"You Make Me Feel So Young"

On Wednesday, September 5th, 1979 at 11:16 pm, I came into this big ol' world.  Hurricane David was wreaking havoc on the southeast and just making it to the hospital was reason enough to celebrate.  For many, many years it seemed like it rained every year on my birthday.  I don't know if it's supposed to rain tomorrow, but I do know that on Friday, September 5th, 2014 at 11:16 pm (and not ONE minute before, mind you), I will be thirty-five years old.

Thirty. Five.

Now, thirty-five is not old.  At this point in my life, fifty doesn't seem old.  But in the context of ME (as in, "I am thirty-five years old"), it seems decrepit.  Emily's first grade teacher was born in 1987 and when I learned this, I died a little inside.  I was eight when she was born.  I was watching Shera, Princess of Power and turning Capri Sun boxes into My Little Pony stables while she was cooing sweetly.  It's just not right.

When I was staring down thirty and eying that decade of life I had myself a little fit.  I realized I wasn't going to be 'in my 20s' any longer.  For some unknown reason (probably me just being dramatic, honestly), I thought the best way to come to grips with this new reality was to take a little browse through Talbots.  I figured I'd be wearing those clothes soon enough and I should just know my options.  Bad idea.  Lovely clothes...bad idea.  I left almost as quickly as I walked in and promptly made my way out of there, past Coldwater Creek, to the Great American Cookie Company where I consumed an undisclosed number of calories.  

And then I had a moment of clarity...  I thought, instead of lamenting the passing of my youth, I could embrace it by reflecting on all the things I'd done and accomplished in my 20s.  It was no measly list.  It included: graduating college, getting married, tackling law school with my husband, having a very successful job in the marketplace, giving birth to our first baby girl, making a move to a brand new place and starting fresh...  Things a lot of people don't do by the time they're thirty, if at all.  This didn't (and doesn't) make me better.  It just offered some perspective.

I'll be in my mid-thirties tomorrow night.  On the downhill slope, clawing back up at the edge of thirty and slipping on down into those very 'established' years.  I'm resigned.  I'd rather be thirty-five than dead.  And you know, that is not all I've learned and come to believe in the thirty-five years of my adult life.  (Sarcasm.)

Here goes...

1) When you get dressed in the morning and leave your house, you are committed to that outfit for the day.  Choose wisely.
2) Just because leggings are in style doesn't mean you have to wear them.  The same is true for skinny jeans.  No one will mind if you skip these fashions and stick with bootcut.  
3) Some friendships don't last forever.  Some aren't supposed to.  That doesn't mean they weren't what they were supposed to be in their season, but seasons change.  Dress your heart for the weather.
4) You can be honest and still be kind.
5) Dean's French Onion dip is really just as good as French's French Onion dip.
6) Spring for the Heinz.  Hunts is crap.
7) Self tanner is a pain in the rear and as soon as you come to terms with your fair skin the sooner you'll be comfortable in it.
8) Sometimes the best reaction is no action.
9) If your order is wrong, send it back.  You deserve to get what you're paying for.  And be kind to your server because the error probably wasn't on them.
10) When in doubt, go with black.  
11) Your closest friends won't mind if you're nursing and will bring macaroons.  These are your dearests.
12) Reality television is all the drama you need.
13) Don't talk yourself out of getting up and getting dressed and getting out.  The world may need a little awesome that day and it may all be up to you.
14) You are not responsible for the happiness of others and you can't please everyone all of the time.
15) It is okay to say 'No'.
16) God made Betty Crocker so you could enjoy your life.  Add eggs, oil and water, then praise Him, saints.
17) If you can't afford a new outfit, buy new earrings and a new lipstick.  Instant makeover.
18) You can't always help how you feel.  You're a human with a soul and emotions so you will feel.  And that's okay.  
19) You are responsible for how you deal with your feelings.
20) Manners matter.  Don't forget that or them.
21) School. Pizza.
22) Start out the way you want to finish out and finish well.
23) Baby Powder is best left to actual baby powder and has no business as a candle scent.  If you value your olfactory senses just stay away from these completely and forever.
24) It's best to wait another few minutes to be sure there's no more poop.  Otherwise that value size box of diapers is gonna be gone real quick. 
25) If you say it, own it.
26) Your family is a gift and the most precious thing you'll have outside of salvation.  Be kind and gracious.  Nothing is better than living in harmony with your family.
27) It's okay to ride alone in your car and not turn on any music or call a friend.  It's okay to be quiet.  If you can stand being quiet with yourself you're probably doing just fine.
28) You'll think up the best quips and retorts while standing in the shower naked.  This is humbling.  Since popping off at the mouth usually makes a person look ridiculous, imagine saying what you're thinking when you're naked and I bet you won't say it after all.
29) A schedule helps but it's great if you can be flexible.  If you can't be flexible, at least be on time.
30) Step outside of your comfort zone at least once in life.
31) Keep your relationship with your spouse sacred.  Don't share too much.  Knowing you can trust someone you love with the deepest parts of your heart is priceless.  Being trusted with that is beyond.
32) Learn how to turn off the windshield wipers in your car or you'll just look like an idiot trying to play off all those quick windshield washes.  After about 8 times the jig is up.
33) Be the bigger man.  It's worth it.  At least you'll respect yourself.
34) If you can get by with a ponytail one more day and avoid the hourlong styling commitment of a shampoo and blow-out you should try it.
35) Don't be surprised if you get everything in life you've ever wanted by the time you're 35.  Just be grateful.

