Swiper Fox, and other things I didn't know three years ago

(Written yesterday evening, 5/22/13)

Several weeks ago we started hearing Adrian make comments that sounded like "siper fux."  We tried so hard to figure out what he was talking about.  We asked him to repeat himself over and over.  We asked where he saw or heard the "siper fux" (to which we did figure out it was on the TV at Terri's house).  Sometimes it was orange.  Sometimes it was a he.  Sometimes it was on a door.  It made no sense to us.  But through the very helpful intercession of my sister, who is a better intune mother than I at least when it comes to children's pop culture, the orange, he, "siper fux" on "door" is actually the orange, he "Swiper Fox" on "Dora." Apparently he swipes bananas and things on the Dora the Explorer TV show that Adrian watches sometimes at daycare.  We had no idea.  But luckily we do now, because the "siper fux" is all the talk of our little man day in and day out lately.  And though it started out as cute and, as Adrian's puts it, "aren't that funny?!", this morning it became a problem.  This morning, when Adrian (twice) took something away from his little sister, who while wailing had to listen to her brother say, "I siped, just like the siper fux."  Ah, thank you Dora for making stealing funny to my little guy; you've made just one more thing about motherhood oh so much easier for me. (note: previous sentence to be read heavily sarcastically!)  And thank you Dora for reiterating why we don't really watch TV with our kids. (no sarcasm here).  

So yes, my son, who had plenty of practice already stealing things from his sister mind you, has now taken to a new "game" of "swiping."  And while I'm not pleased about it and the increase it will inevitably mean of Lilly's wailing and the "lessons" we have to talk to him about, I can't be totally mad.  Because the truth is, I myself come from a "swiper" family.  We swipe words!  Some may call it "quoting," which is technically what it is I guess.  We use others' words (and by others I mean fictional characters who say funny or memorable things on TV shows and movies that become even more funny when used in our non-fictional and drastically different contexts of daily lives).  And we use them so often and well that we can have whole conversations with just these borrowed words, not even needing to bother with our own.  I think that's when it borders on swiping.  And like the "siper fux" to Adrian, it is FUNny when me and my siblings swipe these words in our random contexts (usually to make fun of something).  A lot of laughter has come from the fact that we can "swipe" with the best of them! 

So as a swiper-by-nature, and as a mother of a young (devious) little guy who just recently taught me about the Swiper Fox, I have decided to steal an idea and the words first used by a fellow-blogger who I really enjoy following (thank you Mothering Spirit!), and write a letter "to the woman I was three years ago tonight."  On the eve of my son's birthday, I think it's important to tell that woman all the things she didn't know she'd soon know!  Here goes...

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To the Woman I was Three Years Ago,

There you are pacing the hospital halls, holding onto the walls or Mike from time to time when the contractions hit, trying to convince your body what your heart knows – it’s time!  You’ve been up since 4:00am, fighting the discomfort that hits every minute or so.  You’re tired, as you obviously haven’t slept well.  You’re still worried about the chocolate milk stain on the living room carpet from your glass that spilled while trying to get off the couch this morning after your husband made caramel rolls, which you couldn’t eat because your stomach wasn’t feeling great with all this contracting.  And your mind is running wild with thoughts. 

You’re thinking about your brother and nephew visiting your parents, who you told you’d stop over to see too, and wondering if your lack of presence has clued him into the adventure you’re undergoing right now.  You’re thinking about your husband’s friend’s bachelor party that he’s supposed to be at but isn’t because he’s here having the final “what are we going to name them?” conversation with you (not that it will matter, you won’t name them what you talk about in that last conversation anyways), and you’re hoping that his friends don’t leak word of your going into labor through Facebook when you haven’t even told your Mom you’re here yet; and thinking about who to call first when this little he/she finally arrives.  You’re thinking about how great it is that this is the weekend you said from early on you were going to have this baby, and people laughed and told you that with your first you’d probably go late not early so don’t get your hopes up, yet here you are walking these halls on the exact date you said you would be (ha-ha all you nay-sayers).  You’re thinking about how you wish your water would just break already so this process could catch up to the contractions you’ve already been having rapidly (more rapidly than any of the books said you would, those liars!) for 12 hours now (12 hours, whoof, it’s gotta be about time, right?!). 

