Finally!

After months of struggling and more than a year of false alarms. . . we are pretty much diaper-free forever in the B household! (I'm not counting overnight yet.  Most mornings she wakes up about ten pounds heavier than the night before.  But we'll get there.)  Last Saturday out of the blue, she shocked me by saying she had to go--which she NEVER does.  She had a few accidents here and there over the weekend, and then went ALL week to daycare in big girl panties.  And every afternoon, she was wearing the same pants I dropped her off in!  No problems!  She's had one "oops" all week and that was only because she locked herself in Big Sis's room and couldn't get out.  Too bad that wasn't an easy one to clean up.  We'll leave it at that. . .  

We just got back from McDonald's to celebrate (Daddy tried to get her to pick a different place but no such luck.  Sorry, Daddy.  When you're a big girl you can pick the restaurant.)

And now I'm sitting here, feeling strangely sad.  Like so many other milestones, I couldn't wait.  I couldn't wait for that last box of diapers, and now almost literally overnight, she seems so big.  When I carry her, I love to pat her little bottom while I squeeze her.  I know this sounds crazy, but the other day, I missed patting that "diaper-bottom."  She quickly reassured me:  "It's o-tay, Mom.  It a panty-bottom now."  And I just smiled and squeezed her harder.  I've decided this is parenthood.  You wait impatiently for that next moment, just so you can mourn it passing and wonder why you were in such a hurry.  And why is it so hard?  Why is it so hard to see them change and grow and become these incredible people, when that's all we ever hope for?  

Being a big girl makes you hungry--this cup
was FULL of ice cream

Honestly, I'm thrilled that we're done with diapers.  I was getting tired of hearing from an almost three year old that I needed to change her.  Now.  Plus I had threatened to buy her diapers for her birthday so I guess I have just a few weeks to buy some toys instead.  :)  I'm still going to miss that diaper-bottom, but as I've said before, it would be far worse if she didn't get to grow up.  I need to spend lots of time appreciating that I can still hold her and squeeze her.  Before I know it, she'll be too big for my arms and I'll miss that cute little panty-bottom.      

The Burp-bay Man

April 1997--I was finishing my junior year of college, and I had met this guy who invited me to his 21st birthday bash.  A first date followed a few days later, and the rest--as they say--is history.  Fifteen years later, our birthday celebrations have changed quite a bit.  The "Burp-bay Man," as Stinkus called him, celebrated his big night at. . .  t-ball practice.  But I don't think he minded--too much.

As with many things, I view birthdays differently now that I'm a mom.  The girls' birthdays hold such special memories for me, like realizing that the shirt R wore when Stinkus was born was the same shirt he had donned three years before for Sassy's arrival.  We now refer to it as the Baby Birthin' Shirt.  I loved hearing two different doctors both remark on each girl's head full of dark hair and long eyelashes.  I appreciated going through labor with Sassy and then REALLY appreciated when I didn't have to with Stinkus.  :)

When you're a kid, you don't give much thought to anyone else on your birthday.  It's your birthday.  Yet as a mom, you realize the role of the people who made it the day of your birth.  So today, I'm extremely grateful to R's parents.  Thirty six years ago they had no way of knowing that their gift from God would end up being our gift from God too.  So Happy Burp-bay, Daddy!  We love you!                          

Letter to Me

One of my favorite songs is “Letter to Me” by Brad Paisley. I love the idea of writing a letter to your younger self with all the knowledge and wisdom you've accumulated through the years. I recently read a similar article in a magazine where famous women wrote letters to themselves. Regardless of two college degrees, I'd have to say that the majority of my education has come from this little thing called motherhood. What would I say if I could go back and give myself advice? So here it is: A Letter to my Pre-Mom Self.

Dear M:

1. You will not be the perfect mom. But the good news is: no one else is either. Don't compare yourself to the mom who makes her own laundry soap or the mom who never pays for toothpaste because she is the Coupon Queen or the mom who makes a six course meal every night while her children babble happily at her feet. Chances are, you're doing something that they're not. Your kids get ONE mom—You. In their eyes, you're the best and that's all that matters. Stop worrying about what every other mother does and give yourself credit for what you do. Like using your time to write a blog instead of cooking a six course meal. :)

2. Wear a bikini and strut your stuff as much as possible. You're not too fat to wear one. You look hot. As crazy as this sounds, you will someday miss the way that you look RIGHT NOW. The day will come when you might be thinner, but your stomach is forever “ruined” with saggy, puckery skin that does NOT go away. And while most days, it's all worth it, there will be days when you'll miss being able to wear a two piece that doesn't have to be long enough to cover up all the evidence of motherhood.

3. Marry R. You can't possibly know in your early 20s, but he's such a good dad. He has all the patience that you lack and a calm sensibility that you'll lean on more than once. Not to mention he makes a really good Daddy playground.

4. You know that color that you hate? Someday you'll have a room in your house that color and two little girls who adore it. And you won't believe it now, but someday, you'll love pink too.