"So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom." - Psalm 90:12

"Just 'Eat' It"

I cannot cook, which is unfortunate.  Because, of all the domestic tasks I want to perform consistently well, this rates at the top of my list.  I come from a line of great cooks...  My maternal grandmother was a culinary queen.  And my paternal Grandma owned and operated a home cookin' restaurant for decades, for cryin' out loud.  She still cooks for family and it is always incredible.  Britt's grandmother was a fantastic cook (they still tell stories of her homemade tamales), and my mom and mother-in-law clearly fell close to the apple trees.  They both are fabulous cooks who make their mothers' meals, their own dishes, AND follow new recipes well.  This is what I call the "Kitchenette Triple Threat" since they can turn out great food regardless of where or what they're working with.

This is not my thing.

You'd think I'd have cooking in my blood but I am really limited to a few standard dishes I make in a pathetic little rotation.

• Mexican Chicken Dip
• Taco Soup
• Baked Pork Chops
• Baked Chicken

(At this point, no one should get too excited...all of these are Crock Pot dishes.  Do they even really count?)

• Taco Casserole
• Baked Spaghetti
• Chicken Pie
• Deli Sandwiches

The highlight of my cooking career has been at Thanksgiving when I've baked my own turkey and made homemade gravy, dressing and sides.  I've managed all of this twice.  We ate like royalty those two days and then it was back to reality.

Tonight, I made meatloaf.  Meatloaf with homemade mashed potatoes, fresh steamed broccoli, corn, and some freshly sliced watermelon.  I don't want to brag, but I do make a pretty mean meatloaf.  Now, I should note out of fairness that it is a very homely looking dish – “Humble Food” - and that is being incredibly generous.  But it tastes good, and really, I think that's what matters most anyway.

So, in honor of this rare occasion that I cook a 'real' meal, I'm going to share the experience with you.  Write this down.  Christmas comes but once a year.  

First, when preparing this meal, I make the meatloaf.  It's basically one pound of ground beef, one egg, salt & pepper, ketchup, Italian seasoning, and bread crumbs all mixed together and pulverized with a potato masher.  I have no idea how much of any of it I put in (other than the meat and single egg) but it usually looks like this:

Mmmmmmmm.

