The Front Nine and the Back Nine.

This is the part where I start feeling overwhelming emotion that makes me feel all happy and ridiculously sad at the same time. This is the part where I realize that 365 days are really over quickly, and added up, they turn into seconds and vanish like the morning fog. This is the part where I step back and gasp at how much has changed right in front of me and overnight, like the strange way dew appears in the grass and you never saw it until you step barefoot into the morning.

My daughter is nine years old today.

We celebrate birthdays in BIG fashion in our house. Like for days at a time. Like lots of cake. Like lots of gifts. And the "big" birthdays? Well, they get even MORE attention. The 1st, 5th, 10th, 13th, 16th, and 18th are pretty significant ones, dontcha think? Entrances into new stages of childhood that should be praised and celebrated. However, last week, it hit me. The 9th is a pretty big one too.

We are exactly halfway.

Halfway between birth and adulthood. Oh, I know my job doesn't end in 108 more months. I'm 35 and I am still being parented. But reality is, in 108 more months, she will belong to the world. Not just to me and her daddy, her brother... To her destiny. Her own path. Her real-life world.

108 months down, and 108 more to go.

Sobering. And nauseating.

So much to teach her. And it's half over. So much she still has to learn. And tonight, I will be OVER half way to the threshold of her future. Halfway to her freedom.

Halfway to my nest being one less a baby bird.

We spent the morning with her, reminiscing with her and laughing about how far we've come-- the highs and lows of the front nine. We took her to breakfast, and I swear the whole time, she was cuddled to my side in our booth, her sweet daddy across the table from us- just the three of us, like we were today nine years ago. We would tell her a story about when she was 3. She'd say, "Tell me another one, guys." And we would.

My heart is full when I think of this girl, this answer to so many tearful prayers and so many wishful dreams. She was the light at the end of infertility's long dark tunnel. The first burst of fall's cold air on my exhausted face. And from her conception, she has been a delight. She was a delight to carry, a delight to deliver, and is a delight to raise. I praise the God of Heaven and Earth for her life. Because HER life brings definition to mine.

Will you allow me this trek through the last nine years? I can't put them all on here, for one- you'd fall asleep. But mainly because you wouldn't "get" it. Nor should you.

She is mine.


Dear Abi,

Here are some moments I have loved with you.

Nine years ago today, I found what I was born to do. When your cry filled the room, announcing your entrance, Heaven rejoiced like it never had before. That day, the world was changed. That day, you broke my heart and healed it all at the same time. That day, you showed me what I was created for. You have been a sheer treat to my soul from the moment I knew you were inside me. Every day being your mom is a dream I dreamed about for many years. And you've never one time been a disappointment to me. I carry your laugh with me through the day. And I count the minutes until I can kiss your cheek every time I drop you off at school. I search the freckles on the bridge of your nose and the speckled green in your eyes. I love the way your voice changes when you're telling me something funny and the way your song resonates through the house every waking minute of your day. I sigh with happiness when feeling you crawl into our bed in the early morning hours. I love your heart and how tender it is- how it breaks with love at a moment's notice. I love how you sing Zac Brown songs at the top of your lungs in the shower with lyrical precision. I love your pioneering spirit and how you're not content to blend in with your surroundings. I love how other kids are drawn to the light inside you. And how you make others feel valued and welcomed in your presence. I love your relationship with Jesus and how personally you know Him. I love how easily you take correction and discipline and how repentant your soul is when you've done wrong.

But mostly, I love that you are mine. I love that out of the billions of women on this planet, God fashioned ME to be your mom. That all the years of waiting led us to YOU.

Everything about you delights me. Everything about you matters to me. And everything about you is everything a mom could ask God for in a child. In fact, as He always does, He surpassed all I asked Him to let you be. You're so much more than I asked for.

And the back nine will be our greatest years so far. I know this because YOU are in them.

I love you,
Mom

A Refresher Course in Perspective.

A fresh wave of perspective has hit me like a tidal wave today. A tsunami that has knocked me to my knees and put me on my face with emotion. A realization that was as close as my next breath a few weeks ago when 26 people were taken from their lives in Newton, Connecticut- but sadly a perspective that was easily forgotten through the day to day shuffle of naps, homework, to-do lists, diaper bags, and dinner time rushes. Today, my perspective is back. But that perspective has come with a great price.

Within the last week, two local families in our area have met great tragedy. Two families have lost spouses and children through horrific car accidents. On two very separate occasions, two families went about their normal days and suffered irreversible blows to their core by sundown. Two families are torn in half and trying to figure out how to breathe without their loved ones nearby.

