The title speaks for itself, wouldn’t you say? I can’t speak for mothers who work outside the home (I imagine it‘s much worse for you), but in my stay-at-home mom house, I’m in a constant state of Momus Interruptus. I don’t get three steps away before I’m asked for something: juice, to replay Clifford “one more time” (by my two year old who thinks one more time means over and over), or to come here and sit with us (by my husband who just wants the three of us to be together at the end of the day). Momus interruptus is the reason I rarely finish a task once I’ve begun it. I have 10 projects started waiting for the odd block of uninterrupted time.
I find myself resenting the interruptions, especially when I’m trying to write. It’s so difficult to complete a paragraph when I can’t even complete a thought without saying, “No, you may not open Daddy’s guitar case.” or “Please step away from the electrical outlet!” When the writing bug bites, I have to sit down as quickly as the thoughts come for fear of losing the whole idea. You may say, write the idea down for later. No problem. I’ll just see if I can track down a pen, some paper that doesn’t contain a grocery list or yesterday’s Jeopardy scores (I gotta have some fun) before being asked, “May I please have a harshmallow?” When I’ve located said implements I often end up writing down whatever cute thing Rafe just said (harshmallow is one of my favorites!) and putting in his baby book - which is so much more important than some Mommy essay anyway.
Then comes the guilt! I find myself feeling bad for the times I tell my son or husband, “Just a minute…” I apparently say it so often now that Rafe picked it up and chooses to use it at the most inopportune times, like when I say, “Please step away from the electrical outlet!”
The rub of it all is that a balance must exist between what’s acutely important and what must be done for sanity’s sake. Sitting on the couch watching Clifford with my baby who’s so quickly morphing into a boy, that‘s acutely important. Playing trains with him when his mind is working at warp speed and he’s imagining a whole world before my very eyes, also acutely important. The “stuff” that I must do for sanity’s sake, is, say, sweeping the grit off the floor after we’ve been in and out a dozen times because it sets my teeth on edge, or going around to pick up the sippy cups that appear in the oddest places so that a top can be found for milk at 6:30 a.m. Because I must accomplish at least a few of those tasks each day, I try to utilize Rafe’s nap time for something other than my own nap. This isn’t easy because my writing is usually relegated to the after midnight slot and my little alarm clock is full-speed ahead bright and early.
I do, however, have to boast that I have the most wonderful (and blessedly retired) mother-in-law in the entire world who delights in Rafe spending the night with them at least one night during the week. My own dear mother is always happy to have him sleep over with them on the weekends. The support helps me catch up with the mundane but necessary.
It‘s so cliché to say, but there just isn’t enough time in a day to get done all the things you want to do and all the things you have to do. My heart chooses the acutely important while my mind chooses the necessary, and never the twain shall meet, so to speak. My stress levels when the necessaries are lacking make the acutely important harder to enjoy! It’s easy to be sentimental and say, I’ll worry about the chores later. That’s all fine and good until someone doesn’t have a clean towel or underwear. My daily prayer is that I can strike the balance of being available for the important while doing enough necessary for all of us to leave the house clothed tomorrow. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask God to help me remember to scoop up all the acutely important moments I can.
In that spirit, two of my favorite poems on this subject come to mind. I think I’ll print them and put them on the fridge to help me relax and remember what’s truly “necessary”. My dishes went unwashed today, I didn’t make the bed. I took her hand and followed where her eager footsteps led. Her little singsong voice I heard, her thoughts I understood. My kitchen wasn’t mopped today, but life was rich and good. That my house was neglected, that I didn’t sweep the stairs, In twenty years no one on earth will know or even care. But that I helped my daughter into a joyful woman grow, In twenty years the whole wide world may look and see and know. Anonymous The cleaning and scrubbing can wait ‘til tomorrow For babies grow up, we’ve learned to our sorrow So quiet down cobwebs, and dust go to sleep I’m rocking my baby, and babies don’t keep. Author Unknown
As seen in Valley Babies Magazine
October/November 2008
http://www.valleybabies.com/So you’re breastfeeding. Do you ever feel like all you are is one big boob? Your baby wants them, your husband wants them for an entirely different reason, and even though the boobs are attached to you, they betray you at every turn: they leak, they grow at alarming speeds, and just keep ‘em full for a couple hours too long, and they turn to stone.
The Issues
Health:
My choice to breastfeed was based on the well-being of my baby. I was terrified before and after he was born that he wouldn’t take well to nursing, and that I wouldn’t have enough for him. As my friend’s pediatrician tells her in heavily accented English, “You don’t worry for that!” I needn’t have worried on either count. On the contrary, Rafe had no problems, and when the milk came, it did so in abundance.
