Happy birthday to Fern

Today is my Grandma Hyer's birthday. She is turning 29 again. (Yes, my own grandmother is younger than me.) My grandma is one of my very best friends. We have a special bond. (It helps that I am her only granddaughter--it's easy to maintain #1 granddaughter status.) I cherish the story my grandma tells about the first time she held me--she knew we were going to be good friends.

When I remembered that it was my grandma's birthday today, I decided to dress Mary in a dress my grandma had made for me when I was a baby. Here is a picture of Mary in the dress.
Happy Birthday, Grandma! We love you!

Motherhood and moments

I was finally able to listen to Elder Ballard's address to young mothers. (I didn't hear it on Sunday because we were at that moment in the middle of a minor catastrophe--David had plowed Mary into the mud with a giant dump truck.) Elder Ballard wisely pointed out that "the joy of motherhood comes in moments." I imagine that line will be quoted again and again, with good reason. (Come on, you other moms, didn't you like that part of his talk too? About slowing down and enjoying the moment?)

Earlier this week, before I had a chance to listen to Elder Ballard's address, I stumbled upon something similar to his "the joy of motherhood comes in moments" observation. Tuesday I was early picking up David from school (it's actually an early intervention playgroup, but we call it "school"), so I was mindlessly flipping through a baby/parenting magazine in the lobby. A blurb about finding happiness in motherhood caught my eye. (It was one of those "5 Easy Steps" pieces. Aaah, if only any significant challenge in my life really could be solved in 5 easy steps...) The author suggested that we would be happier if we stop expecting to be happy all the time. It's unrealistic to expect to be happy all the time; we'll only end up disappointed and frustrated. We are better off to accept that there is simply a lot of drudgery and monotony involved with motherhood, and then we can look for those happy moments. The happy moments will shine more and mean more if we aren't caught up in thinking that all our motherhood moments should be joyful ones. I think I agree.

When motherhood is monotonous, frustrating, overwhelming, and exhausting, I tend to feel despair. I despair that my life is so miserable, that my children are so challenging. I despair that I am not happy, that I have somehow failed in this role that is supposed to bring me great eternal joy. I envision myself sinking into quicksand, suffocated by my disappointment. I simply can't believe that it will get better. But it always does. Always.

For example, Thursday was a terrible day. We hosted playgroup, and David spent the majority of the time running in circles, strangling kids, and throwing toys. After his nap, I thought we would get a fresh start with a fun outing to the park, but that ended abruptly when he began throwing sand in kids' faces. After dinner Greg took Mary to a church meeting, and I thought David and I could have some nice one-on-one time feeding the ducks or playing at the park. But he practically threw a tantrum about wanting to go to the Y instead. Good riddance, I wasn't going to force him to have fun with me. So I dropped him off in the childcare room at the YMCA and worked out. So much for some bonding time together. To top it off, bedtime was a struggle, and he wasn't asleep until after nine. I went to bed feeling despair that my happy, enthusiastic child had permanently transformed into something from my mommy-nightmares. The worst part was that I had really tried to make it a good day, and I was bitterly disappointed. I went to sleep feeling powerless, hopeless, and dreading the next day.

But, you know what, the next day was better. David and I spent the morning listening to "Drive My Car" (David is going to be a Beatles fan whether he likes it or not!) and cleaning up his toys. He picked up all his Legos by himself--he even searched all over the house for the random misplaced ones. He was so proud of himself when he was finished. And I was proud too! Later that morning we had some friends over to play. David and I talked about how you treat your friends, and he was quite well-behaved. Not perfect (there were a couple of time-outs), but I could see that he was really trying. Then he took a THREE hour nap--heaven! And that afternoon he astonished me with how patient and cooperative he was with his speech therapist. It was not a bad day. In fact, it was truly a good day. But I had been so hung-over with despair from the day before that it took a while to recognize that "Hey, my kid's not so bad after all. In fact, he's pretty darn cute, he's doing the very best he can, and I sure love him! I really can do this mom thing."

