100

Believe it or not, this is my 100th blog post! (I knew that girl talked a lot.) And, to be honest, it is often your encouraging comments and honest feedback that keeps me coming back to this computer, this blog, still having something left to say. So, thanks for reading and I hope you stick around for hundreds more! :)

Having reached this little milestone, it occurred to me that apparently I do have a lot to say about parenthood, babies, survival, and how I am at least getting by with a chuckle or two. In fact, I've come to a realization...no, I've had an epiphany...yes, that is even more fitting, an epiphany: God created humor so parents don't kill their children. I'm sure of it.

I think it was around "nap attempt number seven" today that I swayed, holding my screaming toddler who had yet again thrown herself on the floor in a bit of rage, only to hit her head and cause the drama to quickly turn to actual pain, demanding that I not only focus my attention on her alone, but comfort her with the single remaining nerve I had left...that I caught myself laughing out loud (barely audible above her cries) in utter, weary, survival.

It wasn't that I was laughing at her pain. No, I think I was laughing at mine! The parents' nerves are ever-so-finely frayed into what can only be left as...laughter! Humorous synapses, triggering uncontrollably as we pull our hairs out, wipe our brows, and giggle in sweet relief that, well, we are still alive and kicking. (Turns out, there can be a fine line between bursting out in laughter and throwing your toddler out the window.)

Certainly, it must have started with Adam and Eve? I can only imagine Eve, in total horror, asking God to repeat Himself:

I'm sorry, God, you want the baby to grow where? And come out how? And feed it what? Could we review this one more time?

Can you imagine being the first person to experience that? Um, no thanks. It's not like Eve could run down to her local Barnes & Noble and pick up a copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting" or even gab with her girlfriends...she hadn't birthed any yet!? Yes, it is all a bit mind-numbing to comprehend. Then again, at least she had Adam - the naming expert - there to "help" her. Hmm.

"Hey Adam, what do you think about the name Parakeet?"

"Oh, um, no honey, I already called those little birds parakeets, so that's taken."

"Oh. Okay. How about Tiger?"

"Yeah, no. That giant striped cat gnawing on that gazelle over there - yeah, I named that tiger, so that's a no-go."

"Adam! If you don't help me out here, I'm going to beat you over the head with this..."

"It's a cane, honey."

Whap!

I can't imagine being the first parents. Granted, their first two kids didn't grow up so well...so, they had a long way to go on the whole "don't kill each other" rule in parenting. Ahem. But, somewhere in there I'm pretty sure God had to give Adam and Eve the gift of laughter to be able to make it through. Needless to say, I'm sure thankful the trait has made its way down through the generations, reaching me and my screaming, napless, blurry-eyed child - giving me an avenue to choose other than giving up.

Just think how we would cope if we couldn't laugh about our children? My husband would probably come home, wade through piles of laundry, find the babies screaming and strapped to their high chairs, sippy cups full of pinot grigio, as I'm locked in the bedroom, plowing through an entire cheesecake, crying and watching Nate Berkus give someone's dining room a makeover. Okay - maybe there are some days we would like to do this (I mean the whole cheesecake part is appealing at least)...but, it has to be only by the pure grace of God and His gift of humor that instead we can choose to step back, see the big picture, and laugh hysterically (emphasis on hysterical) at ourselves, wipe the poop off our hands and keep going.

It's a funny job we have, us moms. No one else has to get up every morning and wonder if their co-worker is going to spit-up on them today so "should I wear the black shirt or not?" No one else gets the privilege of searching for the ever-elusive baby sock under the dusty couch only to find bits of the last 82 snacks you fed your child hidden under there. And nobody (I hope) asks "Do you have poop?" more seriously than we do - with total straight face - about a million times each and every day.

And I can only imagine that it was God Himself, after explaining over and over again to Eve the ins and outs of her duties as a mother, who coined the saying: It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it.

Expertise

It's been said a million times before - being a mother is a full-time job. Not only full-time...but constant. That is, it's an all-time job, really. No matter what, at any moment, those small little humans might call on you to fulfill a need that only you can answer. Sure, "it takes a village" and all that. Certainly, mothers are not alone in their parenting contributions. But, for most families, the mother is the one who pioneers the leadership in childrearing (lest we forget the most common of sidekicks - the handsome, handy, emotional-stronghold of courageous hunk of steel known as daddy - who can change a poopy diaper with the best of them - of which, in my household, I am most grateful). The mother...typically...is the child "expert" if you will.I was pondering this thought the other day. I'm the mama. I'm supposed to know my child best. How does someone so small and cute bewilder me so much? Aren't I supposed to know what I'm doing with you?