There are so many things running through your head in these moments (that, sorry to have to tell you, will turn into hours still!).  But there are many things that aren’t even a spec on your radar that I think you should know.  Right now you’re thinking about how you’re ready! (just come already, baby!!)  But I want to let you know that you’re not ready.  You’ll never be ready (even when you’re in these halls again, this time rushing in in a wheel chair because the contractions are not going to have any of that walking business this time, with your second little one on the way in just over a year from now); never truly ready for the adventure that lies ahead for you as a mom! 

Because there’s so, so much you don’t know:

You don’t know how to ask what seems like every lactation consultant in the CentraCare system who comes in unwelcomed to leave and stop forcing techniques and “devises” on you that ultimately won’t work and just make your baby’s ability to nurse even worse.  Nor how the physical pain of nursing (though excruciating) is nothing compared to the emotional pain of it not working. 

You have no idea yet how to create a bedtime routine, and stick to it, especially in these early days when you will go (almost literally) crazy with the frustration and seeming failure of trying to get your baby to sleep when most non-crazy, “normal” people go to sleep.  Nor how ridiculously long babies can cry and fight-back sleep, no matter how badly they (not to mention you) need it, despite how ridiculously many times you sing the same song over-and-over-and-over until you’re practically in a trance (but they’re still perfectly awake and letting you know it). 

You don’t know how to handle it when your little boy’s sensitive skin causes the slightest cold to turn into sleepless, scary, painful (physically for him and emotionally for you) ordeals where your cry and your son’s become so intertwined it’s hard to tell the difference.  Nor that you should run out now (as long as you have time since your water still isn’t breaking) to quickly buy stock in every gentle, perfume-free, dye-free, natural, doctor-or-good-meaning-acquaintance-recommended baby skin product out there so you can get some return on your countless upcoming purchases; and then buy stock in Vaseline, because it will come down to resorting to the good old petroleum jelly jar, no matter how much you don’t like putting that on your baby, because more-so than those expensive lotions, it’s the closest thing to working. 

You don’t know how to sleep through the night (or even a nap well), even if your child(ren) do, because you now have maternal hearing that is so super-powerful that even the silence becomes a sound and wakes you in fear (and fatigue!) for your little ones.  Nor how un-super your husband’s hearing really is (that’s all I’ll say about that). 

You aren’t aware how hard it will be to keep the dining room floor clean for more than a meal-to-snack time period (if even that long), or how to get that sticky goo (that you might as well not even bother trying to figure out what it is, it’s just best not to know sometimes) off the chair.  Nor have you figured out yet that there will be many-a-non-peaceful mealtimes that feel like war-zones as you fight to get them to eat just something healthy and not put everything from their plate into their milk cup (which may have something to do with that goo). 

You don’t have any idea that although right now you are wishing with all your sore, tired might that time would hurry up, and reveling in the fact that this baby is two-and-a-half weeks early just like you asked them to be, that this will likely be the last time possibly ever that you’ll want time to go fast, or that this child will be ready when you want them.  Nor how stressful it actually is to be running late to everything from work to church to birthday parties, and what that anxiety can do to your ability to be patient (or lack-there-of) with everyone from your husband and kids, to other drivers, to God. 

You don’t know how agonizing it is to have to leave those little pieces-of-your-heart-in-a-tiny-human-body with someone else, be it your first date night after a month or first day back to work after two.  Nor how heart-wrenching it is to turn around and leave when your child is crying as you drop them off at a new daycare, and just how many days you can drive the final few minutes to work in tears. 

There’s so much you don’t know and aren’t ready for.  You don’t know how hard it is to love someone so fragile, so impressionable, and so utterly exhausting that there will be times you feel you have lost yourself (your relationships, social life, spirituality, prayer time, work abilities, mind, time, physical look and strength) in the all-consuming challenge that is raising a child.  Nor how much what comes in the next twelve and a half hours will very much so change that self. 

You haven’t a clue how much God is asking of you.  Nor how hard it will be to learn. 

But even more-so, you don’t know how amazing it will be: 

You don’t know that it’s possible after 24 ½ hours of excruciating labor (though you’re starting to figure that part out at least) and no sleep and near (maybe more than near) delirium, to snap out of it in less than 24 seconds when you see the first glimpse of that disgusting little head and hear those first cries.  Nor how good even hospital food can taste when it’s wrapped in the light and excitement of being a new mom in this special new-mom place.   

You have no idea how much you will fall in love with the routine that marks the end of each day (even if for a long time it will mark the start of the following long, hard night).  Nor how hard it will be to say good night, as you wish for just a few moments longer you can be with this precious blessing in your life in the sacred time and space that has become bedtime. 