I pat this into a loaf pan and press it down so that it will bake evenly.  (Excuse me while I die laughing...  Who am I kidding?  'Bake evenly'?  I just really don't want it to be pink in the middle.)  This bakes at 350° for about 30 minutes.  I just keep checking it.  When it's done I make the glaze, which means I squirt ketchup all over the top and bake it another 5 minutes.

Check out those fork strokes.  Classic technique.

Next, I prepare the potatoes.  They're cubed and boiled to absolute smithereens.  Personally, I feel potatoes are ready only after they have boiled over and charred your stove top to the point that only Mr. Clean and his Magic Eraser completely undo the damage.  I believe this so resolutely that even Emily will ask, "Mom, did you remember to boil over the potatoes?"  She will grow up believing that's the only way to cook them and her husband will think she's nuts.  It'll all make sense when she explains "That's how my mama did it."  Bless.

They're ready.  Trust me.

After I drain the potatoes I add butter and milk I've heated in the microwave.  (Again, amounts are whatever I think looks right.)  Then I mix/mash them up with my KitchenAid handheld mixer.  (Be impressed.  This is the nicest gadget in my kitchen aside from a KitchenAid ice cream scoop, which I use.  A lot.)

The broccoli is a bit of a wild card for me lately.  I used to have this down to a science: broccoli florets, a half inch of water in the bottom of the pot, a pinch of salt, and a careful eye.  But two weeks ago I had a bit of a broccoli blunder and I'm - quite frankly - surprised the fam was ready to get back on the horse.  Apparently, I salted the broccoli twice.  (Insert dramatic eye roll here.)  I can only guess that's what happened.  In my defense I'm sure I was distracted by, oh, I don't know, a 6 year old and a baby.  Anyway, in addition to twice-salted water, the broccoli steamed a bit longer than is generally preferred.  So when I lifted the lid it wasn't a healthy bright green color and a touch soft.  It was a sickly green color and very limp and sad looking like I'd broken its' little heart, which makes sense since the broccoli tasted like it had been salted AGAIN with the tears of grief and mourning.  Britt and Emily were kind enough to not mention it until after I said, "I can't remember but I may have salted the broccoli twice."  To which Britt replied, "Good God" and Emily just looked at me like I’d told her unicorns aren’t real (which I actually DID have to tell her a few days later and explains how I recognized the look).  I had to endure further ridicule throughout the meal with statements like: 

- "Would you like some broccoli with your salt?";
- "The fly,” (that had come in with us earlier), “must've tasted the broccoli and died.  I'm pretty sure I saw x's over his eyes;" and, 
- "If your salt isn't salty enough just add some broccoli."

WHATever.

The final component of the meal – the corn - is actually the hardest part, since I have to be super careful to not cut my finger while I open the can.

In all, I think it was a success.  The meatloaf never slices so it ends up looking like a red ground beef mound but remember, we agreed the taste is more important.  And it really doesn’t matter anyway because we all end up adding more ‘glaze’.

Thaaaaaaaaat's better.  (Right?)

So.  Wise and/or Biblical parallel to this story?

 

Mark 14:8 – “She hath done what she could.”

Tomorrow night: Papa Murphy’s.

"Listen to Your Heart"

There are some stories you tell and some you don't.  This is one I'm telling because 1) its funny; 2) I'm not proud; 3) I have an earache, and; 4) its funny.  I need to laugh today and there's a lesson here, so I'm sharing in hopes that we both find a moment of hilarity and clarity in the telling of this tale...

Ten years ago while Britt was still in law school and we lived in Watkinsville (about 15 minutes from the University of Georgia), I worked full-time in Athens at a real estate firm.  At the time, I was in a supportive role to the daily clerical operations of the office.  My 'office' was a cozy little cubical off of the 'Workroom', which was the hub in the huge company comprised of 100+ agents and 12-15 support staff.  We housed all of our active and closed files here, as well as all supplies and resources.  I was in charge of managing most of it.  The reason why this is important is because my day was spent working, interacting, and chatting in this large room full of activity.  Everyone in the entire business had business in that room.  While a great deal of actual real estate happened in that space, we also enjoyed conversation.  All kinds of people discussed all kinds of things.

