10:30pm
Saturday:
I was exhausted from the past several days of
screaming-infant-in-the-middle-of-the-night syndrome (aka, Teething). So much so that I fell asleep in the middle
of reading (that last paragraph tried over and over to head-bobs, until I finally
gave up, not to remember reading it at all the next day).
11:09pm: The baby cries. So it
begins, I thought, as I fumbled my way out of a deep sleep, and into the
darkness (apparently my husband had shut the lights off and gone to bed with as
much notice from me as that last paragraph received). I find her “plugger” on her dresser, and give
it to her, along with a melodic “Shhhh-shhh-shhh,” and gentle rub of her back
until she is quiet, before making my way back to bed. I’m out again as soon as my head hits the
pillow.
11:24pm: She cries
again. “Ohh!” I groan, and repeat my
activities of a few minutes ago once again.
11:44pm: Ditto!
This time, the pacifier and (admittedly less melodic and more annoyed by
now) “shhh-ing” don’t work, and after removing her from her crib and rocking
her in my arms doesn’t work either, and we are both now crying (especially when
I realized that it was my third nursery trip of the night and I could still
hear the dryer running that I started before lying in bed to read…I’m not good
at math, but I knew the potential number of nursery visits ahead was not
looking good for me), I call out for her Dadda to come help. It works for a little while, and I return
only once more (at a time I am now too tired to even take notice of), before my
next night-time adventure starts.
2:20am
Sunday: I feel the smallest of fingers offering my
shoulder the smallest of nudges. I roll
over to find both my two older children staring at me. “What’s up?” I ask in no-doubt mumbled
form. “We are having a sleepover in the
living room, and Beluga is nowhere to be found,” Adrian tells me in a sort-of
whisper. “A sleepover in the living
room?,” I ask, more tired/confused than I am upset yet (stress on the yet).
“Adrian made me,” Lilly offers quickly, before her big brother goes on
some spiel about needing a flashlight, and his new one is on the fridge,
because Dadda took it away, and could I get it down so he can use it to find
Beluga… I again rolled out of bed,
followed (or did I lead?) the little hooligans to the kitchen where I fumbled
for his flashlight on the fridge, which he proceeded to use to slightly
illuminate the pitch-black living room, now filled with kids blankets and
pillows from their room, and almost immediately declared, “Oh, yeah, there he
is.” Too tired to fight it, I simply
grumbled for them to lay down and go to sleep, before I shuffled my way back
down the hall to my bed, where I tried to thank God for how beautiful the day before had been so that I would
keep a positive attitude about how this one was starting out. (It didn’t work)
4-something
am:
This time I don’t think they even had to nudge me; I had been woken enough
times that my sleep was far from deep at this point. I asked what they were doing in our room
again, and Lilly explained in her soft, high-pitched squeak that she wanted to
go back to her bed. So I told her to do
it. But Adrian retorted with his explanation of not wanting to be lonely in the
living room without Lilly; to which I (less than “pastorally” shall we say) rebutted
with a demand for him to go back to his bed too. I remember going into their room with them,
but can’t recall if we replaced blankets and pillows or not, or how long it
took for them to re-settle and go back to sleep; all I recall is mumbling as I
ushered them there that, “This is the worst Mother’s Day ever.”
5:14am: Baby cries again; calming
routine ensues. Followed by 6-something fussing,
to which I nudge my husband to help, and listen to him grumble as I roll over,
and cry.
* * * *
* * * * *
7:40am: After snoozing my
alarm, and making milk for the repeat fusser, I get myself out of bed with the
help of my oldest. Adrian came into my
room, laid on the bed beside me and chatted with me a little in a sweet,
loving,
makes-mornings-feel-calm-rather-than-like-the-hell-that-was-the-night-before
voice. And as I listen, I think to myself,
I can do this; it’s Mother’s Day, my special day; I can get up for this. “Do you want to make chocolate-chip waffles
with me buddy?” We, and Lilly who woke
and joined us on our way to the kitchen, begin making my favorite special
breakfast. During which time gets away
from me (as usual), and I leave them and their caffeinated Dadda to finish
while I rush to shower and get ready before rushing out the door 5 minutes late
for Church, still not having had my favorite breakfast (again, as usual).