5. Your children will get sick and it will be ok. There will that horrible “What if” paranoia that haunts you every time someone runs a fever, and you'll think you're going crazy. You're not. Well. . . maybe a little. But it's a combination of painful memories and a powerful, crazy desperation for these little people to be ok. Don't call the pediatrician's office. Give it 72 hours and you'll find that they're right. Virus. Again.

6. You will miss little things that you now take for granted. Like taking a nap after work while Oprah's on. Or sitting on the couch and eating chips without having to share with any little beggars who are suddenly at your side. You'll miss being able to get yourself ready in the mornings. And you'll get good at doing your mascara in the car (only at stoplights of course.) You'll miss listening to the radio in the car. Or having QUIET in the car. Someday, as sad as it may seem, going to Walmart alone will be a luxury that actually makes you giddy.

7. Get ready to worry. You will probably do this more than some mothers (Try not to compare—See #1) but you will suddenly think thoughts that previously had no place in your life. 61 degrees tomorrow. . . is that 61 and cloudy or with the sun? Short sleeves or long sleeves? What if they get cold at recess? Will they be too warm? Field trip to a play. . . Will the bus driver have to take the interstate? During morning rush hour? What if the bus wrecks? And why don't buses have seat belts? Try to remember that worrying isn't good for anyone. Especially you. Or dear R who has to listen to you worry. :) Have I mentioned that you should marry him?

8. Enjoy your time with R. Especially Friday night dates and Saturday mornings where you can sleep as long as YOU WANT.

9. I've probably convinced you to never have children. . . Motherhood is a trade-off, and while it may not always seem like it, you always come out ahead. Despite everything you lose, you gain SO much more. You have the cutest alarm clocks ever who wake you every morning with a smile and a snuggle. You'll wonder what used to make you laugh in your pre-mom life. You get to experience memories again through your babies' eyes. You won't miss music in the car because the two voices belting out Taylor Swift in the backseat beat any song on the radio. You will know love like no other and thank God every day that He gave you Sassy and Stinkus.

10. So bottomline, enjoy these days. Strut around in that bikini, eat some more chips on the couch, and leisurely walk through the aisles of Walmart. These days are indeed numbered. But know that better ones are right around the corner.

Big Deals

I've recently discovered yet one more thing about motherhood that none of the parenting books warn you about: It's really painful to see yourself (especially all those things you hate) in your children. Of course, there are the physical things. I bet that the girls will someday fight their "not-quite-curly-not-quite-straight-pain-in-the-neck" hair. Pretty sure that they're both sporting my cankles. (I apologize, ladies. It truly is unfair that your daddy has the best legs in the house.) And then there's a tiny little vein on the back of Sassy's leg that I'm already picturing in thirty years and worrying about. Because that's what I do. I worry. I always have. Did she poop enough today? Too much? What if she can't burp? What if it's not just a temperature? And worse is seeing THAT in Sassy. I hate seeing her follow in my footsteps when I know what an uphill climb it is.

On Sunday, we spent the afternoon outside. The girls found a caterpillar that they named Sludge--Ted for short. We captured Ted in our little screened-in bug box, and added some rocks, leaves, and sticks. We then discovered that the bug box had a few holes. Scotch tape to the rescue. All was well. Or so I thought. Sassy immediately began worrying that the tape wouldn't stick and what if it fell off and Ted got out, or what if Ted got stuck TO it and couldn't move, and on, and on, and on. . . When she finally took a breath, I told her to chill out. "You're sounding too much like your mother." :) "But, Mom," she said, and with great, dramatic emphasis (I kid you not): "Precious things are BIG deals."

THAT'S why I worry. It's not fun, or something I enjoy. Contrary to what my husband believes, I don't seek out things to worry about. Motherhood may have left my hair crazier, my cankles bigger and my vein uglier, but it also opened a terrifying vulnerability within me. It's hard NOT to worry about these two little people. They're big deals. And while I want to protect them and shield them from everything, I can't. And I shouldn't. At the end of the day, I've gotta open that little bug box door and let them go. They have to face whatever life gives them. I guess there's one advantage to cankles--I've given them sturdy legs to stand on.

Three Years

Our girls are 20 days shy of being exactly three years apart.

In March 2012, this is my baby. Stinkus, just a few months shy of her third birthday.

In March 2009, this was my "baby." Sassy, just a few months shy of her third birthday. (Can you tell they're sisters?)

And in March 2009, this was my soon-to-be baby. Just a few months shy of her BIRTH day. :)

It's crazy to me that when Sassy was Stinkus's age, she was getting ready to be a big sister. My little Stinkus still seems too young to have a baby on the way (She's NOT expecting to be a big sister, in case you're wondering!!!) Maybe it's because she's STILL in diapers (BIG SIGH), or because I want to keep her "little," or because she's just different from her big sister, but I just can't help but see her as my baby. And maybe I always will. On the way to school today, Sassy was reading a book to Stinkus: I'm A Big Sister. The book ends with: "And I'm special in another way because now I'm a big sister," and Sassy turned to Stinkus and said, "And I'm still your big sister!" A little voice answered back, "But I still wittle, Sassy!" Yes, you are, honey. Feel free to stay that way a wittle wonger. Because in another three years, you'll be the one finishing up kindergarten. Can we PLEASE be out of diapers by then?