And I was complaining last night about what exactly?

Abi's tangled hair that she (yet again) failed to brush thoroughly?

The fact that my van needs a vacuuming out something horrible and I had no time to do it?

The whimpering that my son does sometimes at night that doesn't require us to go in there but wakes us up nonetheless?

The ache that comes and goes in my right knee?

The fact that I am stuck at a weight that I wish was 10 pounds less?

A cranky baby who was fighting his nap like a champ?

The purpose in life that my daughter has apparently discovered in picking at her almost one year old brother until he snaps a twig?

The fact that I threw an opened container of Greek yogurt across the kitchen and missed the trash can?


Was I really complaining about that?

Because as I look back over those complaints, here's what I see.

Signs of life.

Signs that there are healthy, vibrant, living, breathing people who love each other, love me, and love life, all in my house, warm and safe. Signs that though my life isn't perfect and certainly isn't what I imagined it would be, it's far better than I dreamed it would be and more than I ever hoped for. Signs that I have a safe place to land every day, surrounded by people handcrafted to walk through life with my hand in theirs. Signs that we are living. Signs that life is good.

This blog will be a short one. It's one that doesn't require much explanation or any eloquent words. It doesn't get any simpler than this.

Hug your kids. And often. And look them in the eye. Listen to them when they speak. Touch them on the face. Hold their hand and breathe in their scent. All around you there are parents that would give all their earthly possessions to hear a whine or a shriek one more time--- give their health to answer one more question about ladybugs or what Power Rangers eat for breakfast. Parents who would sacrifice their careers and college degrees for the chance to get up and feed a baby in the middle of the night one more time. Who wish with all their hearts for their child to have a broken arm instead of a debilitating illness or incurable disease. Who see me frustrated and tired with two unhappy children in Wal-Mart and long to go back and push a buggy with a grumpy child or two one more time. Husbands who don't know how to go on without her presence in their home. Wives who regret the morning rush that cost her that goodbye kiss.


My point is this succinct. Stop complaining and live your life. You only get one. And if you're constantly complaining about the messes and the chaos, and you're constantly waiting on the life you always envisioned to begin, it could be that you can't see the forest for the trees, my friend.

Soak it all in. These are the signs of life.

Burnout.

Burnout. A noun- meaning "the reduction of a fuel or substance to nothing, through use or combustion." Also meaning, "physical or mental collapse caused by overwork or stress."

My definition?

When you're just quit of it. (A phrase my daughter coined when she was 5.)

I've decided that when you're a mom, motivation comes and goes like an ebbing tide. You can be super motivated on Wednesday and see your messy house as a canvas for you to work a creative miracle, only by Thursday to feel like if you have to cut one more chicken nugget into bite sized pieces or fish one more blade of grass out of a messy mouth, you'll just lay down in the fetal position and bawl.

You know why? We never stop.

I've blogged many times about the cataclysmic difference between life before a baby and life after. But the fact remains, it's a comparison you can't describe until you experience it. And the fact remains that when you don't have children, you can lie down and go to sleep and never wonder if you'll be woken up by a hungry baby at 3:00 am, or even question whether or not you'll have enough time the next day to watch those new shows that every one has been anticipating. You never wonder if your dinner will be eaten while it's hot or remotely warm, or ponder how many cups of coffee are legitimate before you have what a normal person would consider a drug addiction.

My point is-- there's not much time to catch your breath. And what used to be messes you or your husband would make once and you'd clean up once becomes a mess you literally clean up 27 times between 5:00 and 8:00 pm.

I love my family. Not like a "I-love-you-because-I'm-committed-to-you" love. I'm talking about a drooling, celebratory, fluttery heart, bawl my eyes out kind of love. They make me laugh from my toes. They make me squeal with delight. They make me count the minutes until I see their faces. They make me run my race with excitement for what's coming next. I almost always feel appreciated and valued-- even by my little squishy 11 month old boy who smiles with his eyes with sheer love and thanks for me.

But burnout happens. It happens when you're folding teeny tiny socks that never have a match and are impossible to find because of their microscopic size. It happens when you're picking up child A to take her to one location, while child B is screaming for his balloon that he threw to the back of the van. It happens when you volunteer to do math centers (again) while there's dirty dishes in your sink at home. It happens when you're working through a nap time protest, or an eye-rolling session from a moody 3rd grader. It happens when you look at the clock and realize it's an hour past when you had hoped you'd be in bed and you still have 3 major things that will stop your family's functionality tomorrow if it's not done tonight. It happens when you tuck in a sweet baby or send a cheery 8 year old off to brush her teeth for the night. It happens when you are listening to your kids screaming at each other out of anger. It happens when your beautiful family is sitting on the couch and you're gathering up 38,922 toys the size of a pack of raisins from under the kitchen table and you're green with envy because that couch looks so comfy.

