Libbie, Four.

Posted on November 19, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

She’s 4, and she’s big but she’s little.

She thinks she’s plenty big to brush her own teeth (including putting on globs of oh-my-so-expensive-flouride-free toothpaste), get her own snacks (spaghetti noodles on the floor), cut and paste and paint to her heart’s content. (Mess. Oh. The mess.)

She’s a little schizophrenic lately. Some mornings she wakes up cheery, cleans up her bedroom before pouncing in our bed with a huge smile and curly bedhead. She’s happy to cuddle and read.

Other days – today, for instance – cuddles and hugs dissolve into screaming fits, temper tantrums, an absolute lack of obedience, provocation of the little man, and Mommy and Daddy nearing insanity.

Oh, Madame Strong-Willed Child. I don’t think your mommy was quite prepared for this journey. I am loving the sweet days we see now and then. I love reading and kisses and honestly, the painting and play-dough messes don’t bother me that much.

But the mean-spirited taunts at David … the absolute refusal to obey … the willfulness that makes you play through rest time each and every day even though you’re tired and we both know it … they make Mommy stop and wonder and cry and pray.

Will it always be a battle? Will we ever truly figure it out? Or is this is a parade to preteendom, never to end? Because in my impregnated, exhausted, mother-to-almost-3 state, I don’t have that much fight left in me.

A Wave, A Cask, A Bubble of Insanity

Posted on June 26, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

As I prepare to move in a few weeks and attempt to parent and be a wife on top of that, I’m going to be rerunning a few older posts and cutting back to three posts a week (likely one old, one new, one new recipe). Here’s one I wrote in September during an especially trying time.

Walmart's "Action Alley" Display Signs Feature Value and Convenience on Popular Shopping Items

I remember turning into the aisle at Wal-Mart just to recall that I had forgotten the diaper bag.

It was the first time I had ever left the house alone with my tiny baby girl. I quickly found that a carseat takes up most of the space in a shopping cart.

My heart pounded just trying to get the fragile girl into the carseat, outfitted properly, in and out of the car. Would her feet be cold? Would she catch germs at Wal-Mart? Each inch of her precious body, so newly out of mine. I trembled from fear and the new bite of November.

It’s a flash in my mind: that moment when I realized I had everything — my purse, the baby, a shopping list — except that vital brown-and-pink bag with her toilette.

I’ve never scurried through a store quite so quickly, praying that nothing would be expelled from a tiny bottom.

Nothing did, and I was safe. But it didn’t take long to ride the wave of insecurity about my capability as a parent.

_________

She screams and fights and stomps one foot outside the door when I say, “… if you come out of that room.” The child who is praised as polite and sweet as sugar is nothing like the one I face alone in our home.

I hate tantrums.

I look inside, trying to squeeze out the place in my heart that is to blame for all of this. Why oh why? What did I do to make her like this, so vehemently anti-sleep? What could we change?

And why doesn’t anyone else ever talk about their kids doing this?

I feel isolated, alone, in a bubble filled with fake cries, screaming, requests for more water more food more bunnies more blankets.

And heaven help us all if we forget to put on her socks.

I wonder if someday this will all make sense. If I’ll ever be able to stand on my own parenting feet without feeling the need to beg advice from anyone who will listen. Does it improve as they age, little casks of spirit ripening to the perfect vintage dose of confidence?

I hope so.

Two Babies

Posted on October 17, 2011 by vanderbiltwife

Credit: Portrait Innovations

I remember watching Libbie, sitting in the primary-color bouncy seat, as she grasped a toy. I grinned from ear-to-ear. My mom was there, a rare treat for both of us, and we sat and stared at my months-old princess simply because her fingers were wrapped around a piece of pink plastic.

“Is everything as exciting with your second child?” I asked her. “Do you still get excited about the little things?”

I don’t remember her answer, but now I know.

Credit: Portrait Innovations

With babies are close together in age as mine are, you don’t always have time to notice those first tiny things. I might be elated to find that David was grasping, or self-feeding, or cutting another tooth … if I weren’t putting Libbie in time-out for pulling him around on the carpet by his arms or calming her as she screams that he’s stolen her bowl of cereal yet again.

