Dear Eisley (Happy Birthday Letter)

Dear Eisley,

You turned eight years old this week! I can hardly believe I have two eight year olds, because I remember very clearly being eight years old myself! When I was eight years old, I loved playing mommy to my dolls, reading, writing in my diary, and playing make believe. You love doing all those things too! Except you are also veeeeeery girly, and love to play with Barbies, paint your nails, try new hairstyles, dress up and accessorize, shop, and take care of your baby brother. I always wanted my mom to have another baby when I was your age, and you love having one around just as much as I would have!

I am so thankful that God knew enough to send you to me eight years ago, because I don't know how I'd take care of these boys without you! You help me with so much, from making lunches to organizing Jonesy's laundry, but the thing I appreciate most about you is being able to talk with you. I pray all the time that God will keep growing our relationship and keep showing me how to love you the way you need to be loved. The other day I took you out for a Girls' Night, and you talked my ear right off. I sat in the front seat smiling to myself as you jabbered away about your friends, boys, and all kinds of other things. I love when you talk to me about everything and nothing. I hope you always keep talking to me!

You have grown up and changed a lot this year. Your reading has taken off, and this year I finally pulled down my old box of Babysitter's Club books for you. I don't know who was more excited about it, you or me! I spent hours and hours reading those books when I was just a little older than you, and it was so fun to get to pass them onto you! This year you also started piano and gymnastics. I wonder if you'll be doing either next year, but I hope you are! You absolutely love to write songs, so I think piano will be such a fun thing for you.

I think the most important thing that happened to you this year was finally becoming a big sister. You have been so close so many times, and it has broken my heart to watch you put that Big Sister shirt in the back of your closet over and over again. When I finally got to see you wear it and meet your baby brother, that was just one of the happiest moments of my life. You have been the most amazing big sister Jones ever could have asked for. You love on him every chance you get, and I know that you don't take him for granted one bit. Unlike most eight-year-olds, you know what it is like to lose a baby in your family, and how very precious they are. I'm so sorry for the hard lessons you have had to learn in your eight short years, but I am thankful you have learned them. Every time I see you squeeze Jones and tell him you love him so much you could just die, my heart melts!

This year, you and Jake agreed on a Monster themed glow-in-the-dark birthday! It was so much fun to plan and decorate for it! You guys had a blast, and I know it will be hard to top next year! You and Jake want to be a football player and a cheerleader for Halloween, and you want Jones to dress up like a little football. We all went as Mickey and Minnie Mouse for Disneyland's Halloween Party a few weeks ago, but Jake put his foot down and said he refuses to dress like Mickey in front of people he knows! ;) You were an adorable Minnie Mouse though, and it was so fun for me to see you having so much fun with your Mickey brothers. ;)

You are so smart, so sassy, and a joy to be around. You have gotten in trouble I think three times this year, and each time, you have begged for my forgiveness almost immediately. ;) You made a best friend, you became a big sister, you discovered your love of reading. You decided you want to redo your bedroom to something "more mature," and you began writing songs. You started gymnastics, piano lessons, and the second grade (though you're in third grade math, which I know you are very proud of!). You learned how to change a diaper and burp a baby, and have done more than your fair share this year! You are more beautiful each day, inside and out, and I am blessed beyond words to call you my daughter.

This next year, I am praying that God brings you good friends that love you and love Him. I am praying that God protects your little heart from the Mean Girls that are sure to pop up now and again. I am praying that you continue to learn more and more about Jesus and that you keep building a strong foundation of faith even now, at only eight years old. I am praying for your safety each day. I am praying that I will be just the kind of mommy you need.

I love you baby girl, and your daddy and I are so incredibly proud of the young lady you are becoming.

Happy Birthday Eisley Joy!

Love,

Mommy

Children Live Here

"This place is a disaster."

I probably say that phrase both out loud and in my head about a hundred times a week. I say it when I walk in the door from work. I say it when I walk through the house on my way to the kitchen for breakfast. I say it to the kids before they go to bed and I whisper it to Jones when I'm up feeding him at 3 a.m.

There is always, always, always a mess in my home. Not a "Somebody call TLC and get this family on Hoarders" kind of mess, but the kind of mess that I am almost certain (if not genuinely hopeful) occupies almost every mother's home.