It. Just. Happens.

And you know why it happens? I don't know about why it happens for dads... (and dads, I'm not saying that us moms are the only thing doing anything for the family.) But I know why it happens for women.

We were created with a strength to nurture. And that strength easily and frequently becomes our weakness.

We were created with a womb. To nurture another human being for nine months. And whether you bore a child from your womb or not, the fact remains, you were created with the make-up to do so. Every fiber in your being was imprinted with compassion, sensitivity, wisdom, and intuition. Over time, the way we were raised, life experiences, and our own choices either develop or stunt the growth of those God-given gifts inside us. We aren't just checking off a to-do list like our male counterparts... to us, our to-do list equals nurturing our families' needs at a heart level. Every meal we cook equals full bellies and happy hearts for our loves. When we put clean sheets on our baby's bed, we sleep better ourselves that night. When the laundry is folded and put away, we feel like we've prepared our husbands and children for a successful week... a clean slate to choose from.

But truth is-- though our motives are great and our hearts are open, we get bogged down in the day to day because our own programming works against us--

We give until we give out.

To borrow the definition again, we "reduce our fuel or substance to nothing due to use or combustion." See, to a man, a task is a task. To a woman, her task is her heart's display- especially when it comes to her family.

My husband is extraordinary. In just about every way, he's unusual. And I guarantee you, there isn't a woman on earth more thrilled with her marriage than I. I feel loved, I feel cherished, I feel valued, I feel equal, I feel seen, I feel heard. But fact is, when I enter a stage of burnout, I feel like no one appreciates what I'm doing, no one notices I'm there unless I don't do my routine, and I'm the only person in the house who knows where anyone's stuff is. The "real" me knows that nothing could be farther from the truth. But the "burnout" me is selfish and likes to throw pity parties.

The other day, one of my very closest friends on this planet said to me, "God wants to do things for you because you're you. He wants to do things for you that has nothing at all to do with your marriage or your children, but things just for you."

I hear this. I teach this, for crying outloud. But in the day to day, I forget this. That the Maker of me is so deeply proud of my existence and so full of gracious kindness for me, He wants me to experience little glimpses of Heaven on earth that have nothing to do with anyone in my household except for me. A cup of coffee alone in Target. An hour to read a book by myself. A morning to sleep in. A day in a bookstore alone. A new pair of pajama pants. A chance to sit in my hammock and listen to nothing at all. Two hours to watch DVR shows without anyone needing to be held or fed.

Here's the deal. If you're waiting on someone to make these things happen for you, you'll just live in burnout. You have to create your times of refreshing. Sure, my husband will on occasion say, "Let me give you a foot rub," or "I'll clean the kitchen tonight." Fact remains, he is tired too... he works too, he parents too, he loves and nurtures and plays too, so to expect him to give to me what only I know I need is unfair and builds resentment.

GIVE YOURSELF PERMISSION. To:
Take a nap if you're sleepy every once in a while.

Read a book while your littles watch TV. (**gasp** TV????)

Say, "When Daddy gets home, I'm going to Target. Alone. And I don't know when I'll be back." And leave your watch at home.

Stay in the shower a little longer.

Sit on a bench at the park while the kids play and call your mom.

Say no sometimes when they say, "Mommy, play with me."

Delegate.

Leave the dishes and head to bed early.

Find five minutes to read a little devotion/Bible verse in the day.

Go out with girlfriends once a month. (working on this).

Be glad when your kids are: gone overnight, napping, or just out of your sight for a few minutes.

Say no. And for no reason at all.

Ask for help. Beg for it if need be.


216. That's how many months we have them. 216 calendar flips. That's a mere 18 Christmases, 18 birthdays, 18 Valentine's Days, 18 summers. May sound endless at times. But when I think that I am 108 months down, 108 to go with my oldest, I find the urge to keep burnout away at all costs. I can't afford to lose even one precious day. Because she matters. I matter. And if I'm not at my best for me, I won't be at my best for her.

I think I'll sit on my couch tonight. ;-)

I Confess.

Will you just listen to me? I have some things I need to get off my chest.

I confess:

It's January 9, and my tree is still up. I'm not the least bit apologetic about it.

It's January 9 and I haven't made any resolutions/goals for 2013. At least on paper. I'm gonna do it, I promise. But not today.