One day, one of the agents (I honestly don't remember who) was talking about a 'natural remedy' for ear wax removal, which sounded intriguing.

[Disclaimer: If you're grossed out already you should stop reading now.] 

Because I was young and green and stupid I thought, "Hey, that sounds interesting!  I should try that!"

[Disclaimer: If you're still reading, congratulations!  I'm about to tell you the story about the time I almost burned down my house.]

This 'remedy', as it were, was Ear Candling.  If you're familiar you know that these were not-so-long ago debunked as an effective (and SAFE) method for removing ear wax.  Ear candles were hollow foot-long candles made of beeswax.  They had the circumference at the far end of a quarter.  The tapered end went in your ear, and once lit, would draw up and out all excess wax.  Because I was young and green and stupid, I bought into the idea and thought I should get me summa those.  And so I did.

A store downtown sold these miraculous fire hazards and so during my lunch break not long after I struck out to buy a set.  Imagine, if you will, Suzanne Sugarbaker walking into a hippie herb shop, and you'll have a pretty good idea of what this part of the story looked like.  I love downtown Athens - it will always hold a special place in my heart - but I had no real business being in this particular store.  I remember walking towards the back trying to look like I knew what I was doing and feeling slightly lightheaded.  I wondered with innocence what those colorful glass bulbs could possibly be used for.  Maybe they were oil lamps?

Anyway, I was SO excited to get home that day and try out these things.  Never one to pass up a beauty trick (why I thought this qualified I'll never know), I was sure this was going to help rid me of all extra and unwanted ear wax.  It's not like I had an issue here.  I just probably wanted an excuse to buy something new and do something foolish.  (I have a boring testimony but I've done my fair share of dumb stuff.)

Britt was home, and thank God for it.  At that point he was nonplussed with the whole thing.  I changed clothes, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and ripped open the stapled ziplocked bag.  (I probably should have been concerned about the packaging, but I believed this to be legit, so, you know.)

The instructions said I should poke a hole in the center of a paper plate, which would serve as a shield of sorts.  Red flag, much?  We didn't have *paper* plates but we did have *styrofoam* plates.  Same difference.  Never mind the flammable Styrofoam – every bit of that was a good idea.  I poked the hole and threaded the candle through.  Next, I needed to lie on my side.  Placing the tapered end in into my ear, I was to "create a seal", which basically meant I needed to shove it far enough into my ear that sound would be muffled.  Remember this.  Finally, I had to slide the plate all the way down so that it rested on the side of my head.  To catch the ashes.  Remember this, too.  

So, we had high vaulted ceilings and knowing I was going to have to lie there until the candle BURNED DOWN TO THE PLATE, I thought I should cut on the ceiling fan.  To cool myself.  ‘Cause, you know, if you’re going to set the side of your head on fire you may as well not suffer.

At some point, lying there, I realized I wasn't physically able to light the open end of the candle myself so I just waited.  And sure enough, in walked my unsuspecting husband.  It was at this point that I uttered those three fateful redneck words that I never thought I'd say and have not said since...:

"Here.  Light this."

I think - bless his heart - that he thought this whole thing would look ridiculous but be harmless in the long run.  And so he did.  He did light it.  And he walked into the other room while I lay there hoping the heat was sucking up every crumb of unneeded auditory membrane.

Eventually, a few minutes later, I realized he was standing over me, horrified, mouthing something.  I probably just looked up with some doofus grin because I COULDN'T HEAR HIM.  He was pointing at my head and then frantically cut off the ceiling fan.  I started to protest that he was ruining the experience and in the act dislodged the candle seal, causing the ashes on the plate to sprinkle off.  Apparently the fan had contributed to a huge flame furiously burning inches from my head.  The oxygen had caused the candle to burn muuuuch faster than I had expected, and the flame was super high.