There is blue toothpaste all over my kids' sink. Sticking to that toothpaste are my husband's whiskers from when he shaved this morning. My daughter's headbands and hair ties are strewn throughout the bathroom and I'm pretty sure I saw one in the toilet, but I don't want to look twice. My living room is covered in baby toys. There are bumbos and boppies and rattles oh my. If I walk through the whole room without awakening a sleeping light up monkey by stepping on its face, wait...no I pretty much do that every time.

There is always a clean basket of laundry sitting by the couch begging to be folded, but more often than not it just eventually dwindles down to a few rifled through pieces of clothing that I throw into the kids' rooms, only to be replaced by another load I will never get to. Video games litter the shelves and floor while the box specifically labeled "video games" sits empty.

There are dishes in the sink, dishes on the counter, dishes under the bed (probably, but I don't care to find out for sure). Bills and homework and sticky note reminders cover every square inch of the desk and counter top. Someone spilled salt under the dining room table and apparently salt is the one thing our dog won't lick up (poop she eats, but nooooo, helping me out by licking up a salt spill is apparently beneath her). There is a lingering smell of dirty diapers, even though I've taken the diaper trash out four times already.

 My couch cushions and carpet are stained with baby spit and boogers. There is dust hiding in every nook and cranny of my home, and the light switch in my son's room has his actual fingerprints outlined in little boy dirt. I cannot even bear to open the door to the playroom for fear I will have a nervous breakdown.

There is playdough ground into my carpet. There are barbie shoes and legos hiding stealthily around the house, never to be found, until you step on one barefoot in the middle of the night. There are binkies everywhere, until I need one immediately, then they are nowhere.

The floors need mopped (but first they need swept). Everything needs dusted. A run through with the vacuum wouldn't hurt, but I'm pretty sure the vacuum is acting as a gift bag holder in my hall closet, so that's obviously out.

This place is a disaster.

The disaster seems to taunt me the most at times when there is simply nothing I can do about it. The debris screams out at me while I sit, tied to the rocking chair while I feed the baby. It whispers in my ear, "You are such a failure" while I rush the kids over the laundry and out the door to school in the morning. It hits me like a punch in the face when I arrive home from a fourteen hour day and all I have the energy to do is shower and lie down.

And in case my family doesn't seem to notice the disaster (and they never do seem to notice it as much as I do), I make sure to tell them. All the time. I remember one specific time I was stressing about the mess, out loud, to my children, the ones who are most responsible for it (or at least the easiest to blame). I was frantically trying to clean up the living room before their grandparents came over for a visit (what will my mother-in-law think!? She cleans houses professionally!! It's like inviting a professional chef over for a dinner of cold hot dogs and boxed macaroni!).

I remember scolding them, "This place is such a disaster! Why are none of you bothered by this? How can you just sit there and read your book and play with your dolls while there is a DISASTER around you!!??" And I will never forget what my daughter said to me.

"Mommy, children live here!"

I looked down at the game of UNO I was gathering up for the nineteenth time that week. One minute ago I was tempted to throw it in the trash after being sick of seeing it on my coffee table, while my husband had started using the cards as coasters.

Children live here.

But what if they didn't?

If children didn't live here, my house would be clean, at least most of the time. Because when I cleaned it, I wouldn't be immediately followed around by little walking tornados, who see an empty, tidy, freshly vacuumed floor as the perfect place to dump out nine thousand action figures and set up a battlefield or perhaps lay out a giant blanket and set up the world's biggest tea party.

If children didn't live here, my guest bathroom would be just that, for guests, or at least suitable for them. The counters would be clean and there would never be toothpaste staining my sink, because there would be no little mouths to do it. There would be no hair ties in the toilet, because there would be no perfect brown curls to need them.

I would never trip on any toys or step on any light up jungle animals, because I would never have had reason to buy these toys and light up my children's faces. There would be no baby swing, baby boppy, baby bumbo or baby blankets lining my floors, because there would be no baby to use them.