The bad moments are just that, moments. They pass. Things get better. They may get worse again soon. But there will be moments of joy, often unplanned and unexpected--like picking up Legos to a Beatles tune. So it is important for me to stop expecting motherhood to be easy and happy all the time, and, instead, follow Elder Ballard's counsel to slow down and treasure "the shining moments of joy and satisfaction." Because the joyful moments are just that too--moments.

David and the dinosaur

Yesterday we went to Target, and I let David choose a dinosaur out of the dollar bin at the front of the store. He was very excited about his "bird awar" (translation: "big dinosaur"). The dinosaur then accompanied us to the park, where David took him down the slide and on other adventures throughout the playground. The dinosaur then came with us to Subway, where David thoughtfully fed him chips and shared his juice box. That evening the dinosaur helped build a train track with Dad. And, of course, the dinosaur went to bed with David. David was very careful to share his pillow and blanket with the dinosaur. Very cute.

Mobility achieved

Yesterday during David's nap I sat Mary down in the middle of the living room surrounded by a number of toys. (Mary has been sitting up well now for a few weeks, and it's wonderful. She's able to sit and entertain herself for a while. ) Seeing that Mary was sufficiently interested in the selection of toys, I ran off to type a quick email. When I returned a few minutes later, she had vanished! There were the toys, the blanket, but no Mary. My first thought was, "David!!" But, no, he was still napping. Trying not to panic, I called out, "Mary? Mary, where are you?" (What was she going to do? Say, "Hey, Mom, I'm over here"? But saying her name seemed like the thing to do.) I soon found her in the corner behind a lamp chewing on a cord!!

So it's official. Mary is now mobile. It's just a little, wriggly worm scoot, but enough to take her across a room in no time. I now see my house with new eyes--the outlets, the electric cords, the tracked-in mud, the crusty old piece of playdough under the table, the tiny little plastic toy parts. She's only 5 months old! I had hoped for a couple more months of stationary-baby bliss. Ah, but I can't help but be happy for her. She's so proud of herself, and the world is opening up to her new ways. Way to go, Mary!

Mary's first pigtails

Yesterday it felt like spring had finally arrived! Hooray! It was beautiful outside, and we spent much of the day in the backyard. We were also listening to our church's annual worldwide conference over the Internet. It was the perfect combination--the warm sunshine, the fresh spring air, and the teachings of the gospel.

I put pigtails in Mary's hair (finally!) because it seemed like a "spring-y" thing to do. I've been able to put her hair in pigtails for months (yes, my 3-month-old baby could have had pigtails), but I just never did. I wish I hadn't waited so long. She looked so cute! I took her outside to take her picture with her new do.

Now let me tell you what happened after I took Mary's picture. David ran her over with a giant orange dump truck. Mary was muddy, grass-stained, and hysterical. David was sent straight to his room, and he was even more hysterical than Mary. But I was the most hysterical of all! And this all happened during Elder Ballard's talk on motherhood. (No joke.) Oh well.

Gas station ice cream

We went out for ice cream Saturday night. We planned to go to Graeter's for Ohio's famous gourmet, Oprah-recommended ice cream. It's incredible ice cream--yum! But it didn't really feel like a gourmet ice cream night...so we went to the gas station. There's a big, new United Dairy Farmers gas station/store that recently opened up not too far from our house, and it has a big ice cream counter. We decided to try that. It wasn't gourmet, but it was good enough for a happy, little family outing.

We had a nice time. Nothing terribly disastrous or especially funny happened, though there was a picture of a milk truck on the wall and David kept calling it a "milk shake truck," which I thought was cute. We were all happy and sitting still. It was a nice, normal, pleasant, totally unremarkable family outing. It's good to know we have those sometimes.

Such a nurturing brother?

This is how I left Mary. I snapped the picture, and quickly ran off to the bathroom, leaving Mary safely(?) in her crib as David ate lunch in other room.

No more than fifteen seconds later, I returned. And this was the scene.

"David, what are you doing?!!" I shrieked. "Mar drink milk," he responded. He was trying to nurse Mary. I guess he figured it was her turn to have lunch.