Needless to say, I only candled one ear that night.  It worked but it really wasn't worth it.  The wax came out but it was gross and it made my ear ache and almost burned down our house.  When I asked Britt tonight if he remembered THAT night, he looked at me like I was nuts and said, "Yes.  How could I forget.  As long as I live you won't do it again.  That was harrowing."

This makes me laugh, and I need that tonight.  I really DO have an earache but more than that, I have a heart ache.  Tomorrow morning I return to part-time work and my sweet Reagan will be going into childcare.  While this job and situation are so fantastic and I am so grateful, it's uncharted water for me.  I'm trying to hear clearly the voice in my heart and not confuse it with the one in my head.  My head is saying a lot, but my heart whispers Isaiah 41:10 - "Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.  Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.  I will strengthen you and help you.  I will hold you up with my victorious right hand."

At some point, there will be another post about motherhood.  About working inside and outside of the home FOR the home.  If you’re a mommy, regardless of where you work, you’re working and you get it.  The struggle is real.  I’ll only be a few hundred feet from my sweet girl during my abbreviated work day (which is at our wonderful church, by the way), and I’ll get to visit her and nurse her and cuddle her and love on her.  It’s ideal, and a blessing and I’m grateful.  I am.

It will be so hard tomorrow to start this transition into a new motherhood experience, but I know I have a loving husband, a darling 6 year old who prayed specifically for mommy “to not be worried or sad tomorrow”, and precious friends and family around me that are supportive.  I’m not the first mommy to do this, and I won’t be the last.  So I’m going to try and listen through the ear ache and wax to that still small voice that can be heard in the quiet of my heart.  The Lord will help me.  I don’t have to be worried and I certainly don’t need to be afraid.  And Reagan will be okay.  

As long as she doesn’t grow up any tomorrow, I’ll be okay, too.

I mean.

"There She Is...Your Ideal?"

I am the queen of the quintessential first-born, worrywart, Type-A, control freak, perfectionists.  I realize this is not boast-worthy, but it has been my nature for a fairly long time so I feel it would be wrong to deny it.  My tendency is to live life through one long string of unattainable goals borne of insurmountable, unreasonable standards and expectations.  It’s a lot of fun, really.

The truth is being perfect is hard work.  Exhausting, really.  And that is why I’ve decided that it’s probably not worth it.  Am I letting myself go?  Maybe a little.  This crown is heavy, so I may just abdicate.

I have always been a little bossy.  Most big sisters are.  (Note to self: Discuss this with Emily.)  ‘Bossy’ is really just a pretty way to say ‘controlling’, and I suppose being a control freak and a perfectionist go hand-in-hand.  Controllers want things to be their way, which is really their version of perfect.  The whole ‘first-born, worrywart, Type-A’ label fits because I think there’s something to be said for the Birth Order Connection.  Aaaaaaand that’s another post.  We’ll get to that.

I’m not exactly sure of when all of these stellar personality traits collided in a ‘perfect’ storm and became my way of life but I think it may have happened sometime in college.  Becoming a responsible, mature adult was a task I took very seriously.  My parents are incredible people who gave me the most wonderful childhood ever and met all of my needs.  And while they still offered some support while I was away in college, they did what all good parents do who want to see their child succeed.  They gave me a measure of freedom to develop into a young adult who would soon be completely on my own.  I can remember the night they dropped me off for my freshman year.  I went with a friend to eat dinner at Burger King.  This clear act of rebellion was a watershed moment in my life as I realized I was now the boss of me and mid-week cheeseburgers for dinner were going to be acceptable.  That seemed harmless enough, but eventually, with this kind of responsibility came the urge to control.  I mean, let me be honest: the desire to control a situation often stems from the need to feel secure.  I’m sure that’s what I was doing then.  And, as all good control freaks know, the end goal is to achieve through your methods what you believe is right.  And perfect. 