9:40am: We’re only half-way through Mass, and already
Adrian has gotten “shh-ed” well beyond his 3-count (x3, x3), Layla has been
given her pacifier to hush her, Mike has commented “quick, run” when the kids
left to bring their money to the collection basket (and the kids must have heard him, because they went in a few different directions before finally returning to our pew), Lilly has knocked the
carseat off the pew twice (with one more to follow again in a few minutes), I’ve
already forgotten what the readings and the homily were about (that is, if I
even heard them to be able to remember), and we’ve been told “I don’t love you”
by a certain preschooler, in addition to being told “I’m not a fan of having you in the pew by us” from fellow
(kid-less) parishioners’ looks. “Jesus loves the little children,” the
Eucharistic Minister says as she places a hand of blessing on the little blonde
heads attached to little arms trying to rip away from mine, before giving me
Communion. I want to laugh and cry at
the same time.
11:00am: The girls and I are
settling in to my parents’ living room for a nice visit, while answer
everyone’s questions of, “Aren’t you missing someone?” and “Where’s your Dadda
and Adrian?” To which we answer that
Adrian is having a time-out in the car. (Because
things went sadly downhill after 9:40)
2:20pm: Finally, after
finding a make-shift meal at Mom and Dad’s so the kids could eat without us
having to leave the visit early, wrestling with the inevitable long-process of
cleaning up toys and gathering up shoes, coats and weirdos, and then trying to
settle the excitement of a visit (complete with special cherry dessert) down
into beds that now have all their blankets and pillows (I still don’t recall
how or when they made it back from the living room sleepover), all three kids
are sleeping! And at the same time!! (the only thing that wasn’t par for the course
that day) So I settle on the couch,
imagining all the things that could make this unique moment on this special day
worthy of the exceptional gift of the simul-nap – a run or nap myself, movie or
cuddle with Mike? But we’re too tired
(and my husband’s new love, “The Justice Network,” too interesting), so folding
the kids’ laundry (that I swear I had just
done) is the only excitement of the afternoon, before the first rosy-cheeked face
emerges from the bedrooms and draws us back to our regular afternoon.
4:25pm: While locked in my bedroom to pump milk for
Layla to take with her to daycare the next day (wow, is the weekend really
almost over and time to start the grind of another week already?), Adrian came
and visited me. “What should we do for supper
Little Man?,” I asked. After suggestions
of going to a restaurant, ordering pizza, a picnic in the living room, lasagna or
something else “special,” he decided on “turkey sandwiches and peaches in the
living room while watching ‘Jake’ or something.” Nothing
says wonderful Mom like that, I thought.
5:50pm: I finally convince myself and the kids (it’s
a toss-up who needed the convincing more) to sit down on the couch and read the
book they gave me on our way out the door for my Mother’s Day gift earlier that
morning. And after reading, talking and
other bouncing-all-over-me-activities, it was suddenly 6:30 and I was feeding
Layla, knowing that it was now too late to get everyone presentable to go out
to eat, it was too late to order pizza, and there was no way the lasagna would
be ready in time…so I resigned myself to making turkey sandwiches (that I don't eat) and peaches
(that there weren't enough of for me) for the kids, that they ate in a “special” picnic in the living room, while I
sat in the dining room feeding Layla rice cereal. (I never did get any supper myself)
10:05pm: Long after bedtime, Adrian and Lilly are
still taking turns (or sharing turns) coming into my room with some excuse or
another why they can’t sleep, or because they wanted to “just say” that they
love me or something else “sweet” (I say in quotations, because it gets more
and more less sweet with each visit, and each passing hour, until it feels just
plain vindictive on their part). I’ve
also already been into Layla’s room, the night’s plugger-count already begun. Mike finally finds his way back to the
bedroom after the news (which lucky for him drowned out all the news the kids
were sharing with me for the last two hours), which also seems to be after I’ve
finally got them all settled down (for a while at least), and I’m ready to pass
out! He apparently is too, because we
don’t say a word, just close our eyes and bid good-bye to another “Normal Day.” (And I cry myself to sleep)
* * * *
* * * * *
By all
accounts, it was a Normal Day – the tired morning after a long night, the rush
out the door and my needs met last (if at all), the sweet kids-turned-chaos,
the inability to commune with God
or community the way I would like to, the hints of beauty entangled with
moments of frustration ugliness, the so-caught-up-in-survival-mode-that-we-forget-to-connect-with-each-other
pattern of spouses, the challenge of thrown-off schedules and time getting away from us, the list of to-do’s
and dreamed-of activities as a family (or for myself) left un-checked, the
fatigue and overwhelming-ness of it all at the end of the day, the LIFE WITH
LITTLES!