I was upset that he started dragging himself around on the floor as soon as he learned to sit up on his own; gone were the dreams that he could play by himself for a few minutes. Am I the only mother to bemoan the fact that her child can crawl? Out comes the vacuuming and securing and plastic plug-things and hoping that he just won’t hit his head falling this time.

So maybe the answer is no, it’s not as exciting with the second little one. But here is what I find different.

I cling to his little body, sucking in deep breaths of baby shampoo and snuggling an angel-soft cheek. “Don’t grow up!” I cry, even though of course I don’t mean it. What choice do we have but desire their growth … yet at the same time I find myself hanging on desperately to the baby-ness of him in a way I never knew with his sister.

They can tell you it goes by so fast until it comes out of your ears and you’ll never know until you get there. Until your tiny baby is almost three and sassy and hilarious and more of a girl than a toddler. When you set the two babies side by side and ask yourself, “How on earth did she go from this to that so quickly?”

That’s why I kiss his cheek when he’s nursing. Why I rub his sweet head and tickle tiny feet and take mental photographs of his precious belly button.

Someday I’ll catch a whiff of Aveeno shampoo, or see a baby spit up on his mother’s shirt and think, “How? How is it already gone?”

—-
Subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail.
Twitter much? I’m vanderbiltwife there, too.
Join my Facebook Fan Group

Libbie, 35 Months

Posted on September 26, 2011 by vanderbiltwife

I watch her as she lays face down, staring as the water goes down the drain, sucking up every last drop of bathtime. For a child who used to scream every bath because she hates water in her face, she adores the bath ritual. Today, Strawberry Shortcake and a lobster played a rousing game of Ring Around the Rosy, and I discovered Libbie’s favorite colors of the day were “gray, and orange, and yellow, and green.” Yesterday they were pink, purple, orange, and red.

Her ringlets are wet as we pick a bedtime book. I always pause when she chooses something I consider babyish; I enjoy the bedtime story ritual, and That’s Not My Monkey just doesn’t take very long to read. But it’s her choice to make, and I read what she wants.

One day I asked her if we could have a talk. She sat on her bed, and I sat on the floor, and we discussed something. Probably how she should be gentle with David, or obey Mommy and Daddy—the two things we repeat often. Since then, she wants to “have a talk” often. About what, she doesn’t know. But she gets that it’s a big-girl thing to do.

eating ice cream at Jason's Deli (mmmm!)

We’ve had a hard week. For some reason she seems to have reverted to her new-baby jealousy. She has not obeyed one single request in three or four days. If I ask her to go to her room, she screams and falls to the floor. If I pick her up, she hits or kicks. My days seem to be spent trying to keep my own anger in check and not fight back. Sometimes I succeed.

I try to focus on the rights: coloring a banner for the school’s big rivalry football game; laying in bed discussing what an uncle is; when she asks sweetly, “Mommy, will you read me the Bible?” The joy of picking out a few library books. A mini Mommy-date that consists of going to the grocery store and getting milk, holding hands.

She is wild, and funny, and infuriating, and beautiful, and selfish, and crazy, and loving, and huggable. And she’s almost 3. Each day she seems more like a child and less like a toddler. But she still can’t pronounce Ls.

I’m a mess of a mother, eking my way through and learning poorly as I go.

I think if we make it to 4, she’ll be a really awesome little kid.

—-
Subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail.
Twitter much? I’m vanderbiltwife there, too.
Join my Facebook Fan Group

Like a Gardening Toddler

Posted on July 5, 2011 by vanderbiltwife

It’s a hot afternoon in June, and Libbie and I are on the back deck. My poor basil plant is withering, the one thing in our yard I claim to care about – since it provides the crop for our Summer Bow-Ties, fresh pesto, gorgeous pizza – and it’s nearly dead. My dependence on the rain to water it is not a smart choice in the drought we’ve had.

I hand Libbie her little yellow spray bottle and ask her to water my plant. I will dump some more water on it later, of course, but her helpfulness needs an outlet that does not include stirring hot pots on the stove or trying to help her brother sit up.

She gives it a good spray and then keeps on watering the friends around it: the bushes, the grass, and the weeds that grow around the weathered deck.

source: kitkaphotogirl

She does not discriminate, joyfully doling out to each one, weed or treasured food-bearing plant, its share of needed water. And I think this – this is the faith of a child. This is what Jesus meant.