With this being said, I guess I’m compelled to clarify that this post is not about society’s idea of perfection when it comes to motherhood.  There are millions of posts out there about the pressures put upon parents (especially mothers) to create perfectly perfect moments for their children.  So I won't rehash it here.  The reality is that I don't need the anxiety that these expectations create when I already sometimes feel insufficient, and am capable of setting my own elusive standards.  The other day I nursed a baby and attended a tea party at the same time just so I could avoid ‘mommy guilt’ and justify a shower during Reagan's next nap.  If I had been doing everything perfectly, I would have awakened at 6 am to be stylishly coifed for the tea party that would have been scheduled in my Lily Pulitzer planner and nursed in the quiet of a nursery painted with the feathers of angels.  Yeah, so…no.

I have been learning lately that nothing will mellow a mama faster than the reality of multiple children.  There simply are not enough hours in a day to do everything I need to do and want to do and SHOULD do, not to mention what I actually end up doing.  And thinking I can control everything that happens in a day is delusional.  I can manage my home, but I can’t control all the minutia of this home.  Not at this time of life, anyway.  I have high standards and hopes and I maintain those, but I’ve had to relax a little.  Survival has depended on it.  Perfection here is just not a fair expectation.  Does this make me a bad mom?  Doubtful.  The idea that this ‘deficiency’ makes a good mom somehow bad is just heartbreaking.  My girls know that I love them because I tell and show them in meaningful ways.  I’ve earned their trust and they believe me to be honest, so this is enough.  So very often I just want to tell Betty Crocker, Emily Post, Martha Stewart, and the creators of Pinterest to just sh---all we move on?

(Obligatory Disclaimer:  If cooking, decorating, hosting, or Pinteresting are your thing - or if you are related to Martha Stewart - then good on ya.  We all know that none of these things are my strong points.  I can cut PB&Js with cookie cutters and make pink milk for a cute lunch but that is an effort.  So don't feel judged if you can manage the awesome.  God gives all of us different gifts and talents so that in all ways He is glorified.  You go ahead and do you, girlfriend.)

So.  (Deep breath…that felt good to just get it out.)

Getting back to what really matters:

About two years ago through a series of interesting circumstances that were out of my control (oh, the irony), the Lord started to soften my heart to this issue of being perfect.  Quite frankly, the smoke and mirrors were getting thick and confusing, so I was glad to relax and allow Him to begin leading me out of my own self-made funhouse. 

The new self-awareness that began then has gradually been very liberating and has helped me so much as I’ve adjusted to this new season of life.  And while I’m being honest I’ll admit that this is a process.  I am still particular.  I will probably always have strong opinions on how some things should be done, and I will most likely face some more intense challenges in the future that will force me to “let go and let God”.  But I know now that there is a difference between striving to live a life of excellence "as unto the Lord" and being perfect, which God does not require.  Living excellently (to me) means doing my best in all things even when or if they aren't my thing.  It means working towards the goal of being Christ like and loving others more than outcomes.  It means extending grace.  It means being okay with my shortcomings and not living in denial, all while accepting help and working towards bettering myself to honor the Lord.  It means being intentional with my strengths and talents and stewarding them in Kingdom work.  Being perfect completely undoes the gift God gave us in His Son, Jesus.  If I am perfect, there is no room for grace...no room for the fulfillment of knowing pure, unearned, undeserved love and acceptance outside of perfect works or deeds.

Touché.

I want my girls to see me for me, and I am not perfect.  I don’t want them to think they have to live a perfect life to be loved, and I would much rather they see in me the Fruit of the Spirit and not remember me only for my good works.  I want to make them proud, but I think there’s a balance.  They can expect excellence from me, but not perfection.  Or homemade birthday cupcakes.

So.  I am deciding that it's okay to be imperfect...and a little vulnerable...and a bit transparent.  I am willing myself to continue to loosen up the grasp I have on this life and breathe a little.  My ‘to do’ list should look like this: admit and accept my weaknesses, relax and be flexible enough to enjoy life, and extend grace.  If I can master these I will feel as though I’ve been a perfect role model.  Maybe.  We’ll see.  That’s a lot to live up to and I am still learning.