In fact, it's often acknowledged that to become an expert at something, one has to have achieved at least 10,000 hours of experience. In a typical full-time job, this breaks down to around 5 years of working somewhere. BUT, in motherhood, the all-time job...you would reach expert status in just over a year! Master. Conquerer. Super-hero-domestic-extraordinaire.

So, why, then, if I am such a "Matilda expert" do I constantly feel like a captain who is navigating a ship (a big ship) in a fog (a thick fog) with a broken compass (and no iPhone or GPS or treasure map or anything!)???

Oh wait. I get it. By the time I've reached 10,000 hours, I've become an expert at Matilda age 1. Now, with Matilda age 2, I'm practically starting over. The thing is, just when I think I have her figured out - she is no longer who she was! And what worked on "Matilda 2 years and 3 days" doesn't necessarily work on "Matilda 2 years and 8 days".

Okay, okay. So, there's no keeping up with the first kid. But, I do have a second daughter! (Hope!) Surely, having done this whole baby thing before I can cut some corners, gain some sleep, and tip-toe peacefully through teething and such. Right?

Oh wait. Daphne is not Matilda. "Daphne 3 months" doesn't match up to "Matilda 3 months". Though, my comfort level of caring for a baby may have grown, my expertise has not.

And yet - the scariest part of realizing that I don't necessarily know what I'm doing in this whole parenting thing - is that, evidently, no one does.

Don't get me wrong. I don't feel like a failure in the least (hey, I'm only 2 years in, let a girl enjoy the ride). I may not know why my daughter just tried to feed dirt to your son, and I may not have a clue why she smacks her head into the wall to get attention, and I certainly can't explain why she isn't scared of giant dogs that most likely see a cartoon toddler-pork-chop when they glare at her....sigh...but, I'm pretty confident that we're doing okay here. Again - evidently my parents (or yours or yours or even yours for that matter) didn't really know what they were doing with us either...and look at us! We're upstanding, law-abiding, bargain-hunting, blog-reading, teeth-brushing citizens, now aren't we?

But, it is scary to me sometimes to think that I am the one God has entrusted this little soul to. Privilege, yes. Terrifying, oh yes. She did not come with a handbook. She did not come with a set of rules. She didn't even come with a tag to tell me whether or not she can be dry cleaned. But, here I am - the Matilda expert. There is no one else on the planet that knows her better than I do right now. Wild. And the same goes for Daphne! Even in her littlest ways, I'm the one who knows how to tell if she is crying because she's wet, or hungry, or has another burp that would make any truck driver blush. And, if I don't know why she's crying - I guess! And when I'm wrong, I try again! And, evidently, I'm still the mother that is the best mother for her to have. Otherwise, I would've had your kid - (no, maybe not yours - I mean hers - the one that sleeps through the night. Yeah, I would've had her kid.) But, I didn't! (And thank heaven, really. Because I would've had to just keep calling you since you are the expert on your kid, after all.) Funny how that works.

So, there you have it. We're all experts on our own kids - and none of us know what we are doing.

But hey...at least the pay is good. ;)

TWO

Today is my eldest's second birthday. Matilda Hazel Darling turns two! I can't believe it. No need to relive the anxiety her birth brought me (though, I don't think 10pm on Halloween night will ever pass by again without me thinking "that's when my water broke!" Ah, memories.) No, this year I had an entirely new year to think about - her first year - and ponder, and be grateful for. A whole other year has passed by in her life - I just can't believe it.

I wasn't sad today though. I got a little sad last night, thinking how she would be 2 today - total toddler status and absolutely not a baby anymore. It is strange. You have a baby and everyone starts asking you "how old is she?" everywhere you go. How old is she? How old is she? You answer in days, then weeks, then months...and the months thing really goes on for a while. Especially depending on if you are answering a fellow parent or not. Thirteen months is entirely different than "just over a year" to a fellow parent. Seventeen months doesn't require any math. And twenty-three months is not "2". No.

But, two is 2. And now my darling is 2! She won't ever be "25 months" or more - nobody does that, right? Just 2. Then 3. Then (for heaven sake, someone stop this time machine!) 4? Goodness me.

Pause.

(Wouldn't it be funny, by the way, if people just always kept asking how old someone was? Like, just whoever you were with. It doesn't matter. Imagine being in Target and someone overhears you talking with your mom and then stops and says "Aw, how old is she?" and you're like "Um, she's 59 - almost 60." and they nod sympathetically at you and maybe wink with a "Hang in there, it gets easier" as they stroll off to look at the dollar aisle. Yeah. It's probably good we stop they whole "How old is s/he" bit before cognitive reasoning really sets in.)