Libbie does not know to differentiate between people, plants, colors. She doesn’t know that one plant is helpful and one plant is a nuisance to the garden. She sees them like I believe Jesus sees people: each one as His favorite. Each one important to Him. Each one beloved, in need of some tender nurture.

And often, I think He gives us children to learn some of these simple lessons, the truths we’ve forgotten since we, age two-and-a-half, watered our own weeds.

—-
Subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail.
Twitter much? I’m vanderbiltwife there, too.
Join my Facebook Fan Group

Six Months

Posted on July 1, 2011 by vanderbiltwife

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. on David’s 6-month “birthday,” and couldn’t get back to sleep, so fierce was my need to write. Here’s what spilled out onto my dad’s laptop.

It’s June 20th, and David is 6 months old today.

That morning I went in for my last appointment with Leigh, I’m not sure what I expected. Definitely to have progressed farther than I was, since my contractions had been coming and going for the better part of a week. I had always hoped to go into labor on my own again; having a natural delivery with pitocin was out of the question for me. I’d heard the horror stories.

Did a little piece of me know Leigh would an induction that day? Maybe. I had it in my mind that Leigh wanted to get David out so she could have her Christmas vacation in peace. And oh, did I want him out. Nine months of exhaustion, running after Libbie while being in various stages of wanting to throw up or lie down right there. Bread-baking and whole foods had all but been thrown out the window. It’s hard to put something in the oven when you can barely bend over.

Being induced by having my water broken was not what I wanted, neither was it exactly pleasant. I know my labor was much more painful as a result.

But oh, sweet David, you were worth every second. I love that little guy so incredibly much. It’s so easy to love a baby, compared to a two-year-old. OF COURSE I love them both immensely, equally, but loving Libbie is just harder some days. (And loving David did get easier when he wasn’t waking up every three hours any more.)

Disney PR peeps? You need this adorableness.

I find myself wishing I could capture every moment of David on video right now, because he is too precious for words, too cute for just pictures. I worry my memory will not keep fresh his toothless smiles and giggles, the way he flirts with someone he meets and then hides his head, his possessive hand on my chest while he nurses with glee, the way he is already scooting backwards and trying to crawl.

I had never until this week thought maybe I don’t want any more kids. Maybe I don’t have any more love to go around, my heart is so full. (And oh, the shudder at the thought of being pregnant again. I love the kicks and movement, the knowledge … but I hate everything else.)

Only God knows what the future brings. I guess we shall see.

Happy half-birthday, David. Mommy loves you bunches!

—-
Subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail.
Twitter much? I’m vanderbiltwife there, too.
Join my Facebook Fan Group

Having a Son

Posted on May 10, 2011 by vanderbiltwife

Before we had children, I would have been the first person to tell you that I didn’t really want to have boys.

For one, I just didn’t think I would. My mom’s side of the family is rather matriarchal. In one of my favorite anecdotes, my mom went to the OBGYN when she was pregnant with me; and, because of my heartbeat, the nurse told her I was probably a boy.

My mom says she told the nurse, “I have FOUR sisters and FIVE nieces. This is a girl.”

She was right. Obviously. (Although she did go on to have six nephews, as well as two more nieces, just on her side of the family.)

So, I always thought I would have all girls. Having just a sister, girls were all I knew.

Secondly, I am plain scared of boys. Little boys who wrestle. Bigger boys who pee in public. Older boys who think too much with that thing they use to pee. It all scares me. Give me princesses, dolls, tea cups. I can do that. Rocks, fighting, He-Men, snakes? Enough to make me hide under the covers.

From week five or six of this pregnancy, I was convinced that tiny baby inside me was a boy. I based this entirely on the fact that my sickness was completely different than when I was pregnant with Libbie. (And if I can have a choice in the future … I would choose Libbie-sickness over David-sickness any day.) I was sick as a dog, but couldn’t throw up. Nothing sounded good, ever. I barely got off the couch for weeks.

Because I had that premonition, I was none too surprised when the woman taking my gall-bladder ultrasound, whom I had begged to take a look at the baby, told me she was 98% sure this wee one was male.