No more flowers, please

Taking this picture on Valentine's Day was just about the last thing I wanted to do at that moment. But I knew it wouldn't be long before I could look at the picture and smile...and be glad that I forced myself to take it.

Valentine's Day is not especially important to me. I think making valentines with children is fun and I can't complain about an excuse to eat chocolate, but I don't find anything inherently romantic about the day. My wonderful husband, however, never fails to send me flowers, usually red roses. I would rather have tulips on some random day instead (or, even better, take the money and go shopping), but I appreciate how thoughtful and sweet Greg's gesture is each year. So I haven't ever said anything but a gracious and sincere thank you. Until this year.

It was around 4 o'clock in the afternoon (of a very LONG afternoon--the kind of afternoon that makes me fantasize about daycare) when I heard the knock at the door. David rushed to the window, shouting "Mail-koo!! Mail-koo!!" "Mail-koo" is David's word for a mail truck or delivery truck. He learned at Christmastime that mail trucks bring big boxes full of exciting things. (When other children at preschool were chattering about Santa, David was talking about mail trucks. Who cares about some silly old fat guy flying around with a bunch of reindeer? It's all about the UPS man!) So on this particular afternoon, he was as excited as can be about this "mail-koo." I happened to be nursing Mary at the time, and I hoped to simply ignore the "mail-koo." But the person kept knocking, and by this time David was clamoring to get the door open himself. That's when I remembered it was Valentine's Day--it wasn't a mail truck, it was a florist's delivery truck. My annual flowers.

Mary's meal was abruptly interrupted as I plowed through the toys on the floor in a race to reach the front door before David successfully unlocked it. I opened the door and accepted a large arrangement of roses from a scruffy, tired man. "Happy Valentine's Day," he muttered. And I felt ridiculous (even embarrassed) standing there at the door, in a pile of legos and matchbox cars, wearing sweats, my hair half falling out of a ponytail, a screaming baby in one arm, flowers in the other arm, as I used my leg to keep my overly enthusiastic 2-year-old from escaping out the front door for a better view of the "mail-koo."

"Yay!!!" David cheered, with his arms in the air, when he saw the flowers. "Flower! Flower! Flower!" The flowers were wrapped in a plastic and cardboard contraption (that smelled of stale cigarette smoke), and David insisted we open it immediately. To Mary's dismay, I couldn't get the flowers out with one hand, so I had to set her down. I tore off the plastic, pried the vase out of the cardboard, and picked up my hysterical baby. "Yay!!! Two flowers!! Two flowers, Mom!" Actually, there were eight--eight beautiful, perfect red roses. I scanned the house for a place to put them. Hmmm. I could put them on the kitchen counter with the bread crumbs, open peanut butter, breakfast dishes, junk mail, and the business section of The New York Times strung about. Or I could put them on the table with more crumbs, spilled milk, a half-eaten apple, coloring books, broken crayons, and the rest of the newspaper. I settled on the table and pushed aside the newspaper with my elbow to create a few inches of space for the vase. The flowers were beautiful, which had the stunning (and depressing) effect of making my house look even messier. (Note to self. Actually note to anyone who might ever send me flowers. Please don't send me flowers unless my house is clean. Even if you could just give me 2 minutes notice, so I can at least wipe off the dining room table.)

David climbed right up on a chair to admire the flowers. He was overflowing with excitement. "Flower, Mom! Flower, Mom! Flower, Mom!" "Yes, I see the flowers. Aren't they pretty?" "Flower, Mom! Flower, Mom! Flower, Mom!" I left David to enjoy the flowers (at least someone was) and finished feeding Mary (finally!). When I returned a few minutes later, the poking had begun. With every "Flower, Mom!" David would poke one of the roses. At first I scolded him, but David was just so excited about the flowers--he needed to have physical contact with them. And I didn't have the energy to fight him. Besides, I was annoyed that Greg had sent me one more responsibility. I felt a responsibility to protect the flowers, but keeping David and Mary alive and safe was all the responsibility I could handle that afternoon. Sorry, flowers.