I am constantly torn between wanting my kids to grow up and stay small. It's like the war of Selfish Mommy versus Loving Mommy. Loving Mommy always wins. But sometimes, Selfish Mommy just wants to eat a meal while it's hot. Or take a nap when she's sleepy. Or read a magazine the month it comes out. Or even the year it comes out.

I don't feel like a dork anymore for treating a grocery trip alone like a spa day.

Sometimes I really worry that I'm doing something my kids will end up in therapy for one day.

I hear people who don't have kids talk about how "busy" or how "tired" they are, and I have to fight the urge to laugh out loud. And then I remember that I didn't have a child for 7 years and tired is tired, regardless of why you're tired. The difference in no-kids tired and kids-tired is when it's kids-tired, you usually get interrupted from your rest when you finally get some and your tired carries over to tomorrow like minutes on a cell phone rollover plan.

I throw away alot of things that my daughter probably intended to land on my fridge door. I mean, really. How many rainbows with stick people can a metal appliance hold? I'm pretty sure all our magnets are interfering with something Nasa is trying to do to bring world peace.

I go on alot of mental cruises, trips to the mountains, and just hotels in wherever with giant fluffy beds and cold dark quiet rooms.

I hold my breath every month. You know what I mean.

I find myself with Baby Einstein playing for who knows how long, and Walker isn't even in the room. Or even on my side of the house.

I also find myself whistling the melodies that I know by heart from the instrumental classical music on Baby Einstein like I used to hum songs from the radio.

I do a happy dance when bedtime comes every night. At least in my mind. Even if they've been super angelic and perfect. I never dread bedtime. Never. Ever.

My heart leaps when I hear that little "bah-dah-bah-mama" spoken over the baby monitor around 7:00 am.

I have actually worn more makeup and fixed my hair more since I had baby 2 than before I even had baby 1. I think it's a mind trick to make me feel less "mom jean" ish.

When I have my sister's boys in public and someone asks "how old my boys are" or says that "my" kids are beautiful, I agree with them.

I have never loved my husband more than I do right this second.

I seriously fantasize about my boy and his cousins playing football and I hope all the time they don't choose baseball.

For some reason, the thought of Abi as a teenager makes my stomach turn way worse than my baby boy becoming one.

Nothing makes me happier than cooking dinner while the bustle of the afternoon/evening is happening around my feet and at my kitchen bar.

I spend way more time than is practical staring at my kids' faces.

I literally can't remember what I did all day before I had kids. But it sure felt important while I was doing it.

I can't figure out my body since I gave birth again. It's like reading a map to a city I went to a long time ago but every landmark has changed and every single street is now a one way street and I need to get over to the other side of the block.

I talk to Walker about ALOT of things that I'm glad he can't understand yet. He keeps really good secrets, and like the typical man, doesn't say much back when I gripe or gossip.

I still find myself spelling words in front of my almost nine year old, like I used to when I didn't want her to know what I was talking about. I flew through a long spelling the other day, and she never looked up from the iPad and said the word I spelled.

I am not the least bit humble about how beautiful my kids are.

When I get a night off/an early bedtime for the kids/a random chance to do whatever I want for hours, I never choose girlfriend time.

I discipline other people's kids in my mind every time I go out in public. Like a whole role play scenario in my mind. For real.

I kiss my kids wayyyyyy more than the average mom does, apparently. And my poor nephews have to suffer through it too. I ain't sorry.

I throw away ALOT of toys from my daughter's room that she never knows about.

There are too many bowls of Lucky Charms consumed in our house than crunchy moms would think is acceptable.

I have never made a single thing of homemade baby food in my entire life.

I wasn't the least bit sad my milk supply was so pathetic with both of my kids and I "had" to use formula early.

I cannot-- CAN. NOT. go to sleep with a dirty kitchen at night.

I literally wonder how many times I hear, "Mom, watch!" or, "Mom, look!" in a 12 hour period.


And there are more times than I can ever document or count when I think I need someone to pinch me. That after years of trying. Struggling. Wanting. Needing. Imagining. Dreaming. Hoping. Hurting. These kids are mine. And that man is mine. And this is our life. It's a reality I never dread waking up to. And a reality I never regret as I close my eyes at night.

My last confession today?

I am totally convinced that I am the most favored woman God ever conceived. Ever. And always.

I Do Care.

Let me begin by saying I don't have answers. To any of it. If you're looking for a blog to part the heavens and help you make sense of this madness, this isn't it. Someone much more educated than I am is probably who you're looking for. And let me also begin by saying that I have no idea what's going to come out of my fingers today. I am not writing this as a pastor. I am not writing this as a counselor, as a parenting "coach", or as a blogger. I am simply writing this as a mom.