Since he’s been born, people have asked me whether having a boy is different than having a girl. I usually respond that I don’t know if it’s boy/girl or first child/second child differences. David is definitely more mellow. But much less textbook than Libbie. He has strong opinions and makes them known.

But since Libbie was very small, I’ve always felt the push of independence — and quite a bit of prima donna attitude. Those don’t radiate from my small boy. He wants Mama, all the time. He is my sweet-as-sugar Doodle Bug.

He is everything everyone told me a nursing boy would be.

I’m reassured to know that when Libbie is 13 and hates my guts, David will still love me. Right? I’m looking forward to having that mother-son relationship. To knowing the ups and downs of having children of both sexes.

I’m sure it will be a wild ride, but I think I’m ready.

—-
Subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail.
Twitter much? I’m vanderbiltwife there, too.
Join my Facebook Fan Group

Like Looking in a Mirror

Posted on January 7, 2011 by vanderbiltwife

Early in my high-school years, I developed a strange habit of chewing on the end of my hair.

Yeah, I know. It’s kind of gross and weird and I have absolutely no idea where it came from or when it went away. I was a shy, awkward kid–and teen … and of course that is completely and totally different than how I am now.

I was in drama from 8th to 10th grades before I discovered that no matter how much my heart told me I was going to be on Broadway, my acting skills just didn’t measure up. (Again with shy and awkward.) I spent 11th and 12th grade in the creative writing elective, and I think we can all agree that was a better choice.

I vividly remember a drama exercise where we were paired with another student and we were supposed to give a monologue as that other person. I was teamed up with a good friend of mine, much to my relief. And as we practiced in our high-school auditorium, also known as the drama “classroom,” the first thing she did to “be” me was start chewing on her hair.

I was mortified. I thought no one else noticed this crazy habit; it was my own secret strangeness. But obviously it was the first thing people noticed about me. Seeing it replicated by someone else made me crimson with embarrassment and sick to my stomach.

I get the same feeling now–often–when I see my bad habits reflected in my spunky two-year-old. Some of them seem rather harmless to me: the way she says, “Come on!” in the exact same intonation that I do. But I know this truly shows how I get upset at simple, insignificant things.

Her indignant, “Hush, baby David!” is another phrase I don’t like to hear repeated. Do I really say it like that? Am I so insensitive to my own children?

We are definitely at the point where Libbie soaks in anything and everything. Just like in high school, we are being watched. Will what she reflects make me proud? (Like when she says she is “waiting for Jesus” as she closes her eyes and folds her hands together?) Or will I once again be mortified, embarrassed of my own habits as I see them repeated before my eyes?

Photo credit: bagaball
—-
Subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail.
Twitter much? I’m vanderbiltwife there, too.
Join my Facebook Fan Group

Guest Post: More Than Meets the Eye

Posted on January 6, 2011 by vanderbiltwife

Allison is a slightly OCD momma (yes, M&Ms must be eaten in pairs of matching colors) who blogs over at Alli ‘n Son and tweets at Alli_n_Son. She’s the momma of a spunky, energetic, and frustrating two-year-old boy. You can often find her up to the knees in potty training, bubbles, and all things balls. She’s also a wanna-be photographer and gourmet chef, a highly creative woman, and one-time graphic designer, all rolled into one.

First off, huge congrats to Jessie on the birth of her son! As the mother of an almost 3-year-old boy, I know that she has so many wonderful things to look forward to. Especially things related to balls. Oh the joys of having a boy.

Like I said, I’m the mother to an almost 3-year-old boy. I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for the second half of his life, working a full-time job for the first half. Which was torture, let me tell you. It’s funny how having a kid completely and utterly changes who you are. I went from very career-focused to not really caring about my job. With the help of my husband, we worked toward financial stability so I could finally leave my job.

Anyway, I’m not here to talk about how I became a stay-at-home mom. I wanted to share a story with you.

For the last year I’ve had my son enrolled in a beginner’s gymnastics class. It isn’t so much a gymnastics class as it is a jump-on-the-trampoline-and-run-through-tunnels-for-30-minutes class. We’ve been in the same class with the same group of women and kids since the beginning, and we have all formed a tight bond. Our kids have the type of friendship that will grow with them as they grow. I can actually see them all, hanging out on the football field together at high school games. Seriously.