My couch cushions and carpet would still be white. There would be half the laundry to do, and half the dishes, so I'm sure I'd be able to stay on top of those. When I got home from my long days at work, I'd be greeted with a clean house, but nothing else. I'd have time on my days off to tidy up, because there would be no baby to care for or children to rush off to activities.

My house would be clean. And quiet.

I thought about that for a few days. I laid in bed and let my mind wander, and as mothers sometimes do, I let it wander to the worst. What if children didn't live here? What if they never had? Or what if they did, but then they stopped? I wondered what it would be like to lose my children in an accident. I wondered what it would be like to come home for the first time, knowing they would never come back, and see the mess they left behind. Wouldn't I break down, clenching the action figures and rattles and baby dolls while I wept? Wouldn't I pray to God that He would bring back the cause of this so-called disaster?

I wondered if I would ever be able to clean any of it up. What would I do with all their toys? All their clothes? Every piece of the untidy mess of laundry and legos would be the only evidence I had that children had lived there. Would I ever want it to go? Could I bring myself to sweep up the crumbs they left on their chairs from the last peanut butter and jelly sandwhich they ate there? Would I ever be able to wipe away the toothpaste they left in the sink that morning? Or the dirty fingerprints on my son's light switch? Could I ever bring myself to make their unmade beds, or would I simply lie in them, tracing the outline of their heads on their pillows?

What would the mess look like to a mother who would never have to clean up another mess again?

I think it would look like treasure.

To a mother in the midst of the stresses and chaos of everyday life, those messes can look like failures. Like evidence of her inability to be the perfect housewife, the perfect mother, the perfect woman. But a simple change in perspective, and suddenly those messes are not evidence of failures, but evidence of all she holds most dear, of everything she cherishes, of moments in time she will not get back again once they are gone.

I thought about the women I know who are struggling, praying, wishing to one day have messes of toys and books and baby things all over their house. Who wonder if they will ever get the chance to step on a lego or wipe crayon off the walls. Who look at those of us with ragged hair and baby food on our cheeks with envy, wondering, "When will it be my turn to look like that?" Who listen to us complain about our messy messes and wonder if we have forgotten what a blessing and a privilege it is to have such messy messes in the first place.

I thought about how in thirty years, when my kids are grown and gone, when I am looking around at my clean house and missing the disaster of when my children were children, what would happen if I could go back in time and visit the house I have today. I know what I wouldn't do. I would not say, "Ugh. What a terrible time in life. What a disaster my house always was then! I'm so glad my house is always clean now!"

No. I would walk around my former home, exploring every room and crying happy tears about the memories they brought. I would pick up the baby blankets and burp rags, and smell them to see if they still smelled like Jones. I would study Eisley's handwriting on the papers she left all over the table, and touch each letter, remembering how very little she was. I would pick up Jake's action figures, and wish I had saved them for my grandson. I would sort through the pile of laundry on the floor and marvel at how little my children once were. I would run my hand over the dirty fingerprints on the light switches and walls and mirrors, and remember when my children had fingers that tiny. I would look at the toys on the floor and the games that weren't put away and remember how much fun we had playing with them together.

I would look at the disaster, and I would think, "Children live here."

And I would think it was beautiful.

My house is a disaster sometimes. When I have the energy and the time, I clean it up as best I can. I ask my children and husband to help me keep the house in a way that we can function and have company once in awhile. But when the mess starts eating at me, when it starts whispering "failure" in my ear and begins to eat away at the joy in my heart, I try (and sometimes, I have to try really, really hard) to see the beauty in the disaster. And I repeat that phrase to myself, the one Eisley reminded me of, the one I forget sometimes.

"Children live here."

And I am so, so thankful they do.

World Breastfeeding Week Salute

After about a million and a half unexpected views on this particular blog entry, I became aware that some of the images I had used to add humor to it may be copyrighted and not mine to borrow. In the interest of "better safe than sorry", I decided to remove any picture that wasn't mine. I hope you still enjoy my little salute to Nursing Mamas, even without the pictures. :)

Did you know that this is World Breastfeeding Week?? Did you know there was a World Breastfeeding Week?? Well there is! I breastfed the twins for a few weeks before making the decision to switch to formula, and that is a decision I do not regret one bit! They thrived on it and I was able to regain some of my sanity after those incredibly difficult first few weeks. I have fed my babies in numerous different ways, from breastfeeding to formula feeding to exclusively pumping...they all have had their ups and downs. I'm so thankful God provided so many ways to feed and nourish our little ones! 