And like you, one with a broken heart.

Friday morning, I was having coffee with my dear friend Sarah. She sat at my kitchen counter, while I was in my bathrobe and messy hair, making chocolate chip cookies from scratch. My husband had just returned from dropping off our daughter at school, and my almost-ten-month-old was sitting in his high chair, still pajama-clad and eating bananas and waffles. Sarah and I talked about Christmas gifts, about how One Direction tickets are too expensive, and Rod chimed in about how cod liver oil should help her aching back. We laughed, giggled, and held my baby. We sipped, solved, and wondered about the right age to talk about where babies come from-- like you're supposed to do on a normal morning. Like you're supposed to do because your daughters are best friends and you scored an added bonus by finding out you really enjoy each other's company as well. Like you're supposed to do when it's Christmas and you feel the excitement in the air.

Like you're supposed to do after you've dropped your kids off at school. Their second home.

Not like you're supposed to do while at that very moment unbeknownst to you, 1,200 miles away, the darkest kind of darkness on earth was creeping into a little town and rewriting its history forever.

I don't care about the theories. I don't care about the media frenzy. I don't care about the debates on gun control. I don't care about people's views on what his mother should or should not have done. I don't care about making a politically correct stand on gun control or mental health medicine right this minute. I don't care to weigh in about the judgments being made on the fact that there were weapons in the house. I don't care about what the "experts" say. I don't care about he said/she said/they said/we said.

But I do care.

I care that Charlotte insisted on wearing her new pink Christmas dress and boots to school that day. That rambunctious Daniel knocked out those missing two front teeth of his. I care that Miss Davino had a gift to work with autistic kids and that her fiance had asked her parents for her hand in marriage the day before her life was stolen. Little Olivia had impeccable table manners and Little Ana sang "Come Thou Almighty King" like someone much more seasoned than her six young years allowed. Madeline loved to play. Catherine had red hair. Chase just won a mini-triathlon. Six year old Jesse ate a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich with a chocolate milk for breakfast that morning. James was a swimmer. Grace was blonde haired and blue eyed. Mrs. Murphy's parents waited shoulder to shoulder next to parents of first graders for word on their own 52 year old daughter's fate. I care that Emilie was an artist with a gift for making appropriate cards for hurting people. That Jack will be buried in his hero, NY Giants' wide receiver Victor Cruz's number 80 jersey. Noah had a twin sister in another room. Dawn was not just the principal, but also the Sandy Hook Book Fairy. Caroline had a contagious grin and a cherubic face. Jessica loved horses. Sweet Avielle loved the fall colors in Connecticut. Lauren Rousseau said her first year teaching at Sandy Hook was the best year of her life. Mary Sherlach was a year away from retirement. Victoria Soto's favorite color was green. Benjamin was growing up in a musical family. Allison was shy. I care that Dylan moved with his family to Newtown from the UK last year.

I care that there's now 27 families who were planning on celebrating Christmas next week who won't be making spirits bright. 27 trees with tagged gifts around them, all now untouched forever. 27 sets of plans for parties, vacations, and snowball fights on Christmas break. I care that there were 20 small beds empty that night, and will be so for every night after. 20 sets of pj's unworn. 20 stuffed animals unhugged. 20 refrigerator doors that will now be missing masterpieces. 20 mothers who will be shorted a nightly lullaby performance from now on. That's 20 sets of kisses forever bottled up in the hearts of parents until eternity. 27 sets of dreams, aspirations, successes and failures. 27 destinies cut too short.

28.

He had plans too. At one time, the shooter (who had a name, Adam), was a baby. He was born, like any other baby. In time, he learned to crawl, then walk. He played with a balloon in the grocery store, had to be potty trained, and tried to figure out what clouds were. He experienced the terrifying first day of kindergarten, and the awkwardness of middle school. He was a child, one time. Innocent. Helpless. Fragile. Voiceless. Loved by his mother. Looking for love. Lost/found/lost again... Just. Like. All. Of. Us.

And there was a plan for HIS life, too. This wasn't it.

Events like this surely open our eyes to the fallen world around us. It makes the winter wind feel that much colder. Makes the loneliness we feel seep deeper into our bones. Makes the angry of us angrier, the fearful more fearful. The darkness becomes darker than midnight ink.

What do we do now?