What I never imagined was that the choice to breastfeed would have such an impact on my well-being. When Rafe was around 6 weeks old, I began to experience postpartum depression. I believe if I had not been breastfeeding, I would have totally disconnected from him. I dreaded him, feared caring for him. My husband would send me out to shop, or to drive, or to exercise, or to listen to music, but when it was time to feed the baby, I had to come back home. While, at the time, I didn’t relish the idea of coming back home to a colicky baby, for a few minutes during and after the feeding, I felt relief from my symptoms. Of course, there’s a biological reason for this. God doesn’t fool around with his planning. For me, nursing kept me from running away from my responsibility as a mother. Make no mistake, I did ask for and receive medical and pharmaceutical help for postpartum depression, but nursing played a part in my recovery.
Modesty (or lack there-of):
What’s funny to me is what happens to your modesty when you’re breastfeeding. As a young teen, I didn’t want my bras hung to dry on a rack where my dad might see them. However, the modesty issue became a non-issue when I began to breastfeed. I didn’t go bare boobed directly in front of the men in my family, but I sure covered with a blanket and fed Rafe in the same room with everyone when I didn’t feel like missing the conversation. One of my sisters-in-law was the same. I’ll always remember after my nephew was born how careful my father was to knock and announce his arrival to a room, having gotten an accidental eyeful early on. It became a joke to make sure she wasn’t topless when visitors arrived.
And let’s not forget the pumping. I had an electric pump with a special bra that let me pump hands-free. I usually did this in front of the television. Without fail, someone came to the door while I was pumping, and I had to disentangle myself from the contraption and “get decent".
A dear teacher friend of mine was pumping in her locked classroom during her planning period when she was surprised by the custodian who unlocked the door to clean the room. For her, there wasn’t time to “get decent”. She was embarrassed, but mommy immodesty goes a long way in saving face in a situation like that. I’ll bet that custodian never unlocked her classroom door again!
Ending:
I was sad when I began to wean my son from the breast. The last feeding time that I dropped was the bed-time one. The calming effect at the end of the day wasn’t just for the baby. You breastfeeding moms know the prolactin is fast-actin’! The bond lasts far beyond the actual nursing, and the “miracle of God’s perfect plan” moments far outshone the “one big boob” moments for me.
So if you’ve braved the wilds of breastfeeding, for however long, I raise my glass to you, and say, “Cherish your little one‘s babyhood, and cherish your firm breasts. Neither will last forever! Here’s to you.”
Written December 2008
There’s an old hymn entitled He Whispers Sweet Peace to Me. When I hear it, I always think of the funeral of a close friend of mine. He was killed in a car accident at the age of 20; an age at which most of us feel invincible. On that long ago June day, for me, invincible became inconsolable.
The reason, however, the long dreaded hymn comes to mind is because I recently shared the story of that funeral with another friend. We were discussing inappropriate reactions during tragic or emotionally charged events.
I recounted that at the funeral, a choir of elderly ladies sang He Whispers Sweet Peace to Me in what can only be described as quavering falsetto. Obviously their voices shook with sorrow. As they sang, I stopped crying momentarily, glancing at my mother, who was sitting next to me. She was looking down at her hands in her lap and her eyes widened slightly. Her response was nearly imperceptible, except to me, watching so closely. That reaction alone tipped the heavy scale of emotion from ragged grief to repressed mirth. Repressed, that is, until the gentleman in front of us, a talented and well-trained singer, gave his wife a nudge and uttered a dismayed grunt. The scale tipped all the way over and dumped my mother and me into a fit of giggles. The more we tried to suppress them, the less we were able.
Though I don’t believe anyone could distinguish between our ill-hidden giggles and the sobs from the previous moments, we were both very embarrassed. What is ironic to me is that the song was chosen as a comfort for the mourning crowd. Had I been able to get past the performance aspect and hear the message, it might have had a different impact.
Since giving the account, I’ve been thinking about the concept of God’s peace. I was raised in a Christian home and grew up in a church where I heard a lot about the subject. My mother, aside from the giggling episode (maybe that was God’s way of giving us a little peace right then!), is a living testament to the term. Even in the face of fears, disappointments, illnesses, and death, she is the stillness in the midst of calamity. When I ask her to explain, she shrugs and quotes, “And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." KJV
Her answer begs the question that's at the center of the issue of God’s peace. Which came first the peace or the stillness? I’ve always been prone to running around like the proverbial beheaded chicken. Peace often eludes me as I rush around trying to control everything.
