This Morning

This morning I woke up to this: 

And I smiled. 

Usually I would dread washing those stained dishes, painted with the smears of yesterday's dinner party. We made pizza (did you know that my husband is a pizza genius?), and every time we make pizza, clean-up waits until the next day when I have more gusto about wiping down a kitchen that has gone through a snow storm and murder scene [read: flour and tomato sauce].  But this morning, that bottle surrounded by those beer-turned-water drinking glasses, brought me joy-- not the kind of happiness that is over-the-moon, roller-coaster high and equally fleeting, but a solid, full contentment. 

This mixing of adult and mom life is a tedious dance of constant refinement. Managing my goals, passions, and desires, all of which intersect at some points and verge at others, takes concentration. Our world doesn't praise motherhood, but instead sees it as a handicap for women with ability and talent; the rhetoric is strong and abrasive, and allows those ghosts of young, free dreams to haunt my sacred duty. Young mothering in this modern world is a constant battle of self-worth, requiring the management of timeless values and fleeting fads. I'm still struggling to find my balance.

Last night our dinner table was set for a party of adults: six cream plates and six tall glasses. We ate salad, pizza, and mascarpone, raspberry cheesecake our pastry chef friend brought (he and his wife are good friends to have!). The evening brimmed with stimulating conversation, good food, and laughter--hallmarks of adult life. Meanwhile, Scott sat on my lap, practiced tummy time on the floor, and gulped down a full bottle at the table. We went to bed late.

This morning, as I rubbed my groggy eyes and went to the kitchen to prepare another bottle, I smiled at seeing the leftover dinner party. The dirty glasses, left-over crostata, and Scotty's bottle that all decorated the dinning table was the physical combination of the two worlds I've been trying to balance. It seemed like a small success. Like I was doing something right. But what really made me think and reflect was that the haphazardly placed Dr. Brown's bottle was the perfect centerpiece--a solid epicenter.

I hope and pray that no matter my other passions or desires, motherhood will take a center stage. I want to get this balance right, and this scene is my motivation. 

Operation Stop The Thumb-Sucking

I was writing a post on how motherhood is such a blessing and how it enriches my life, but right now my four month old is screaming at the top of his lungs and I have no idea what to do. "Blessing" is the last word that comes to mind. ("What the heck should I do!?" is at the forefront.)

Due to pressed nerves, Scott has an incredibly difficult time sucking and keeping a pacifier in his mouth. Although he loves the rhythmic comfort of sucking (especially when putting himself to sleep), he is constantly spitting out the binky-- no matter the brand. Weeks ago, I got sick of retrieving the abandoned pacifier every two to three minutes and finally just took it away. Almost immediately his right thumb replaced the plastic. Life was blissful. He would self-sooth and sleep for ten hours each night, but I had nightmares of him turning into a kindergartener with a pink, winkled, and smelly thumb. So I put a mitten on his hand and have gave him the orange, plastic pacifier the lactation consultant had specifically recommended. Then he spit it out and cried, and I gave it right back to him. And he spit it out and cried, and I gave it back to him. Now we've done that dance about one hundred times and I'm the one who's about to cry.

What's a mamma to do? Where's the textbook? I think I'll pray about it and cry some more (and then give him his thumb back).

After-Feeding Bliss

Yesterday was a hard day. I left home early with Andrea, but without eating breakfast, and returned crippled over in hunger pains and a ringing headache. (I have enough experience to know how to avoid this, but somehow I still frequently make the same silly mistake.) I was so weak that making something to eat seemed like a marathon task. All I wanted to do was pull the duvet over my head and disappear into a deep and dark sleep. And then, my baby started crying. I was sick until late afternoon, and all day Scott expressed dissatisfaction with a pathetic whine. It was the hardest day we'd had in a long time, and frustration masked my love until it was the only thing I could feel. 

But last night, after downing his bottle, he lay contentedly in my arms and smiled--a darling, shy smile. Swiftly, that smile cut through my frustration and a deep love seeped in. The house was dark and silent, the paper shaded lamp on my bedside the only glow, and Scott and I were alone. I traced his perfectly shaped eyebrows with my finger, tapped his nose, and grinned admiringly at that bottom lip he likes to suck in. Overcome with soaring emotion, I pulled him closer and whispered this breathy sentiment over and over, "I love you. I love you. I love you...." Then my lips pecked his and my happy tears decorated his cheeks. And with each kiss, that abashed smile was reborn. I wanted that moment to last forever. 

Sometimes the days seem long and motherhood difficult to balance, but moments like these are healing and I wouldn't trade them for the whole word. 

And now a parade of after-feeding photos:

 {Four weeks old}

 

{Seven weeks old}

{Two months old}

{Three months old}

Let Me Never Forget This

 These past three months have been the hardest of my life. For a few weeks my body felt like it had been hit by a semi racing full speed down I-5. Trying to find balance between the title of ‘mom’ and ‘student’ has also been a challenge, and breastfeeding…I think I produced more tears than milk. But, as difficult as these gray winter months have been, they have also been sprinkled with flecks of gold. My once scrawny and red infant is plumping into a baby with hints of elephant rolls on his upper thighs, and I’m just recognizing how fleeting childhood is. Wistful longing sprouts from the core of my being in the realization that the first three months of my baby’s life are now just a memory. I don't mind him growing up (heavens, he's so much more fun when he smiles and giggles!), but I do mind knowing that I was terrible about documenting the beginning. So, I’m starting now. Here are some things I don't ever want to forget:

+ His first pair of blue jeans, which are one inch too big around the waist and rolled up (out of necessity) at the ends.

+ Those genuine smiles he flashes after eating, that no picture can ever quite catch the magic of. They're even better when accompanied by a throaty French “r”.

+ Overhearing Scott and his papà laugh and giggle right before a diaper change. We can't understand why the changing table is his favorite place to be.

+ Walking the far neighborhoods of Seattle with a sleeping infant strapped to my chest.

+ Reading the scriptures, snuggled close to Andrea while the baby lies on his chest.

+ How he blinks and smiles simultaneously when I tap his nose.

+ Walking to an orthodontist appointment and the office, hand in hand with my amore, Scott wrapped tightly in the Moby.

+ Scott’s small body lying on my chest, moving up and down to his rhythmic breathing, while we both take an afternoon nap.

+ Walking downtown. Scottie's naturally big eyes grow even larger as he takes in the honking, loud music, cars, people, and the wind on his face.

+ How excited and twitterpated I felt last Friday when we left Scott with babysitter Jade and went dancing. After-baby dates are better than ever.

+ The sad look that grows on Scott’s face when he's about to cry. I love his “bahing” and his “buhing” that say, "please hold me" and the quivering of his frowning bottom lip.

+ How joy overtook me last Sunday as I sat in a church pew watching my boys smile at each other, both dressed in their Sunday best.

+ Meeting Papà at the market just before dinner on a weekday. We buy plump fruit that glistens and olive oil, and then walk home together.

+ How I wrap my hands around his bulging belly to hold him upright, and how he looks up at me with those big blue eyes, cocks his head and coos.