Hands (part 2: the chubby little version)

Today is my son's third birthday! At least twice a day (usually more) this little man wows me with the new observant, insightful-beyond-his-years and usually cute things he says.  And at least twice a night (almost guaranteed more) I tell him good night, because I just can't quite get myself to leave him.  He means so much to me and I love our bedtime ritual!  But at the end of it I am always torn between longing for the quiet, alone, adult time I only get for that brief period after the kids finally go to bed, and wishing with all my heart that I could be with and soak up my precious little ones just a little bit longer! 

A few nights ago, after Mike took Lilly off to her room to tuck her in, Adrian and I sat on the edge of his bed while he drank his milk and told me he prays for Jesus.  And we held hands.  It was one of those seemingly ordinary but touched-my-heart-deeply moments of motherhood. Adrian is far from an easy child (and hasn't been since that first scare 6 weeks into my pregnancy), but he is mine.  And after a long day of chasing him to come where I needed him, begging him to eat his food, asking him to be quiet, scolding him to stop hitting his sister, and asking GOD why it can't be easier, I looked down at his little hand and all that melted away into peace.   I looked down at his small little hand that had somehow, I'm not even sure how, found its way into my larger one; those cute tiny fingers that used to be even tinier, wrapped around just my pointer finger the way they did when he was an infant, with his palm resting on the back of my hand.  And I fought back tears at the feeling of blessedness, and at the overwhelming sense of disbelief.  I couldn't believe my little baby is three already!  I couldn't believe the innocence, the trust, the simplicity of his little world that has made mine so complex.  And I couldn't believe that GOD would love me enough to send me those cute little fingers to teach me a love that is still only a fraction of GOD's for me (for even when I'm far from an easy child, I'm His)! 

And then our prayers were done, his hands had moved from mine to his stuffed Beluga, and I once again couldn't believe that I had to say good night and leave him.  I said the words I say every night as I kiss his head: "Good night Adrain, I love you, I'll see you in the morning."  And as I turned to leave I couldn't help but smile and thank GOD silently but profusely when Adrian tried to strike up another conversation with me, and I got to do it all over again!  

The following is a poem I wrote after our bedtime routine when Adrian was about four months old.  Holding his hand for that too-fleeting moment this week and the tug on my heart as I finally had to shut his door between us for the night, reminded me of it.  He may be three years older now, with a plethora of new size, words, thoughts and abilities; but when it comes to being his Mom, I guess not that much has changed. 

Adrian's Bedtime Poem (2010)  

Those chubby little fingers call out to be kissed,
And your rosy red cheeks will greatly be missed;

As we tuck you in and you drift off to sleep
My love for you grows ever deep.

So close your eyes my sweet little boy.
Thank you for bringing us so much joy!

May you dream sweet dreams, and have no fear,
and know that Mom and Dad are ever near.

So rest well my little one, whom I love,
under the protection of all the Saints above.

The sandman steals your attention for now,
And I am both happy and a little sad somehow.

Wanting to be with you still longer, but entrusting you to sleep,
Praying the LORD, my baby safely to keep. 

My bedtime trial, night after night,
the dance between immense love and inner fight;

Having to resist those chubby little fingers that call out to be kissed,
saying good-night to your rosy red cheeks that for 8 hours will be greatly missed! 

Once again, your mother's tears fall without warning.
“Good night Adrian; I love you; and I'll see you in the morning.” 

Happy Birthday Adrian!  
I love you, from your gentle little fingers to your messy hair, from the first day to the last!  

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...

- - - 

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.  

Hands

It was May 5th, 2006.  I was making a trip into Target faster than was humanly possible since I was running late as usual and on the hunt for something that could substitute the cooler I had promised to bring but then forgot to borrow from my parents since I didn't actually own one myself.  Luckily it was in the days when they still sold picnic baskets that you didn't have to order online for a million dollars that came with more stuff in them than you need.  I grabbed the picnic basket and rushed down the interstate.  We had a date.  An all-day, two-part date.  After I pulled the tags off of the picnic basket and hid them in my car so he wouldn't know I'd just gotten it on the way here, we filled it and headed to a park in the Twin Cities, one that shall remain nameless because I can't remember.  I don't know if I even listed when he told me what lake it was.  I was too busy focusing on my hands.  We'd been friends/"dating" for seven months now; seven months exactly this day in fact.  We'd already said "I love you."  But as we walked around the really nice (nameless) park on a really beautiful day, talking, laughing and enjoying everything, I decided I was ready!  It was time.  Time to hold hands!  But I didn't know if he felt the same (and you can't just ask that sort of thing, not when you've only been dating seven months).  I didn't want to seem needy or girlie or anything.  So instead, I devised a plan: maybe if I just walked with my hands at my sides instead of in my pockets where I usually keep them when I'm walking, swinging them ever-so-slightly, but not so far or fast that they'd be unpredictable, so he could find one if he wanted, and ours might "accidentally" bump into each other... Yeah, that would get him to take my hand.  What?  What did he just say?  No idea (but my hands are still nicely at my side in between he and the rest of my body with the perfect proportion of angle and velocity).  Just smile and nod, act like you heard him.  Laugh at the people playing volleyball and the kids on the slides.  Enjoy the picnic.  Don't fold your arms in front of you while sitting under the tree to eat and watch, even if you are really chilly with the breeze off the lake and the shade of the tree.  Burrr...don't give in, keep your hands accessible.  Ooo, he bumped it!  Nope, never mind.  Part one of the date is done, still no hand-holding.  Sigh.  Oh well; on to part two of the date.

