Remind Me Why We Do This?

Z, Harper and I went to the pumpkin patch today. We went last year and had a really fantastic time. This year didn't live up to my expectations, to say the least. Z was whiney. Harper wouldn't smile for pictures or eat her lunch. It was hotter than I expected and I think my face got a sunburn. Z was a typical bipolar two-year-old, wanting to go on a ride and then crying to get off as soon as I got him buckled in. We went through that routine four or five times. He even did it with the choo choo that he LOVED last year. And last year I remember feeling a calm acceptance to his interactions with farm animals in the petting zoo. This year all I could think about was the fecal matter strewn through the hay that he persisted in picking up and playing with.

And then, for the grand finale, when I finally decided we needed to leave because both kids were starting to meltdown and it appeared we would popcorn between rides and Z's indecision indefinitely, Z had a gigantic tantrum. At several points I had to pick him up and carry him while steering the stroller with one hand. At one point I was dragging him on gravel parking lot hoping the knees in his new jeans wouldn't get a hole. At one point I lost my temper. Okay, at several points. Somewhere between the knee dragging and an angry spanking between parked cars, one of the friends who we met at the pumpkin patch drove by and rolled down her window. She said, "Remind me why we do this?"

Why do we do this? Why? That question has been rolling around in my head for a long, long time. It comes up almost every Sunday when the disruption to schedule seem an insurmountable stumbling block. It comes up almost every week when we go to my Mom's house for dinner and don't get home until after bedtime. It comes up every time I've ever gone to Disneyland. The thing is, the question usually doesn't come up until you're on your way home. When you're there, wherever there is, there are moments of joy. Sometimes it's just the moment of boredom we avoided by getting out of the house. Sometimes it's a surprisingly delightful story I'll write down in my journal of motherhood memory-keeping. And, true, there are times that the outing is a complete disaster. But I still pack up all my bags and forget the wipes (again) just for the chance that a wonderful moment will be had. Without some risk there is no gain.

It's like with surfing. There are lots of times (not so many recently for me) the getting up early, going into the cold water, fighting the crowds and so on really doesn't pan out. Maybe I'll catch one wave and I'll spend the rest of the time pissed about the wave-hog nearby. But when it does work, and I have caught that really nice wave, it makes me want to spend the rest of my life trying to get it again. There's no guarantee that this time will be the best, but hope springs eternal, right?

I guess my answer to the question my friend asked is this: we hope. We hope it will be fun. We hope we'll see our kids' smiles. We hope we'll have an interesting story to tell our husbands or a friend. We hope we'll catch a photo that will live framed in our house when our grandkids come over one day. We hope our kids will learn and grow by experiencing new things. We hope that at some point we'll forget the tantrum on the way home and we'll just remember the special time in a new, or perhaps our favorite, place. (And the photo we got will help with the selective amnesia because, don't know about you, but I don't ever get a picture of the tantrum after the event.)

So to all my fellow mothers who trudge out into the experiment of life with your little random behavior generators, here's to the hope that the next time will be better than the last.

About Having Two Kids

Now that I have a little (emphasis on little) perspective on having two kids...

During Pregnancy
It's in a mother's nature to feel guilty, but that guilt takes on all kinds of new dimensions when she is pregnant with child number two. "I'm not as excited about the second child as I was with the first." "What if I don't love the second one as much as the first." "I am neglecting my first because I'm too exhausted and nauseous and pregnant." "If I can't even handle one while I'm pregnant, how am I going to handle two?" "I'm hormonal and have zero patience for my first." "I'm not eating as well as I did with my first; not gaining weight like I did with my first; gaining more weight than I did with my first..."

I recommend you give a little talk to your second child in utero. The talk goes something like this:

You are our second child. We will love you just as much as our first, but that love might look a little different. We won't have as many pictures of you. We won't have a video of your ultrasounds. We won't force people to watch said video of your ultrasound. We won't hop to your every whimper and vibrate with anxiety at your smallest cough. We won't obsess over every indicator of personality (He seems so persistent with that rattle! Oh, boy, he's going to be stubborn like his Dad.) because we know, soon enough, we'll see it in all its two-year old glory. You are likely to have a few more cuts and bruises earlier on than your sibling, either inflicted by your sibling or occurring while we are distracted with your sibling, but your head won't be lopsided like your sibling's because your newbie parents didn't know to rotate the little melon. And, hey, more up-side to being the second: we will not expect you to be perfect (our delusions of that goal long-ago broken by your older sibling). We will not fret over every mess and nick you make to our house (it has long since been smeared and scratched into submission). You will probably get away with more, either because we're too busy to notice or because you will have learned how to be sneaky far too young from your older sibling.

This whole speech is similar to the discussion you've had with friends about how the love in your marriage after x-many years is more comfortable and soothing than what it was when you were just dating or newlywed. There is a thrill to dating (and the first child) that I loved. There were times I couldn't stop myself from smiling with the exhilaration and happiness of it all. But, there was also a lot of anxiety and hard work in figuring it all out. I love the security and ease after 11 years of marriage and the more confident, easy-going mothering of a second child. Both experiences are great. They are just different.