Miss Popularity

I wasn't popular in high school.  I was the scrawny, smart "goody-goody" girl.  I remember going for my driver's license at age 16 and telling the woman at the DMV my weight.  103.  I was mortified when my license came out of the machine reading 130.  Ironically, almost twenty years later, 130 is still wrong--but this time it's too LOW. . . haha!  I finally grew in college--filling out AND gaining several inches.  I remember running into an old prom date and his first words:  "Whoa.  You grew boobs."  Thanks, buddy.   Lucky for me, I was in a class of great kids so we were all "unpopular" together.  Boob-challenged band brainiacs.  :)  And note to hubby:  when your high school has 120 kids and 100 are in the band, band IS cool!

I feel like I'm getting better with age.  I grew boobs. . . then had two children and lost them somewhere. . .  teeth are straighter, hair. . .   let's be honest:  anything is better than the feathered mullet I rocked way back in the day. . . and clothes from the early 90s are GONE.  Eighteen years after graduation, I'm FINALLY the most popular girl around.  With my two year old.

That child.  I told R the other day that our children might be bi-polar.  I can't figure them out.  Spunky, spirited Stinkus is the biggest Mama's girl.  She will get up at bedtime (which could totally be a stall tactic that I'm falling for) to cuddle with me and I get the heart-wrenching plea:  "I just want yooooooouuuuu, Maaaaaamaaaaaa. . . ."  Drop-off at daycare is getting better, but heaven forbid, I take off and leave her with Daddy and Sassy for a night.  For being as independent and hard-headed as she is, that girl needs her mommy.  And most of the time, I'll admit--it's pretty awesome.  But there are other times when I've had enough.  Like last week when she wouldn't let me put her down so I could cook dinner and unload the dishwasher.  Or when she won't let Daddy brush her teeth like he's been doing every night for years because he's not Mama.  And Mama HAS to do everything.        

I have to remind myself that this is the same baby who couldn't fall asleep those first few weeks at home without laying next to me on the couch.  And as exhausted and frustrated as I was, it was pretty sweet to doze off and find that she had curled up toward me--her little heart against mine, peaceful and asleep--at last.  

And once again, I have to remind myself that these days are numbered.  Someday she'll come home from school and make a beeline for her bedroom and slam the door because of something that happened that day.  And she'll think that there's no way her mom would understand.  She WON'T want me.  She won't want to hear my advice:  that high school (thank goodness) doesn't last forever, boobs are totally overrated until you can use them to feed your babies for the first year of their lives, and nothing beats being the most popular girl. . . in the eyes of your two year old.                  

Nice Mom

The other night, during a particularly extra-crabby "Crabby Mommy evening," I was rinsing Sassy's hair in the tub when she pulled out the dreaded:  "Someday when I'M a mom, I'M gonna be NICE to MY kids."  Ouch.  It hurt for a moment but I was seriously so crabby that it hardly phased me.  All I could get out was a rather tired, "Oh yeah?"  And then I thought--Man, am I so horrible that even my five year old is planning how to be different?  My thoughts were short-lived though because she then rattled off her plan for Perfect Mommyhood:  "Yeah! I'm gonna let them eat whatever they want for dinner, and they can watch whatever they want on TV and not brush their teeth, and never do Five Minute Clean-Up."  Whew.  So in a five year old's mind, THAT'S what it means to be "nice."  I have to remind myself that she won't see everything we do for them until they're long gone--parenthood isn't a job where you're held in high esteem or appreciated.  Yet.  And honestly, it would be easier to be the "nice" mom who lets them eat cheese quesadillas every night or watch Spongebob.  But I have to remember that I'm not here to win a popularity contest.  Sometimes it IS hard to be the mean mommy.  Especially when Grandmas and aunties are SO fun.  (A special shout out to our kids' wonderful extended families.  We're SO blessed!)  But I'm not here to be fun 24/7.  I'm here to raise two little people and teach them about this thing called life.

A co-worker declared me his hero the other day for doing this parent thing.  I laughed.  A lot.  I'm hardly a hero and I'm not doing anything that other parents don't do.  But it got me thinking.  It's been said a million times:  kids don't come with instruction manuals.  I'm not sure how we've known what to do.  You just do it.  And I know I've made lots of mistakes along the way.  But I look at my girls and I think: we've done a lot of things right too.  At the end of the day, they will eat what we made for dinner (or wait until breakfast), turn the TV off when I say "Enough," brush their teeth, and clean up their rooms--for at least five minutes.  And if that makes me "Mean Mom," I'll wear the title with pride.