We went back to his apartment, changed into dress clothes - he in a nice dark purple dress shirt that somehow made his dark eyes seem lighter and darker all at the same time, and me in the skirt I bought for $2 at the Mission Shop (before it would close three months later) with a sweater that I hoped wouldn't make me too hot on this unusually warm day so I wouldn't sweat too much and stink for our evening out.  And we headed off to the Guthrie for a Shakespeare play that he told me on Valentines Day he had tickets to, but assured me it wasn't a Valentine's present because we don't believe in that commercialism romance bologna.  Then we were there, in the theatre, and the lights were dimming.  Time to activate my new plan: maybe if we shared an armrest while watching this "romantic" play (being betrayed by your friends after your uncle murders your father and marries your mother and frames you for the death of the woman you love but forced into nun-hood while you were acting insane to trap your uncle before you all die is romantic, right?), the close proximity and mood would help.  Nope.  Act 1 over, intermission, Act 2, try again, nothing, I give up! 

I couldn't do it anymore.  I was paying little attention to the play, a play he'd spent good money on and had been waiting to take me to for three months, because I was obsessing too much about my hand-holding-seduction strategies.  And it wasn't even working.  Time to give up, Kateri.  I shifted my focus back up to the stage and began moving my arm off the arm-rest and back to its usual resting place on my lap, and suddenly someone was grabbing my hand and pulling it back to the armrest.  Oh, thank GOD (because I didn't actually want to give up but was running out of plans)!  And thank GOD it's dark in here, because my face is beet red!!! :)  I stared at the stage with new-found concentration after that, not so because of my interest in Hamlet, but because I was too embarrassed to look at the man next to me, holding my hand.  But that doesn't mean my mind wasn't still on, and smiling about, the success of my hand-holding plots! 

- - -

That was the first time Mike and I held hands.  We've done it a LOT since then:  On our walk to the car that night (when our fingers actually interlocked, though I'm not sure that was intentional).  As we walked through the Falls Park in Sioux Falls a month later when I went home with him for the first time to meet his whole family.  Through the baggage claim area and parking ramp when he picked me up from the airport after my Kenya trip later that summer.  While sitting in the dark balcony of St. John's Abbey the next summer when I gave him my ring and asked him to propose to me someday (before we got locked in the church, and while walking quickly away after we finally got out).  While hiking around Itasca State Park a month after that where I thought he was going to propose (but didn't...which was worse than the anticipation of the hands).  While sitting on the couch a week later while calling family and trying to "nonchalantly" invite them over the next day so they'd be there when we made the announcement to everyone that we were engaged!  While our family read Scripture readings we'd picked and a photographer snapped a zillion pictures of us on our wedding day.  In the doctor's office where we found out we'd lost our first baby, and again when we thought we'd lost our second but got to see that he was in fact still perfectly healthy and made the most beautiful black waves on the screen.  On the car rides home each night while our kids jabber away like crazy in the backseat and we whisper to each other 'did you teach him that?' because they're amazing us again with things we didn't know they knew.  And for the ever-so-brief moments in church when we're not both busy wrangling squirmy, loud, hitting or escaping toddlers who have no desire to commune with either GOD or their family while there despite our desperate desire to do so for just a few minutes of calm prayer and hand-holding.  Sometimes we even fall asleep holding hands.  

I love holding my husband's hand, and have since that first day!  It was worth waiting for :)  

- - - 

Below is a poem and note I wrote in my journal shortly after that May 5th date seven years ago.  This weekend marks Mike and I's 5-year wedding anniversary, and I still mean every word of it.  

"Hands"
There's something special about our hands
They're a part of our body
the part that can most easily be shared,
for good or bad, it's what touches our body to others
They are a symbol of offering our physical-self.  

There's something special about our hands
They're a part of our life
the part that does our work,
that represents our careers, callings, livelihoods
They are a symbol of offering our vocational-self.

There's something special about our hands
They're a part of our faith
the part that serves our neighbors,
in labor, healing, prayer they reach out
They are a symbol of offering our servant-self.

There's something special about our hands
They're a part of our community
the part that shows what being relational is
that drops the sword, embraces the other and holds on tight
They are a symbol of our GOD-like self.

There's something special about our hands
They're a part of our love
the part that speaks louder than words
that says I offer you my body, my livelihood, my servitude, my community,
And when I hold your hand I hope you know that it is a symbol of my offering my self to you.

(Thank you for taking my hand Mike.  I love you and pray that each and every time I hold your hand that you will know how much!)  

Happy Anniversary Mike!  I love you, and thank you for being the one to hold my hand through life's joys and challenges these past five years!   

Victory for equality

These last few days have made me very proud to be a Minnesotan.  Thank you legislators!