We grieve. We shut up. We stop tossing around what WE would have done. We don't point fingers at others, but point them at the man in the mirror, identifying the ugliness inside of ourselves. We wrap our arms around each other. We cry if we want to, loudly and from our toes. We worry for our children and their children. We contemplate packing them up and running to Nowhereland. We look at those faces the media keeps showing, and we mourn the loss of the light in those eyes. We fall upon the mercy of a loving God, who in NO way, shape, form, or fashion had a hand in this slaughter. We stop trying to say deep things and say simple things. We pine for the innocence that is being stripped away from our lives more every year. We pray. Hard. We love. Harder. We live goodness in front of our kids. We teach them the value of life-- from conception to elderly. We exemplify kindness and we extinguish cruelty, even among sibling rivalry and typical childhood banter. We hug them while they are small and even more so when they aren't small anymore. We give them a safe place to disagree with us, to be angry with us, and better yet-- we show them how to disagree and coexist. We listen to them while we cook dinner. We make eye contact with them as much as we can. We bathe them in esteem and we crown them with dignity. We empower them to make choices, making the difficult ones for them when their own governing fails. We say no, we say yes, we say maybe. We notice the freckles on their noses and we praise God for the stinkiness of their feet. We teach them to listen-- to authority, to others, and to the voice of God inside them. We celebrate them- from birthdays to plain days, and everything in between.

We keep living. We rally together. And we keep living.

We have to.

If we don't, the casualty list grows in other ways.

May the God of peace, mercy, and comfort wrap His arms around Newtown, Connecticut. And around you.

And me.

WHY Did I Have Kids?

My sister has two boys. One is almost 2. The other is 4 months old. I have an almost 9 year old and a 9 month old. So, between the two of us, we have 3 babies in diapers. 3 kids under age 2. 3 BOYS. (I can't tell you how happy I am that the oldest child in our brood is a girl). Anyway. Last night, I was standing in the kitchen with my sister and brother and I said, "Does it ever hit you that we are ages away from these kids being in kindergarten... much less grown?"

I really do know better than to ask a question like this. The day I sent my oldest off to kindergarten, I thought ARE YOU KIDDING ME? How did this happen so fast? Every summer after she turned 2, I was keenly aware that I was a summer closer to that dreaded fall morning, when I would leave her in the hands of a literal stranger, in a room filled with 18 other kids who were just as important to this stranger as my child... the day when my only child went from being number one to being assigned a student ID and became just one of many. That day, my chest ached all day long. I could hardly concentrate on anything. And though it's easier now that she's in 3rd grade, I still dread that fall day every time like the first time. And I miss her the whole day long.

Still. When you're up to your eyeballs in the day to day of washing dirty baby clothes, changing dirty diapers, and wiping off dirty faces, you can't help but think, "How much longer is this?" And when you have a colicky newborn who acts like he hates life and you went through infertility meds to conceive this little joyball, you may or may not say something like, "We PAID someone to do this to us!"

And I gotta be brutally honest. There's been a few times when my friends without kids have asked, "Why did you have kids?" And I'd think, "That's a GOOD question."

Don't get me wrong. It's not every day. And I usually always have a good answer. However, there are those days when one of them has made me want to move to a monastery or shove concrete earplugs into my ears. You have to understand. We went 7 years without a child in our home. 7 years of peeing when I wanted to. 7 years of showering without worrying if someone was trying to eat out of the trash can while I washed my hair. 7 years of eating food while it was still hot. 7 years of vacationing without having to set up a Pack 'N Play. 7 years of never thinking about a babysitter. 7 years of seeing new movies in the theater the first month they were out instead of catching them on DVD two years later. 7 years of only thinking of MY clothing, MY sleep schedule, MY playtime, MY entertainment, and MY boogers, MY bowel movements, and MY gas.

Ancient history.

As I sit here typing this, I have a chunky boy in my lap who may or may not be chewing on a blue highlighter (don't judge me)and he's got a madstyle case of the wiggles. I flashback to times when my office was quiet and toy free- when Baby MacDonald wasn't playing in the background constantly and when I could go to lunch at noon without having to think about naptime interfering with it.

WHY DID I HAVE KIDS????

Because without them...
My refrigerator door would be pretty boring.

I wouldn't get nearly the amount of exercise I do now from bending over and picking up items including, but not limited to: Squinkies, cracker remnants, singing animal toys, forgotten items under the couch, miscellaneous pieces of tiny paper slivers from an art project gone haywire, and dirty socks.

I would have never known that the early morning news is actually pretty interesting. Alot happens overnight in the world.

Christmas wouldn't be nearly as magical.

I wouldn't know which coffee is the most caffeinated.

I would have missed out on iCarly's final episode, Good Luck Charlie's new baby episode, and wouldn't know the secret formula for Crabby Patties.

