My Favorite Time Of Day

...is bedtime.  And not for the reason you're thinking, although there is something so freeing about putting the kids to bed and finally getting some time to myself before I pass out.  Bedtime is my favorite time of day because it's the one time where I can focus on each of my children individually and with 100% of my attention.  I'm not worrying about cleaning up any messes, or trying to feed them both or get them both in jammies.  The tough part is over and now I can enjoy "us" time with Bailey and Gerry.

Gerry usually goes first.  While Scott and Bailey spend some time together watching a show or playing with toys or whatever it is they do when I'm not around, Gerry and I snuggle up with a blanket and a bottle.  And we just stare at each other.  I talk softly to him about everything and nothing and he just stares up at me with sleepy eyes.  Sometimes he stops drinking and smiles up at me, this slow and tired smile, and I just melt.  Not even five months old and he's already got me wrapped around his finger.  The whole time we're snuggled up there, he's squeezing my finger every few seconds, or pulling the blanket to his cheek and it's so adorable that I can't help but be happy, no matter how crazy or crappy my day was.  I put all my attention and all my focus on this time with my little boy, and I block out everything else.  And it's wonderful. 

When it's Bailey's turn, things aren't always quite so peaceful...but it's still awesome.  I snuggle up in her bed with her and we read a few books.  I turn on her lullaby CD and we sing a lullaby of our own and then play "What are you going to dream about?"  9 times out of 10, Bailey says she's going to dream about ice cream or squirting somebody with a water gun.  But every once in awhile she surprises me and says, "I'm gonna dream 'bout you, Mommy.  You're my best friend ever."  Heart...melted.  And then, without fail, she busts out her sweetest voice and says, "Mommy?  You lay down with me for just oooonnne minute?"  Which, of course, I can't say no to.  So we crawl under the covers and get nice and comfy...and then she says, "Mommy?  Can I lay on you hands?", which means she wants to lay, literally, on top of my arm, with my other arm on top of her.  So I open my arms and she burrows in, and I rub her hair softly for a few minutes.  More often than not, we both doze off like that.  A little while later, I get up, readjust her comforter, whisper that I love her, and tiptoe out of her room.  And then Scott and I get some time together while the little ones are asleep.

Then when we wake up in the morning, it's go-go-go and things are always crazy and hectic.  Gerry is usually super happy and chatty, but sometimes he cries if he's hungry and I'm taking too long.  The daycare kids argue with each other, attempt to break all the rules, and give me a few new gray hairs.  Bailey has at least one meltdown these days, and has learned the art of "talking back", which hasn't been fun.  My time is spent trying to keep the house somewhat clean, wrangling all the kids, preparing meals, and generally dividing myself between 6-7 kids at any given time.  But I always, always have that precious time with my own two kids at night.  It is my absolute best and most favorite time of day, any day.  And I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Long Time No Update

Honestly, there hasn't been too much going on over here.  A lot of the same old, same old.

Gerry finally finished up Leap 4 of the Wonder Weeks, we're finally getting some much-needed sleep!  He's sleeping anywhere from 10-12 hours each night, as well as taking two really good naps during the day.  Hallelujah!  This last leap lasted a little over a month for us...about 5 weeks of waking up every 1.5-3 hours every single night.  To say it was hellish is a bit of an understatement.  BUT, he's come pretty far since this leap!  He's sitting up a bit better (not on his own yet, but he'll get there), he's discovered his feet and he grabs
at toys and other objects with both hands.  He's able to roll from belly to back (though, he doesn't do it often) and can roll about halfway from back to belly.  He's also "scooching" now.  I left him on his belly on the floor yesterday, facing the tv,  to throw away a diaper.  I got distracted in the kitchen and came back in about 4 minutes later to find him turned around and facing his swing...picture the hands on a clock moving from 12 to3.  Not much, but it's something!  He's growing like a weed, too.  At about 26 inches long, he weighs a whopping 17lbs and is wearing 6-9 month clothing pretty comfortably...at just under 5 months old.  The other day, my brother said he better be a linebacker when he grows up or he's wasting all that size.  He's ridiculously happy these days, and spends 98% of his time smiling at someone or something.  He's amazing. 

And Bailey is amazing, as always.  She's got a dance recital coming up at the end of June (along with her third birthday) and she's soooo excited about her recital costume (a crazy pink taffeta number that she tries
to wear every day).  She's still doing great potty-wise, though we've had a few setbacks in the last couple weeks.  Nothing major, luckily, and she still does great overnight.  Scott and I are starting to plan her birthday party...I can't believe "my baby" is turning three already.  Where did the time go?!

She never ceases to amaze me with some of the things she says and does, and I can't help but be proud of her whenever I watch her.  Not only is she one of my very favorite people in the world, but I also like her and think she's one cool kid.  She really, really is.



Not too much else to report on right now.  Scott and I started a new cleansing program a few weeks ago and are having awesome results.  Feel free to hop on over and check out my journey From Sweatpants To Skinny Jeans.  Til next time!

Dear Less Than Perfect Mom

 *I stumbled across this online today, and it felt like the person who wrote it was writing specifically to me.  I don't know about you, but I needed this reminder today.*
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Dear Less Than Perfect Mom,

I've seen you around. I've seen you screaming at your kids in public, I've seen you ignoring them at the playground, I've seen you unshowered and wearing last night's pajama pants at preschool drop-off. I've seen you begging your children, bribing them, threatening them. I've seen you shouting back and forth with your husband, with your mom, with the police officer at the crosswalk.