Unpause.

Since Matilda's first birthday, she's grown more hair, surpassed at least a few sizes in Target clearance wear, mastered the fork and spoon (with her left hand, no less), learned nearly every animal sound (including, my favorite, "Haha" for Hippo) and many other words (whether indiscernible or perfectly clear, said with the same amount of sincere gusto) and most of all, built layer after layer of personality, shaping her into the kid she is today.

It struck me today, as I was getting all nostalgic watching her play, that I'm not really sad to watch her grow. When she was just a baby it would bring tears to my eyes to even think about her someday not fitting into that snap-up-onesie I just bought that says "I love mommy" or "Daddy's girl". (Don't get me wrong, I can still conjure up a hefty tear at the drop of a hat). But, watching her personality grow, take shape, expand in directions I've never known her before - I get to see this little person literally become. Who would want to rewind that? As much as I loved having her as a baby, I am almost entirely equally torn into wanting to see her continue her personality-growing-saga!

This is the ache of a mother's heart. I want her to stay small. I want her to become amazing. I want her to snuggle forever. I want her take flight and soar. I want her to be safe in my arms. I want her to slay dragons and conquer darkness. I want it all for her. I want her to want it all.

I love you, Matilda. Happy Birthday, Darling.

Halloween

Just taking a moment here to reflect on some Halloween memories. Nice ones. Ones that don't involve freaky corduroy jumpsuits with rickrack frosting: Yikes. If you read the comments from that blog, you may have seen what my friend Matthew John had to say - mentioning me in some of his favorite Halloween memories. Well, he stole the words right out of my mouth (computer?)

Growing up in a rural community, you'd think it was difficult to trick or treat - not having a neighborhood and all. And you would be right. A gang of us (usually including Jessica John [Matthew's sis and my best friend growing up] would pile into a car (driven by, I'm sure, whichever parent drew the short straw for the night) and make the slow-but-sure trek around not one, not two, but the three towns (the tiny trifecta that it was) that made up our community. That's what happens when towns consist of less than 500 people - they band together to support the neighboring kid's sugar high as well.

Rain, sleet, heat, or snow (well, there was that one year that

Halloween was actually postponed until the snow melted) we would make our way house to house, knowing nearly every person who answered the door. There was no X-raying our candy when we got home that night. There was no questioning who made that homemade ball of carmel corn. Candy was scavenged, devoured, and sometimes secretly stashed away before other siblings could begin bargaining and trading.

At some point during the night, we would need to take a break (okay, let's face it - our parents would force us to stop for one freaking second so they could catch their breath) and so we would go to the John's house for delicious chili - thaw out for a bit - and then hit the road running, hunting down that full-size Snickers that we just knew was out there somewhere.

The high school always ran a fundraiser on Halloween in which they overtook the local fire station and turned it into a haunted house. It. Was. Awesome.

You'd never seen so much black plastic in your whole life. I'm sure my memories are far more grand than reality, but I remember it being rather impressive (and downright frightening) at the time. Thinking about it now, I just have visions of bad wigs, fake blood, and the sound of a chainsaw (shop class anyone?) followed by the screams of little kids far too young to sneak in only to get the snot scared out of them. Good times.

I love those memories. Halloween is like a fall crisp day - covered in chocolate and waxy makeup. How can you top that?

I know. Have your own kids. Create these memories for them. Keep them safe, give them candy, have fun. This is Halloween today. Let's keep it that way.

I just loved dressing my girls up this year. A bunny and a carrot - how does it get any cuter than that? I pray they always keep October 31st as something fun and silly. Something they use their imagination for (and their sixth sense of candy scavenging radar, of course) and not something used to convey darkness or for that matter (being honest here, folks) utter sluttiness.

Apparently, these days, if you hack the legs off of any ole pair of jeans - that's a Halloween costume! If you just wear your underwear in public - that's a costume! Dear me. All that to say, there are a lot of girls out their who need help...and pants.

Now, I couldn't take my girls back in time OR to a small rural community for Halloween. But, we did manage to find some lovely houses in our neighborhood with razor-free candy, and we went to an amazing carnival at a nearby church (I mean unreal, amazing - multiple full scale carnival rides and food trucks kind of amazing). So a grand time was had by all. Afterall, isn't the measure of a good Halloween in the angst and regret of the tummy ache you get by morning? Sure enough - we hit "Berenstain-Bears-Too-Much-Junk-Food" status by late that night.

Totally worth it.