I would be more rested, but less motivated about life.

My days off would be about catching up on my DVR shows, sleeping in, and having lunch and a pedicure with girlfriends. Those things are lame. (Trying to convince myself on this one, I ain't gonna lie.)

My furniture would wear out alot quicker. I hardly ever sit on my couches. Or chairs. Barstools. The toilet. Or anything.

I would think terrible things about that random screaming kid in Target.

I wouldn't have those cool stripes on my belly to fascinate my daughter.

There'd be no elf wreaking havoc in my house from Thanksgiving to Christmas.

I wouldn't see my purse as entertainment. Wallets, checkbooks, and makeup mirrors aren't nearly as exciting as playing "What's in this purse that doesn't belong".
I'd never have learned the difference in powdered formula and liquid formula, the difference between Target brand diapers and Walmart brand diapers, the difference in colic and gas, or the difference in a childbirth with an epidural and one without it. These are key things to know in day to day conversations.

I wouldn't receive handdrawn pictures of waterfalls with gummy bears dancing on the river banks, poems about rocks, or endless amounts of handcrafted bookmarks that say "MOMMY" in fat crayon letters.

I would watch TV while the sun is up. Who does that?

I wouldn't understand the feeling of your heart about to burst with pride at something wonderful your child did in public, like: saying thank you, asking a grown up how their day is going, saying "Yes sir" without you prodding them to, or holding a door open for an elderly lady.

I also wouldn't know the not-so-bursting-heart-with-pride feeling when your little one says: "Look at that lady with the BIG butt," or the "Someone-help-me-I'm-drowning" feeling you get when your child acts like she's being attacked by fire ants because you told her she can't have a slurpee in the middle of a grocery trip.

That you can love something the size of a kidney bean so much, you'd throw yourself in front of a train to save him. You'd also go without Diet Coke for nine months to protect him, which is equivalent to throwing yourself in front of a train.

I would have missed the slobbery kisses, the beautiful sound of your baby singing "Mamaaaa" while he plays with the remote control, and the feeling that I'm the most beautiful woman in the world when I catch my boy staring at me with a dreamy smile on his face.

I wouldn't know what it's like to have cat like reflexes.

I would have never REALLY known what "love at first sight" felt like.

I wouldn't know what it's like to be the only one who can fix a skinned knee, a broken heart, or a feverish ache.

I'd have never discovered that I am a human GPS. I can find a toy the size of a marble, a misplaced homework assignment, or a pair of shorts in a laundry pile the size of the Eiffel Tower in less than 5 minutes.

I would have much cleaner floors but a lonely dinner table.

A shower with no Barbies in it, but no singing in it, either.

An office room in my house with an actual computer in it, but no baby bed.

Time to read those magazines I've had since February, but no one to interrupt my reading with a question about where squirrels sleep at night.


A heart that would ache for little hands to hold it in their tiny palms. A lullaby to sing with no ears to hear it. A photo in my heart with no frame to hold it. An adventure with no passport. A map with no treasure at the end.

A life less colorful than a black and white coloring page.

So, when someone asks why I had kids, I think I'll give a new answer.

Why would I NOT have? I would have missed it all.

Before I Had Kids.

I've said it before and I'll say it again.

Saying that having children changes your life is like describing the Grand Canyon as a hole in the ground. It's like saying the ocean is wet. It's like saying you're glad political commercials are over for another four years.

It's the understatement of all understatements.

The more I parent, the more I see how unprepared you will ever, EVER be for this job. Sure, before you have kids, you read books, watch videos, follow blogs, listen to advice, ask questions, build theories. You imagine, think through scenarios that involve something similar to Pampers' commercials, and write out baby names. You pin a million things on Pinterest for the baby's room and you even role play how YOU would handle the screaming kid in Walmart who is only wearing one shoe and shouting "PAPER CLIPPPPPP" over and over like a wild and untamed wolf boy.

Then, you get pregnant. You faithfully follow the doctor's orders and check the weeks off your pregnancy calendar with a smile every week. You have all the baby apps on your phone and you've never been more aware of muscle twinges, backaches, and heartburn than you are now. You clean, nest, plan, check, and organize. You learn how to breathe, write out a birth plan, and pack a meticulously mapped out bag for you and Little Sweets for the big day.

Then, the big day comes. Whether through induction or natural labor, the ball starts rolling, and you realize super quickly that this baby business isn't exactly like it looks on TV. From thinking, "I don't think this should feel like a Mack truck is rear ending me over and over" to the horrible things you think about your loved ones who are telling you how to breathe (think spontaneous combustion), you see really quickly that there's not always happy background music playing while you birth your babe. Then, of course, you go home-- albeit not as excitedly as you thought you would ("You mean the nurses don't go with us so we can sleep?") and you begin to see why those who had kids before you would chuckle to themselves when you shared what you were "going to do" after you had babies.