I've seen you running around with your kids, getting dirty and occasionally swearing audibly when you bang a knee. I've seen you sharing a milkshake with a manic 4-year-old. I've seen you wiping your kids' boogers with your bare palm, and then smearing them on the back of your jeans. I've seen you carry your toddler flopped over the crook of your arm while chasing a runaway ball.

I've also seen you gritting your teeth while your kid screamed at you for making him practice piano, or soccer, or basket weaving or whatever it was. I've seen you close your eyes and breathe slowly after finding a gallon of milk dumped into your trunk. I've seen you crying into the sink while you desperately scrub crayon off your best designer purse. I've seen you pacing in front of the house.

I've seen you at the hospital waiting room. I've seen you at the pharmacy counter. I've seen you looking tired and frightened.

I've seen a lot of you, actually.

I see you every single day.

I don't know if you planned to be a parent or not. If you always knew from your earliest years that you wanted to bring children into the world, to tend to them, or if motherhood was thrust upon you unexpectedly. I don't know if it meets your expectations, or if you spent your first days as a mom terrified that you would never feel what you imagined "motherly love" would feel like for your child. I don't know if you struggled with infertility, or with pregnancy loss, or with a traumatic birth. I don't know if you created your child with your body, or created your family by welcoming your child into it.

But I know a lot about you.

I know that you didn't get everything that you wanted. I know that you got a wealth of things you never knew you wanted until they were there in front of you. I know that you don't believe that you're doing your best, that you think you can do better. I know you are doing better than you think.

I know that when you look at your child, your children, you see yourself. And I know that you don't, that you see a stranger who can't understand why the small details of childhood that were so important to you are a bother to this small person who resembles you.

I know that you want to throw a lamp at your teenager's head sometimes. I know you want to toss your 3-year-old out the window once in a while.

I know that some nights, once it's finally quiet, you curl up in bed and cry. I know that sometimes, you don't, even though you wanted to.

I know that some days are so hard that all you want is for them to end, and then at bedtime your children hug you and kiss you and tell you how much they love you and want to be like you, and you wish the day could last forever.

But it never does. The day always ends, and the next day brings new challenges. Fevers, heartbreak, art projects, new friends, new pets, new fights. And every day you do what you need to do.

You take care of things, because that's your job. You go to work, or you fill up the crock pot, or you climb into the garden, or strap the baby to your back and pull out the vacuum cleaner.

You drop everything you're doing to moderate an argument over whose turn it is to use a specifically colored marker, or to kiss a boo-boo, or to have a conversation about what kind of lipstick Pinocchio's Mommy wears.

I know that you have tickle fights in blanket forts, and that you have the words to at least eight different picture books memorized. I've heard that you dance like a wild woman when it's just you and them. That you have no shame about farting or belching in their presence, that you make up goofy songs about peas and potatoes and cheese.

I know that an hour past bedtime, you drop what you're doing and trim the fingernail that your 3-year-old insists is keeping her up. I know that you stop cleaning dishes because your kids insist you need to join their tea party. I know you fed your kids PB&J for four days straight when you had the flu. I know that you eat leftover crusts over the sink while your kids watch "Super Why."

I know you didn't expect most of this. I know you didn't anticipate loving somebody so intensely, or loathing your post-baby body so much, or being so tired or being the mom you've turned out to be.

You thought you had it figured out. Or you were blind and terrified. You hired the perfect nanny. Or you quit your job and learned to assemble flat-packed baby furniture. You get confused by the conflict of feeling like nothing has changed since you were free and unfettered by children, and looking back on the choices you made as though an impostor was wearing your skin.

You're not a perfect mom. No matter how you try, no matter what you do. You will never be a perfect mom.

And maybe that haunts you. Or maybe you've made peace with it. Or maybe it was never a problem to begin with.

No matter how much you do, there is always more. No matter how little you do, when the day is over, your children are still loved. They still smile at you, believing you have magical powers to fix almost anything. No matter what happened at work, or at school, or in playgroup, you have still done everything in your power to ensure that the next morning will dawn and your children will be as happy, healthy, and wise as could possibly be hoped.

There's an old Yiddish saying: "There is one perfect child in the world, and every mother has it."

Unfortunately, there are no perfect parents. Your kids will grow up determined to be different than you. They will grow up certain that they won't make their kids take piano lessons, or they'll be more lenient, or more strict, or have more kids, or have fewer, or have none at all.

No matter how far from perfect you are, you are better than you think.

Someday your kids will be running around like crazy people at church and concuss themselves on a hand rail, and somebody will still walk up to you and tell you what a beautiful family you have. You'll be at the park and your kids will be covered in mud and jam up to the elbows, smearing your car with sugary cement, and a pregnant lady will stop and smile at you wistfully.

No matter how many doubts you might have, you never need doubt this one thing: You are not perfect.

And that's good. Because really, neither is your child. And that means nobody can care for them the way you can, with the wealth of your understanding and your experience. Nobody knows what your child's squall means, or what their jokes mean, or why they are crying better than you do.

And since no mother is perfect, chances are you are caught in a two billion way tie for Best Mom in the World.

Congratulations, Best Mom in the World. You're not perfect.

You are as good as anybody can get.