Post Partum
The second child is here and you begin the adjustment. Life is not the same (again). But there is a lot that doesn't change, like your toddler's tantrums. No, just teasing (sort of). What I mean is that once you have a routine of having a kid, a second can fit right in (with some adjustment, of course). After making the change from working full time to being a stay-at-home mom with the first child, I didn't have the same rock-my-world-grief-over-the-life-I-used-to-live with the second. And, since you have an older child who is burning holes in the carpet running in circles, you have to get out of the house a little more than you probably did with the first. This is a good thing. Sure, the naps will suffer and child number two will probably get sick more, but he/she will be more resilient because of it.

There are lots of great things about having two kids instead of one (if only to avoid the only child situation- no offense to the only children out there, I'm sure you turned out lovely). I'm told that the kids will eventually play together. I'm only starting to get a glimpse of this as "playing" still consists of Z knocking Harper over. However, already Harper laughs for Z like she won't for anyone else. Now, I hope you won't feel I'm overly negative here, but I do want to prepare you for a highly possible scenario when the second child comes: you will no longer like your first child.

Okay, don't panic. I said you will no longer like your first child. You will absolutely still love him or her. And before you get too worried, this feeling does go away. But let me express this in a speech to make to your first child - while you are on a walk by yourself with no one around to witness it:

You are the first child. You were God's gift to mankind for a long time. The entire family doted and ah'ed and obsessively swapped out screen-saver pictures of you every day. But things are going to change a little because everyone, and I mean everyone, likes a sweet, dimpled baby better than an opinionated toddler. Don't get me wrong. In the fun department, on a good day, you are way more fun than a baby. And you probably don't cry as much. But all it takes is a few power struggles over vegetables, or a television show, or the dinosaur pajamas ("nyooooooo...not wee-ooo....me want roars!") and most people will offer to change the baby's diaper instead. What I'm saying is that between an averagely content baby and an averagely ornery toddler, you, the toddler, are gonna lose. So, don't be surprised if your sleep-deprived mother loses her temper a little bit more than usual. And please be patient with me when I get extremely upset about what you thought was a perfectly reasonable power tool noise that just happened to wake up the baby. I promise that it will get better and, no matter how much I wish a relative would just come pick you up and take you to the park for an hour, or a week, that I love you very, very much. You, my first, will always have a special hold on my heart. And we will always have more pictures of you than your sibling.

So, get that speech out. Admit it. Own it. And then let it go. Stop the comparisons, stop the if-only's. Love your toddler as a toddler. Love your baby as a baby. Decide to put the toddler to bed and let your spouse put the baby to bed. Connect to your toddler in the moments that you love (for me, that is reading before bedtime). And enjoy your baby even when your toddler is watching and will likely misbehave the second you make one cooing sound at your baby. Love them. Love them both for who they are in this moment and never wish to change it.

How to Find Joy Even While Picking Up Poop Off the Floor

I've been spending a good amount of time lately talking with friends and mentors about this. How to choose to be joyful amidst the trials of every day life. Amidst the tedious sameness of each day or the relentlessness of little ones needing me. Or the feeling of hopelessness during yet another tantrum and that question that haunts me: is it ever going to get better? And today, my own personal thorn in the flesh: cleaning up poo that has been stepped in and tracked all over the floor. For some reason, picking up feces seems to be particularly defeating. It makes me want to cry and scream and give up. Without going into psycho-analysis of why poo-cleaning is so hard on me, let me just talk about what I've been learning from some others who are wiser than me about this subject of joy.

First, I've been learning from a study on the fruit of the Spirit that joy is an action (not a feeling), just like love is. It is not a feeling that comes and goes, but an active decision to be joyful independent of circumstances. And, as long as I've know how hard that can be, I'm also finally really understanding that such joy is only possible through the Holy Spirit dwelling in me. No amount of positive thinking or slow breathing will bring me genuine joy. So, I've been praying a lot more than in the past for the Lord to fill me with His Spirit and to empty me of the sinful reactions of my own heart.

Second, recognizing that the Spirit is working in me, I can still work on my attitude during difficult situations. I can remember the true inspiration for joy- that Jesus Christ died for me and I am a new creation in Him. In the biggest picture of all, I am saved. My fate is sealed - in the most beautiful and sacrificial way - to be with God forever. In that big picture, these trials are the slightest breath of time.

Also, I can choose to be thankful. There is no shortage of reasons to thank God, if only I would stop and notice. One of the most obvious reasons to be thankful is the very people bringing me so much challenge: my kids. The two beautiful children God gave to me. Me. No one else. They are for me to raise; I am their mother. Having them brings a lot of messes (on every level- physical, emotional, spiritual), but life without them is poorer. A friend shared this proverb with me: "Where there are no oxen, the manger is empty, but from the strength of an ox comes an abundant harvest." Proverbs 14:4. Without the oxen, the manger will be sparkling clean and there will be less work. But without the oxen there is less fruit, less harvest, less growth. That's less growth for me, because I know God is using this time to refine me and bring me closer to Him. And that's less harvest in the two little people who will go out and contribute to others and bring glory to God.

And, to quote a book I love (and just read again recently), The Life of Pi: "At moments of wonder, it is easy to avoid small thinking, to entertain thoughts that span the universe, that capture both thunder and tinkle, thick and thin, the near and the far." My moment of wonder is that God saved me. So, let me avoid small thinking and entertain thoughts that span God's infinite grace and the smear of poo on the carpet.