You don’t know how easily you can go into “super mom” mode when needed, including controlling your own gag-reflex while cleaning up puke and bi-locating to manage three laundry loads in the middle of the night while still somehow being forever-present at his side to hold the bucket when he throws up again, and practically jumping tall buildings (or at least Duplo and book piles all over the living room floor) in a single bound to get to your child for that needed hug and “magic kiss” the instant they get hurt.  Nor how blessed you will somehow (maybe from the delirium) feel to be able to sit up all night rocking your sick little one, with their heart-beat seeming to fall completely in sync with your own until you’re practically one again like these last moments of pregnancy. 

You don’t know just how much you can surprisingly keep doing on no sleep.  Nor how there will be times, even after incredibly long and tiring days where you begged God to let that child go to sleep, that you will actually wish they would wake up because you miss them, but you’ll settle to just stand over their crib and stare and cry as you beg God to take care of them while they sleep.   

You aren’t aware how much fun it can be to stir muffin mix all over the kitchen together with a little helper, or make sweeping and table-washing a non-productive but very special family affair, and how your hyper-need-for-order slowly gets overrun in time by these special moments.  Nor how much you can be wowed, truly wowed, by the sheer adorableness of your child starting to learn the Before Meal Prayer (let alone when he randomly starts chanting it) each night at the supper table. 

You don’t have any idea how quickly your anxiety can melt away as you’re rushing down the driveway, nearly 20 minutes late again, when that sweet voice (the one that a few minutes ago was screaming “no” at you while you tried to wrangle them into their shoes and the car) from the backseat asks, “Are you crying Momma?  Don’t worry, we’re still here.  Do you want us to sing a song for you Momma?”  Nor the joy that will come from any and every song sung with and by those sometimes gentle, sometimes silly little voices. 

You don’t know that it’s possible to love someone so much that even the person you love the most thus far (that guy you’ll be mad at in a few hours for checking the Twins score while you’re having a nasty contraction) isn’t good enough to leave alone with this little one, but how much watching him as a Dadda will change how much you love him more than you thought possible too.  Nor how the worst day can turn into a fantastic one when that small body comes plunging towards you in a hug after work practically before you can get in the daycare door. 

There’s so much you have yet to discover and aren’t prepared for.  You don’t know how easy it is to start crying from the indescribable sense of blessedness that comes out of nowhere all of a sudden, because your child says “Momma” for the first time (that they know who they’re talking about), or gives you a forehead-to-forehead “kiss,” or talks about Jesus in a way you didn’t teach them, or says they love their “Ba,” or tells you they miss you, or plays with a toy that meant a lot to you when you were a child, or even when they won’t stop talking about “Do-dee-do-dee” or their “pudder” or the “siper fux” in that silly way they do.  Nor how much everything that is coming will change the way your old self knows how to love.  Trust me, you have no idea how much you will love! 

You haven’t a clue how much God is gifting you with.  Nor how amazing it will be to learn. 

Yes, it’s true my dear, you have a lot to learn yet.  You’re not really ready for this adventure.  But ready or not, in “just” 12 ½ more hours, they will be here.  And you will love.  And you will learn.  And you will cry (happy and sad).  And you will not sleep.  And you will make mistakes.  And you will do things well.  And you will do things you never imagined possible.  And you will do it all again. 

And in three years, with many moments of this day already starting to blur out of focus, the woman you will become will look back fondly on you.  She will thank you for being the naïve woman you are.  Because if you knew all you should, you may not have taken on this journey of motherhood.  Because had you actually been ready, she would not be who she is without each step, good or bad, on that journey. 

So get back to laboring now; the hard part is still to come, but so is the good part.  Don’t eat the pudding you snuck in no matter how hungry you are, you will just throw it up later.  Don’t be afraid to ask the nurses to reposition the mirror so you can see the delivery.  Don’t forget to get your carseat inspected right away so you don’t get stuck at the hospital for hours after you wanted to check-out, by which time they will have forgotten about you.  Do speak clearly when you call your Mom to tell her your little man’s name.  Do get help over night when Mike leaves for his sister’s wedding next week.  Do be a little more gentle on Mike when you get frustrated, he’s learning too.  And, most importantly, do hang in there. 

In a few hours you will have a beautiful little one, the one you have been waiting for since before he was conceived.  Welcome that little one, and all that comes with him.  There’s so much more to embrace than you’re ready for.  But that’s ok.  Though it will be a difficult journey, it will also be (at least the first three years) unspeakably amazing.  Thank you for giving me that.