A
Normal Day in nearly all respects. The
problem is that it was Mothers Day, and I expected it to be “Special.” A day for me to feel special – feel honored,
celebrated, pampered (or at least temporarily relieved of constant
mother-duty), peaceful, appreciated, loved. It was
the day I’d been waiting for! And it
came and went…as usual.
When it
wasn’t “Special,” the normalcy of it ended up feeling “Bad” instead of just “Normal.” That made it a difficult day. It was still weighing heavily on my heart and
prayer (and tear ducts) the next morning, as I tried to figure out why I didn’t get the “Special”
day I thought I should have. When I read this:
And Mary said, "My soul
proclaims the greatness of the Lord,
my spirit rejoices in God my
Savior,
for he has looked with favor on
his lowly servant.
From this day all generations
will call me blessed:
the Almighty has done great
things for me, and holy is His Name.
He has mercy on those who fear Him, in every generation.
He has shown the strength of His
arm, He has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty from
their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with
good things, and the rich He has sent away empty.
He has come to the help of His
servant Israel, for He has remembered His promise of mercy, the promise He made
to our ancestors, to Abraham (and Sarah) and their children for ever.”
* * * *
* * * * *
Mary’s
Magnificat (from Luke 1:46-55) is a prayer that has come to mean a lot to me. I
first fell in love with it for its social justice implications – He has cast down the mighty from their thrones…and the
rich he has sent away empty! Mary
saw the need for a new world order, recognized her place in that upside-down new creation, and felt
blessed that God invited her to be
a part of her son’s way to justice. For
years, the prayer served as a reminder for me to trust in that promise - of a better world.
Then
last year, one night as I read the prayer as I did every night, it took on new
meaning for me. It was during my
pregnancy with Layla, and the evening after Mike and I had had an ultrasound. As I read it, still reveling in the joy and
beauty of those little black waves on the screen and all the promise they held,
the prayer suddenly reeked to me of Mary’s excitement – my spirit rejoices…from this day all generations will call me blessed! I related to her song in a whole new way; now I saw her professing excitement not so much because of what her Son would accomplish,
but simply because she was having a son, because she got to be a mother! I prayed this prayer for my remaining months
of pregnancy, and beyond, holding tight to that parental promise - of the blessedness of giving life.
Maybe
this was Mary’s Mother’s Day Song – even when her hopes are matched by her fatigue and moments of beauty are entangled with those of struggle, she recognizes that she is blessed (it is a gift, even when it’s incredibly
hard); senses that she is unworthy and imperfect for this role (we all
are, but God is there to help,
picking up the pieces of our scattered pride and conceit); knows that
generations will in fact honor her (even if they’re too young and energetic to
slow down enough to help her feel it all the time, even on “special” days); and
remembers to say ‘yes’ again despite difficulties that make her want to say no (even when we feel sent away empty, God and this call we have to parent will
fill us with good things if we continue to try our best). Today, I am trying to hold tight to this promise - of not being alone, especially in the thick of things.
Being a mother is hard! Even on Mother’s Day. (Let's face it, parenthood doesn't take a holiday)
But
Mary, and all the promises of her Magnificat, reminds me that the promise of the second Sunday of May is not a
guarantee that we will feel special, honored, peaceful and loved; it is a
covenant that we will have those things and more if we continue to serve Him through His
children today.
And though I am not always good at this mothering vocation, as I look back on this Mother’s Day and begin the long journey to the next one, I thank goodness that we have the promise of a God who turns upside-down expectations of “greatness!” (Perhaps my Mothers Day was more “great” than I realized after all).
* * * *
* * * * *
8:04pm
Monday: Mike is working late tonight, and yet somehow
the kids and I have managed to enjoy a fairly calm evening of solo-parenting, complete with a
re-do picnic in the living room (Mac’n’Cheese and broccoli this time –
something Momma can eat). Everyone is
in jammies and all four of us are sitting together on Lilly’s bottom bunk. Layla chews on my necklace, Lilly’s bear and
anything else she can get her gums on, while I run my fingers through her
sister’s beautiful, but crazy-messy after a fun day, hair. Adrian bounces around with his usual zeal, as
I read our story books, him finishing the last line of each page's rhyme for me. We pray together
as Lilly appears to be drifting off already, and I kiss them both before Adrian
and I do a duet of “Old Woman” (his favorite silly song-turned-lullaby). As I turn off the light and stand in the
doorway for one last look before going to Layla’s room for her bedtime feeding,
I can’t help but feel a sense of blessedness and gratitude for the beauty before me and behind me, as we made it to the
end of another “Normal” day!
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