with a baby that does flips every 2 seconds, with a newborn who cannot control his arms while another child clings to your legs, while you are covered in diet coke AND you're in a rest stop parking lot, when one or more of the participants are covered in vomit, when none of the clean clothes left fit the child who needs new clothes, and when due to unforeseen weather or spontaneous swimming it involves 3+ children and yourself.  This category is going to be pretty competitive this year and is closely related to the next one...

Bodily Function Clean-up:  If you have ever caught spit-up with your hand or been glad that the poop landed on you because at least you don't have to clean the floor, this is your event.  Do you have 14 different boxes of tissues hidden in your home and car?  Do you buy baby wipes to keep in your car even though you no longer have a baby?  Do you know how to get blood out of silk because of that one time you dressed nicely for a date and a kid busted his lip AGAIN while running in socks? It's got to be fast before another kid sees/steps in/tracks through the house whatever it is that needs cleaning up.  And it's gotta involve at least a little bleach.

Finding things:  Where are my shoes? What happened to the 12th rubber disk that my Buzz Lightyear gun shoots?  Where is my blankie?  Where is my paci?  Where is Daddy?  Where did I leave my milk?  Where is my skirt/shirt/pants that I want to wear right now?  Why are these items invisible to everyone in the family except Mommy?  I don't know, but prepare to test your skills while thinking like a kid.

Remembering Things:  Prescriptions dosages, number of kids in their classes, when the doctor appointments are, when the dentist appointments are, which kid has a class party, which kid cannot have anything that has ever looked at a peanut in their lunch, that even though she didn't ask for them your daughter will be disappointed if you don't send in cookies for the class to share on her birthday, and when the baby needs to eat again.  This category will not include remembering your own appointments or birthday because your brain is clearly full of random other crap.

In the interest of full disclosure I am forced to admit that, as of yet, there are no actual Momlympics.  But if there were, I would be a serious contender.  What other events would you like to see?