But here’s my crown.  Don’t put it on, though.  It’s heavy.

This is me, as Miss Emmanuel College 1998.  And I know what you're thinking...

"Maybe she's born with it?"

The answer is yes.  Yes, I was.

"This One's for the Girls"

From the moment Dr. Leech held Emily up above the blue curtain in all her wiggly, wet glory, Britt and I knew things were going to be different.  I mean, sure, we knew having a baby would alter life as we'd known it.  We'd been to the classes and read a few books and had the conversations.  But as with most major change in life you just can't appreciate it until its happening.  And then you just hang on.

Emily was a surprise.  A wonderful, 9 lbs 2 oz., 20 inch chunk of heaven on earth.  Britt and I sometimes think back to that time in our life when we learned we were going to be parents.  Starting a family was something we knew we eventually wanted to do.  Instead, we were given this gift when we weren't expecting it.  We can see now that the blessing of Emily came at the perfect time for many, many reasons.  And that's generally how God's timing works.  One look at Emily and we knew: "This is it.  We're parents.  We don't even know what we're doing.  But we're going to love her like crazy and we're going to figure it out."  And we have.  Parenting Emily has been one of the greatest mutual joys of our lives.

Eventually, we'd come to know that we had room in our hearts for another child.  We wanted another baby so badly and many times found it very hard to wait.  But God, in His will and design for our family, blessed us with another sweet baby girl when His timing was once again perfect.  This time when we found out a baby was on the way it was different - we knew that this was the desire of our hearts and that we were ready for our family and hearts to grow.  Being Emily's parents has shown us all of the happiness and wonder that having children brings.  And so our perspective was different.

So, when Dr. Scarbrough held Reagan up above the blue curtain in all of her wiggly, wet glory we knew (once again) that things were going to be different.  A wonderful, girly, can't-believe-we-get-to-live-this-life different. 

We've been a family of four for just shy of four weeks now.  We're adjusting and are figuring out this new dynamic together.  But as 'Mom' I'm remembering a lot and re-learning a lot especially.  The biggest lesson so far is this:

There are two babies.

What does this mean?  If you are a parent of more than one child - whether they were born from your hips or your heart - you know.

There's the first baby.  The baby that changes your tax status.  The one that you are just sure you are going to break.  The one you stare at with fear and trembling when the Discharge Nurse reminds you of everything you should and shouldn't do with your baby.  You just know she can sense that you're ill-prepared for parenthood and you can't believe they're letting you leave with this little human.  It's on you now.  First babies do that.

They cry and your heart seizes because you're either still learning how to soothe them or you just feel overwhelmed that they need you.  They adjust and re-arrange schedules and lives and while you're busy changing diapers three weeks fly by.  You keep them at home for weeks at a time to limit exposure to the world and avoid meltdowns - some by the baby...some by you.  And then one day she has graduated kindergarten and her two bottom teeth have fallen out.

She paves the way for the second baby.

The baby who won't break.  The baby you look at with calm assurance when the Discharge Nurse reviews her list.  You think in your mind, "Thank you for the reminders, but I'll be the judge of that.  I've done this before.  I've got this."  The baby you can't wait to take home.  The one that adjusts and re-arranges things yet again, and still, even in those changes you find things are still exactly where and how they should be.  The one that cries and you don't sweat the reason; you just know you get to be the one to fix it and that makes it alright.  The one that you know will be graduating kindergarten and losing teeth all too soon.  The one smiling at her sister.

There won't be any more babies for us.  There is such a ring of finality to this but we know in our hearts that our family is complete.  And we have peace that our two babies are just who and when and are becoming what they should be.  We get to be a part of this because they belong to us.  We are soaking up these moments...

We have two babies.  Two amazing daughters.

I have two daughters.

This one's for them.