On the other hand, it has been during periods of anxiety and deep despair that I learned lessons about peace. On my wedding day, I was plagued with a case of nerves just before leaving the bride room to enter the sanctuary. While I had no qualms about getting married, I believe it was stage fright of sorts. I realized 300 pairs of eyes eagerly awaited my entrance and would focus intently on me. My ever serene mother stood beside me, soothing me as if I were a crying child, while my heart hammered erratically. After a moment of fanning myself and fluttering around, my mother took my face between her hands. “Lori,” she said, “pray for peace.” I shook my head, amazed. Didn’t she know I was too keyed up? “Mama, I can’t pray right now. You pray for peace for me!” She led me to the sofa and held my hand. “Be still,” she said, then she began to address God like I asked. Almost instantly, a veil (no pun intended) of calm descended. Looking back, I believe God answered her prayer, and fast. I also believe her command to be still was a factor in the equation. I was no longer fretful or anxious. I floated through the ceremony on a happy high.
After my son was born, I experienced a similar feeling of fright (times 1000), only this time my body waged war on the perfect life I had planned. While I worried and cried without ceasing, my husband and my mother (who are eerily alike, by the way) were the catalysts for my calm. As I became increasingly desperate, they urged me to seek medical attention. While medication dealt with the chemical imbalance, it served another important function: it allowed me to be still. God sends peace in all kinds of packages, doesn’t He? My nearly hourly prayers were answered with a peace born of hope. Hope that I could get past the fear. Hope that I could be a sane mother to my precious baby. Hope that one day in the not too distant future, I could help my child understand that it’s not for nothing, that song. Be still and listen up…He WHISPERS sweet peace.
Written September 2008We were sitting in my mother’s happy kitchen last Sunday, the soft hum of the dishwasher signaling after-lunch peace, when my sister-in-law posed an intriguing question: “When are the good old days?” Her point was that we often look back at our lives remembering, through rose-colored glasses, the past.
Meanwhile, we trudge through our daily lives; and if we’re not looking back, we’re looking forward. We’ll be happy when the weekend comes. We can’t wait until vacation rolls around, then we can have fun. Maybe when the gifts are wrapped, the food prepared, and all the running around finished, we will finally relax and enjoy Christmas.
There’s nothing wrong with looking forward. Only sometimes, in the constant anticipation of what’s coming later, we neglect now.
As the mother of a toddler, time has existed in a strange warp the last 18 months. The first two months blew by like a tornado; fast, wild, and leaving a trail of destruction in the house! The next couple of months crept by ever so slowly while we dealt with nearly constant crying: Rafe’s and mine. He had colic, and I had postpartum depression. Thankfully, those months passed with the help of an army of support: good doctors, my unshakable husband and our extended family! Now, as I look back, I wish I could have spent more time enjoying and less time worrying.
The key, for me, is to realize that through paying bills, changing diapers, and trying to find the bottom of the laundry hamper, life is happening. Moments that I want to treasure happen all the time. Happy Saturday morning moments when Jason and I laugh hysterically at who knows what while we set up for a yard sale at dawn. Remarkable Monday lunchtime moments when the three of us play on the floor and Rafe says, “Catch!” for the first time. Or, moments like this one, when it’s almost naptime and my sweet boy brings me a book and climbs into the chair with me (the baby, not the husband).
It’s worth the interruption of whatever task I leave for later, because these moments are fleeting. It’s a privilege to catch so many snapshots in time. I make a vow to myself to stop worrying about what’s wrong with the car and how much it will cost to fix, and really pay attention to the bears in Rafe’s book. I’ll put extra animation in their voices and watch him smile at his silly mother, because the “good old days” are right now.
As seen in the Sand Mountain Reporter Newspaper
Saturday August 2, 2008
Sunday morning comes with the promise of worship, fellowship, peace… Well, peace is a stretch. Our Sunday mornings come at the speed of light, riddled with every conceivable catastrophe.
Saturday nights have morphed into “the old folks at home” most weeks, peppered with an occasional dinner out. Even so, we have trouble getting to bed at a decent hour. Whatever tasks are required for Sunday are frequently left until bedtime Saturday night since the week is so chaotic.