This is when I had the foresight to take a picture. I could see that the end was near for the flowers. And even though I was annoyed about the additional chaos the flowers had brought to my day and had no positive feelings towards them at that moment, I could recognize some humor and irony in the situation. So I gritted my teeth and prepared myself for the struggle of getting David to pose for a picture. I couldn't bring myself to record for all posterity the messiness of my house that day, so I put the flowers and kids on the one uncluttered spot I could find. David was thrilled to pose with the flowers. He was so proud! He was even more excited to hold his baby sister. I am glad I took the picture. More than anything, I love remembering how excited David was. He has such enthusiasm for life.

Right after I took this picture, David wrestled Mary to the floor in a headlock, knocking the flowers over, and soaking the carpet with water.

When Greg came home, I managed a very forced and weak thank you. Then I told Greg that he was in charge of David and the flowers. He looked at me confused. David dragged him into the dining room, "Flower, Dad! Flower, Dad!" Five minutes later, after countless "No, David!"s, a dozen lost petals, and three tippings of the vase, Greg returned from the dining room shell-shocked. "Alisa, I hope this doesn't hurt your feelings, but I'm not going to send you flowers again for a while." "Please!"

You

David thinks his name is "You." This leads to some rather confusing conversations.


Me: Who wants to play Legos?!

David: You!!


Me: Who do I love SO MUCH?

David: You.


David: You close door.

Me: Okay, I'll close the door.

David: No! YOU close door!

Me: Okay! I am closing the door!

David: No, Mom, no! YOU close door!!

Me: Oh, YOU want to close the door?

David: Yes, Mom. You close door.


Anyone: What is your name?

David: You.

Here is a picture of you.

Reluctantly crouched at the starting line

My practical side has won out. I now have a blog. I have conflicted feelings about blogging. (I will spare you a list of my reservations--it seems like kind of a depressing way to launch a blog. Besides, my friend Gina articulates this ambivalence better than I can, here and here.) After weeks of intense deliberation and debate about whether to start a blog or not (Greg: "You want to discuss this again? I thought you already settled the matter."), I have decided to try out a blog for one year.

I believe that it is not so much our experiences that make us who we are, but the stories we tell about our experiences. We cannot always control what happens in life, but we can control how we react to it and the story it becomes. Blogging (like journaling, telling anecdotes, scrapbooking, joining Facebook, letter writing, making videos, etc.) is a way of creating a narrative of our lives. Greg and I need a better narrative for this last twelve months in Ohio. For various reasons, life has felt difficult lately. And I don't want Mary growing up with the "Life Sucked When You Were a Baby" narrative or David with the "We Liked You More Before You Turned Two and a Half" story. Those are clearly exaggerations--but sometimes I worry that we overlook too much of the good. And the reality is that our life is good--really good! God has blessed us tremendously, and our life is full of smiles and laughter. I hope to look back and remember this year as challenging, special, and wonderful.

With all that said, I must admit that it wasn't my philosophical musings on narrative that led me to blogging. I am starting a blog because it is just plain practical. I have friends and family all over the world with whom I love to keep in touch--which includes sharing pictures of my kids. I also think it's important to record some kind of family history, as well as keep a personal journal. Though imperfect, a blog is a kill-several-birds-with-one-stone approach. I will always think a personal email or phone call infinitely preferable to a blog post or comment. A blog (or any medium) can never have enough pictures of my kids to satisfy their grandparents. It will probably be too Alisa-centered to be a fair portrait of our family, and I will rightly self-censor much more than I would in a private journal. But a blog is a fair compromise--especially since I wasn't accomplishing much of anything before (as you who are still waiting for an email response or those promised pictures can attest). Blogging serves as a way of multitasking, and as a mom with an active toddler and a demanding baby, multitasking is the order of the day.

As I said, the practical part of my nature has carried the day, and so, not without misgivings, I start this blog. Who knows. Maybe I'll be converted.

Here's to the next twelve months. Cheers!