Recently we were confronted with a tough decision, one that from the outside doesn’t seem major but hidden below was a whole world of meaning. The class the kids were enrolled in was technically for kids ages 1-2. The next level up was 2-3. By all means, we should move our kids to the next level. Perhaps we should have moved them a while ago.

But the thing is, we kind of have the run of the class. It’s unorganized, the kids can run and play, and we—the moms and grandmas—can sit back and talk, knowing that the kids are safe and having fun. There’s a course set up for various activities, but rarely do we actually guide our kids through it. We’d much rather just let them be. Actually, when a new instructor came in and tried to get the class organized, we kind of wore her down until she stopped trying. Now, she sits down and talks with us while the kids do their thing.

The class was coming to an end and we had to make a decision: move on to the next level or hold the kids back. In my heart of hearts I knew that the kids were ready, all of them. They just needed our help and guidance and before we knew it, they would follow along the course and still be having a blast.

Even though this may seem like a small decision, it really is much larger than it appears. It’s about more than moving from one class to the next. It’s about learning to let our kids grow up. It’s about guiding them to experience new things. It’s about holding their hands on new adventures and knowing when to let go.

I view motherhood as a big spider web with our kid(s) right at the very center. When they are born we are attached to them in every way possible. We are responsible for feeding them and clothing them. For changing diapers, bathing them, and keeping them clean. But as time goes on, our responsibilities change, lessen even. They learn how to feed themselves, and a strand of the web falls away. They learn how to dress themselves {most days} and two more strands disappear. They are potty trained and even stay dry overnight. More strands drift away in the wind. Slowly over years and years the spider web loses its strength. But an amazing thing happens: the spider, our kids, grow stronger. They learn how to live apart from us, in baby steps. And it’s amazing.

Our job, as mothers, fathers, grandparents, caregivers, whoever, is to hold on to our kids with all of our might, but to also realize when it’s time to let go and let them grow. In the end, we did decide to move our kids up to the next level of gymnastics class, and I’m so glad that we did {because honestly, if everyone wanted to stay behind, I probably would have moved my son to the next level anyway}. I know in my heart of hearts that they were all ready, they just need a little guidance from us. They need to know that we have faith that they will succeed. In the next class. In the next stage of life. Even as our hold gets weaker and weaker, they know that we are here for them, giving them the push they need but also offering solid ground when they fall.

Parenthood is hard. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. But watching your kid(s) grow and become his or her own person, there’s just nothing else on earth like it.

—-
Subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail.
Twitter much? I’m vanderbiltwife there, too.
Join my Facebook Fan Group

I Miss Back Then (?)

Posted on September 13, 2010 by vanderbiltwife

Do you remember back when you could sleep as long as you wanted on Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon?

When you could eat breakfast without little hands grabbing for it, even though they’ve just eaten everything else in the refrigerator? Back when I was pregnant with Libbie, I never would have imagined not fueling up for the rest of the day. I was hungry, therefore I ate. Now, sometimes it’s too much trouble to take three bites of a granola bar.

When you could fit two or even three people in the backseat of your car, you didn’t have to pack diapers to leave the house, and cutting through the living room did not involve wading through a sea of Little People, blankets, puzzle pieces, and baby dolls?

Laundry day was once a week, you wore clean clothes and high heels to the office, and the words pacifier weaning (or blankie weaning) had never crossed your mind.

You were never embarrassed because your child was trying to climb on the table at a Mexican restaurant while wailing at the top of her lungs (not that it’s ever happened to us … yesterday).

And yet

And yet ….

There were no sloppy wet kisses on the lips, or after-bath bear hugs, or tiny toes to tickle.

You didn’t spend half the day laughing at a toddler learning to talk and her hilarious combination of words into sentences.

You and your spouse didn’t look at each other with amazed smiles, thinking, “THIS is a combination of our DNAs. We sort-of MADE this little, laughing, wriggly thing.”

What did we laugh about as we fell asleep? Whose shoes were we constantly searching for? And why, on God’s green earth, wasn’t my house clean?

Some days, the Old Life seems peachy-keen. But I’ll take this side any day. There’s a lot more laughing, a lot more love, and a lot more pink.

—-
Subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail.
Twitter much? I’m vanderbiltwife there, too.
Join my Facebook Fan Group
A few of my favorite things on my Tumblr page