Putting It in Perspective

My oldest and I had a horrible night last night.

She just didn't want to do anything I asked her to do. She wouldn't hold still; she wouldn't be quiet; she wouldn't get ready for a bath; she wouldn't let me wash her hair; and, eventually, she wouldn't stop crying.

And there was a moment where I lost my temper and yelled at her - really yelled at her - which, of course, led to her screaming at the top of her lungs. If the neighbors could hear, they might have thought we were filming the murder scene from a low-budget slasher flick. It really was that bad. 

When it was all said and done, she said, through her sniffles, "Mama, remember, you are supposed to count to ten before you yell."

And, after a deep breath, I explained, "Honey, I counted to ten at least five times."

After she was asleep, I found myself thinking about a better way to handle the entire situation. I know why she behaved the way she did. She was tired. And she is four. But I had to ask myself, why did I behave the way I did? 

Do you ever find yourself in that position? Wondering if you are doing it right? Wondering what long-lasting effects the decisions you make today will have on your children? Or even, simply, if your kids really know how much you love them and how much you do to ensure they are happy and healthy?

I found myself in one of those difficult moments of self-reflection just before I fell asleep. 

Of course, this morning, she was her happy-go-lucky self. And I made a silent promise to be more patient, especially when that happy-go-lucky girl grows tired and fussy.

Aleigh and I don't get a lot of time together just us, so we really treasure our mornings. We tell stories on the way to school, we take our time getting in to the classroom, and I always write a message on the inside of her hand before I tell her goodbye. But I am usually preoccupied with getting to work on time. I'm usually nagging her to hurry, wondering why she didn't eat her breakfast, and prying her off of me (because the daycare before school just isn't her favorite place to be). 

But this morning, even though we followed the exact same routine, everything was different. And it was all about this mama's perspective. 

We arrived at school at the same time as another mother and her daughter; the mom was chatting away on her cell as she dragged her little girl through the parking lot and up the stairs. She told her to hurry over her shoulder at least once. 

We've all been there, so I am passing no judgment here. I feel that working mama's pain, for sure. I know I have hurried Aleigh more than I wish I had to; I know I've been distracted by a phone call when my attention should have been focused on something more important. 

But this morning, especially after the evening we had, I saw that scene from that little girl's perspective. I imagined not wanting to go to "the waiting place" (as Aleigh so affectionately calls it) and the anxiety that accompanies that feeling. I wondered what it would be like to not tell stories or sing along with the radio during "our" time.

Aleigh before school one day.

So, even though we were running late and it was really cold outside, I was glad to giggle as we wiggled her arms into her coat when we got out of the truck; it didn't bother me that the clock continued to tick as she showed me a piece of construction paper pumpkin pie on which she'd practiced her name that hung above the coat racks; I didn't hurry her as she pointed out different details of her classroom that she's shown me numerous times before.

As the last step in our morning ritual, instead of hurriedly drawing "I <3 U" on her palm, I wrote out the words because, somehow, they had more meaning that way. And I hugged her extra tight and really let her words, "I love you, Mama," sink in before she ran off to play with her friends. 

Any lingering insecurities from the previous night melted away as I hurried back to the truck because I realized that doing my best is enough. My daughter won't remember one difficult night. But she will remember belting Belle Brigade's "I Didn't Mean It" at the top of our lungs anytime it comes on the radio. She will remember the fantastic adventures we experience in our stories.

And, above all, she'll remember the impact of those three little comforting words--three words that make "the waiting place" a little less scary, the boo-boos sting a little less, and the raised voice a little less harsh when counting to ten doesn't do the trick. <3

Lil A's Big Day!

I was scrolling through the notes on my iPhone the other day... I often wake up in the middle of the night, characters having told me crazy stories or worked out kinks in their plot lines in my dreams, and type a few notes out on my phone... when I saw a note, dated exactly a year ago yesterday. It read:

10:55

11:11

11:26

11:41

These are numbers, times more specifically, I'll never forget. They were the first of what would become numerous, rather painful announcements that my little Abree was ready to make her grand debut.

That morning, I'd had a feeling that my little one was on her way. To begin, this was the end of the only two weeks of the entire year Dr. Horth, my OBGYN, had taken off, meaning someone else would have to deliver me. Madagascar 3 had just come out in theaters, and Aleigh could barely contain herself, so we were going on our last (for a while anyway) just Mommy and Aleigh date. And I felt unusually energetic and light, despite my lack of appetite, for being only four days from my official due date. All the signs were pointing to labor starting soon.

My bags were packed, my mom knew to anticipate a call, and I was ready. Except for one tiny detail.

I had always known I would write for my children. I would write them stories, I would write them letters, I would write them songs. I write. That's what I do... and one's children are the most powerful muse. So I decided when Aleigh was still just a peanut that I would write my babies a special letter, one per year, on their birthdays. These letters would encompass that year in their lives, how they'd grown and changed, what they'd learned (and what I had learned), and how very much they mean to me. And I'd keep them in a hardback journal until they were older, and, then, at some milestone or special occasion, I'd give these bound letters to them as a gift -- a little bit of me and a little bit of them wrapped up in my handwritten thoughts.

So, that morning around two, when my contractions were now eight minutes apart, I sat with a blank sheet of paper as I tried to write Abree's birthday letter. But the harder I tried, the more pronounced my intense writer's block became. 

With Aleigh, I poured all the fears and uncertainties a first time mommy has into her letter. I told her I wished I could always protect her the way a mother can protect her unborn child; I told her I was scared that I wouldn't be the best mommy in the world but that I'd certainly try; I told her that, above all, she would never go even a second without knowing how much I love her. As beautiful as it was, it seemed that everything I wrote was driven by the unknown.

But, with Abree, my feelings were so different. Of course, I still wanted to protect her; of course, she would know how I loved her, but I'd been shown a completely different way to look at the world now. Aleigh helped me see wonder and joy, innocence and beauty, like I'd never seen them before. And I wanted that for Abree. I wanted to hear her giggle for the first time as she watched her sister do something amazing; I wanted to see her face light up when she discovered something new; I wanted to be on the receiving end of those chubby, wobbly, little legs as they tottered through their first steps. I didn't fear the unknown anymore. I looked forward to all that little Abree would bring to our lives. But expressing that adequately was proving impossible!

We left for the hospital that morning around four, my contractions three minutes apart and a sheet of paper with only the date, Abree's name, and the words "We have been waiting our whole lives for you" scrawled across the top still sitting on the computer desk. 

I was able to finish the letter eventually, and, oddly enough, its tone is fitting to Abree's personality. It's sweet and happy, uplifting and even a little daring -- all characteristics of my little love. 

Happy first birthday, sweet baby girl! <3