I'm not saying people who haven't had children are stupid. Please understand that. I am simply saying that they're in for a great surprise. Like, "the toilet has been Saran Wrapped and I just sat down to pee like a race horse" surprise. One thing is for certain in parenthood... Nothing is certain.

Before I had kids, I would think-
Look at that child with the nasty snot dried on his face.
Now I think-
His mom has finally just given up and is hoping the dried snot will keep the new snot trapped inside, like a beaver's dam.

Before I had kids, I would think-
I'll love my times up at night, feeding a hungry baby.
Now I think-
If I put the bottle in his crib with a cooler on one end and a microwave on the other, will he figure out the process?

Before I had kids, I would think-
Look at that poor child. Her diaper is clearly wet and no one has changed her.
Now I think-
Not changing her yet is saving the earth, right? Win-win.

Before I had kids, I would think-
My kids will be well-trained from months old and will smile at people who speak to them, never pitch a fit in public, and will never throw her sippy cup because it has water in it instead of juice.
Now I think-
I don't blame her. Half the time, I don't like these people, hate crowds in stores, and wish I could drink coffee all day.

Before I had kids, I would think-
He will be dressed like a little Old Navy model every day.
Now I think-
How old does he have to be for pajamas to be socially unacceptable at noon in Target?

Before I had kids, I would think-
Oh, I'll just nap while she naps.
Now I think-
Two hours? Do you know what I can accomplish for humanity in two hours? I can shower, shave my legs, get dinner started, vacuum all the floors, do two loads of laundry, and STILL watch 3 and a half episodes of Dr. Phil so I can feel better about my own life. Why would I nap?

Before I had kids, I would think-
I can't wait to take them somewhere fun like Disney or to the beach.
Now I think-
Does the mall count? There's a slide there!

Before I had kids, I would think-
My kids will only eat organic foods, drink milk from a local dairy, and will sit in this plush high chair like the little doll she is.
Now I think-
Are these cheese puffs made with ANY real cheese? Close enough. Let's skip the dairy cows and go to Chick-Fil-A. There's cows there. And that high chair cover? Where the heck is that thing? I think the washing machine ate it.

Before I had kids, I would think-
Someone should teach that horrid child who is pitching that fit a lesson. The mom should talk to him and find out his inner feelings on why he's so upset about a goldfish cracker. What's really going on?
Now I think-
That poor mom.

Before I had kids, I would think-
I'll just take my little ones wherever I go.
Now I think-
I have to plan my errands around nap time with Navy Seal like precision. Can I do Publix, the library, the post office, and the school in two hours? If ANY of these errands start to interfere with nap time, we will just go hungry tonight, I'll get late fees on these books, Aunt Patty won't get her Christmas card until Easter, and the class party should have enough moms, right?

Before I had kids, I would think-
I'm not sticking my kids in front of tv when they are babies.
Now I think-
There's NO WAY that Baby Einstein DVD is 30 minutes long. How in the HECK was that just 30 minutes?

Before I had kids, I would think-
I'm only gonna use Pampers or Huggies, clothes from Baby Gap, and Ralph Lauren bed sheets.
Now I think-
Does Dollar Tree have diapers? Because I'm already in here picking up a onesie and I could have SWORN I saw a crib sheet for a dollar in here the other day. Or was that a dish towel? Close enough.

Before I had kids, I would think-
I will run when she calls me, so she knows she can trust me.
Now I think-
That sounded like a bump, not a cut. I think we're good. I'll be there after I load this dishwasher, honey!


Of all the things I misjudged before having my kids, the greatest misjudgment is this.

I will love my baby so much.

That's like describing Black Friday as a "big shopping day" or like describing Yo Gabba Gabba as "annoying". Understatement of the CENTURY.

Through the colic, the diaper blow outs, the temper tantrums, the "I only wear rainboots" stage, the "I hate tank tops" stage, the "If you touch my hair, I'm going to throw nails at you" stage... through the clingy stage, the whiny stage, the demanding stage, the defiant stage... through the broken arm, the month long 104 fever, the chronic constipation... through the teething, the chewing, the drooling... the RSV, the scratching stage, and the "I have to have this pink comb with me at all times" stage, I have learned a mere lesson.
This is more than love.

This is life. This is why I was born. This is living.

And I wouldn't change one little thing.