So Sunday morning comes. I always feel a little sleepier, partially due to the late night, and partially because the temptation to lie in bed all morning is a mighty one. The clothes are pressed and laid out (if they weren’t, no one would ever manage to get out of the house.) Yet even with the night-before preparations, the calamity strikes. In earlier days, spit-up played a role. Without fail, the spitting up covered both the baby’s clothes and at least one adult outfit. More recently we’ve happily gotten past spit-up as a bodily function that delays, but others shift into the vacancy. Then there’s the inevitable leaving-behind of something important. Or, as the wonderful parents that we are, forgetting to feed our son breakfast. In our defense, it was a weird morning and he went back to bed for a nap before church-unheard of! So with the leaving behind comes the going back, which always takes a bit longer than you expect, because you catch sight of your hair in the mirror, and believe me, it needs work!
This Sunday morning, I was so proud of myself that I got up and got ready in time to go to early choir practice! That extra sleepy factor usually sucks me back in. Almost ready, my husband comes in the room to say he’s been called in to see a patient and will meet us at church, later. We go into express mode to get Rafe ready, with opposition at every step: he doesn’t care that his nose is disgusting or that breakfast (that he was lucky to get!) is still on his chin, he doesn’t want to get cleaned! I finally get us both in the car and realize that the shoes I have on just won’t work because I have a blister on my toe from wearing them the previous day and I can barely limp along. Going back in, I realize I had left my notes for children’s sermon on the kitchen table, spattered with oatmeal, no less. After changing my shoes, dropping my cell phone (my prop for children’s sermon) twice, and tripping on a small wooden animal, we were on our way: to worship, fellowship, and just maybe, a little peace.
Written July 2008I knew it would happen. I just never imagined it would happen so soon. My son has begun to repeat what he hears. Just today, my sixteen month old son, Rafe, parroted at least three different words; “puppy, please,” and much to my chagrin, “poopy”.
It’s funny to me how my perspective has changed in terms of language. Words that I never considered particularly ugly before, I cringe with dread when I think of hearing from my baby’s mouth. I’m terrified when I imagine what he may one day hear at school, but I know what he hears at home will have more impact on him. Rafe watches and listens very carefully, and mimics us. It’s a mighty burden and a powerful chance to shape him properly. My five year old nephew told me a motto he learned in Sunday School last week, which went like this, “Watch your ways, and control what you say.” That’s a lesson most parents would do well to remember, myself included, particularly when your children begin to pick up your words and phrases.
We live in a really old house, in which the floors aren’t exactly level, to put it mildly. Therefore, doors tend to close by themselves. I grasped just what a sponge our boy had become when he pushed open a door yesterday, then shouted, “Day!” translation, “Stay!” I had heard my husband give the same command to the doors of the entertainment center the night before.
I dread the day, and the day will come, when one of my "slips" slips out of his mouth at church. We must try our very best as parents to “watch our ways, and control what we say.” The happy flipside of the teeth gnashing “poopy” moments is when we’re so proud of something copied. At meals or bedtime, when Rafe folds his baby hands, unprompted, in preparation for prayer, I think, just maybe, we’re doing a few things worthy of imitation.
Written June 2008As I sit at the computer, I can hear the sounds of ripping paper behind me. My little mouse has found a roll of adding machine paper and is in the process of tearing it to shreds. This stops my work momentarily, and I pause to trade him an empty box (one of his favorites) and try to regain my train of thought. Sometimes, the offense is small enough that I glance back and keep typing, thinking the price of cleaning up 200 envelopes will be worth the mental continuity.
Ah, being a stay-at-home mom/writer/marketing liaison/lousy maid, there’s just nothing like it. The upside is that I often get to work in my pajamas. The downside is that my toddler wreaks havoc in his pajamas while I attempt to work. A delicate balance is required for working, parenting, playing, and housekeeping. Striking that balance continually escapes me.
On top of the day-to-day insanity of my life, I’m responsible for many duties at Vacation Bible School this week, and my husband is out of the country for two weeks. Jason takes an annual mission trip to Zimbabwe with a small group, where they minister both spiritually and medically to the people of the Tonga tribe. While I am so proud of him for risking himself for the mission (literally, things are quite dangerous there now), I miss his company and his help. Usually, he’s away at work during the day, however, when he comes home, he shares equally in the child care. I have a special prayer in my heart for single parents these days, and I wonder how they manage.
The true upside to my life is that God has blessed me with a Christian husband, a healthy child, a wonderful extended family and enough sense to recognize how fortunate I am. Once in a while, when my boy says, “Mommy, play,” I stop. I save my text, sit down amidst the envelopes, flashcards, and foam peanuts to play with the sweetest baby this side of the Zambezi River. The clutter and chaos will still be here when we‘re done, but I’d like to think as he grows up, the thing he’ll remember most is that Mommy played.