But since this is World Breastfeeding Week, I'd like to throw a shout out to my fellow breastfeeding mamas. Nursing Jones has been one of the most challenging, difficult, painful, rewarding, stressful, hair pulling, peaceful, relaxing, joyous experiences of my life!! It has been a roller coaster of emotions for the both of us, but I am so glad we have been blessed to be able to do this together. We've battled weight loss (his, not mine, unfortunately), tongue tie, low supply, terrible latch, mastitis (twice), just to name a few. So I'm pretty proud of the fact that we've come this far and have finally gotten to a place where we both enjoy it and he is growing and thriving! 

So to all you other breastfeeding mamas out there, this is my salute to you. 

To those mothers who spent the first weeks and months of your child's life literally attached to them 24 hours a day, I salute you. You, who eats, sleeps, and yes, sometimes even showers whilst simultaneously nursing your little nursling. Who can't remember the last time you slept longer than three solid hours without being awoken by a screaming baby and/or a soaking wet shirt. I salute you. 

You, who has traded in her pretty, lacy, normal sized bras for unrecognizable contraptions with snaps and buckles and removable fronts in sizes you'd never thought you'd achieve without six thousand dollars and a good plastic surgeon, I salute you.

You, who took on the feeding of your infant entirely on your own, who is solely and fully responsible for their nourishment. Who didn't leave their infant's side for days, weeks, months, even to do simple errands, because you feared they would surely starve should you get stuck in traffic on the way home. You, who knows that the term "nursing vacation" is no vacation at all. Who's husband and mother and children hear one peep from your tiny bundle of joy and hand them right over to you saying, "I think he's hungry!" You, who simultaneously loves and hates that you are the only one on earth who has what your baby needs to survive, a job you take more seriously than anyone else can understand, I salute you.

 I salute those breastfeeding mamas who have sat in that doctor's office, bawling your eyes out because your baby is not gaining weight at the perfectly perfect "normal" rate all pediatricians came together and decided on so that they could strike fear and guilt into any breastfeeding mother whose child does not meet this perfectly perfect timeline. You, who does not have the benefit of ounce markings on your breasts and has absolutely no idea how much or how little your baby is eating, only that they are eating all the time. All. The. Time. 

I salute those mothers who have achieved their doctor's weight expectations and swell with pride (and milk) as they are patted on the back for doing such a great job growing their little human.

And to all those mothers who are growing those little humans despite mounting obstacles, who have battled tongue tie, low supply, excruciating pain, or all of the above and more, and have seen specialist after specialist trying to figure out what you're doing wrong, all of whom tell you one different thing after another. To those moms who stuck with it and to those who grieved the end of their breastfeeding relationship earlier than they anticipated, I salute you. 

To those breastfeeding mamas who feel the eyes of onlookers boring into them and their hungry baby at the restaurant, or the grocery store, or the bleachers of your son's basketball game, and silently wonder if feeding your crying baby will offend anyone, I salute you. I especially salute those mothers who have learned not to care one iota who will be offended and feed their baby without cover or hesitation, without shame or embarrassment, paving the way for the rest of us to do so comfortably as well.

And to those breastfeeding mamas who do use that cover, that blasted cover, I salute you. You, who have been asked to or feel pressured to cover up your two square inches of exposed skin so as not to offend the nineteen-year-old in a transparent tank top and shorts with the word "JUICY" emblazened across her buttcheeks at the next table over. You, who have mastered the art of wrangling a starving, squirming baby with one hand whilst simultaneously unhooking your bra, flopping out a boob and latching your baby with the other. You, who has learned to do all of this blindly,  under a tent which is surely made of the heaviest, hottest material known to man, while your baby looks up at you forlornly with a look that says, "Why the hell do I have to eat under this tent? It's 900 degrees under here woman!!!". 

You, who wonders to yourself what the logic is in making nursing covers so women can breastfeed "discreetly" when every single one you have ever seen is decorated with the brightest, most flamboyant patterns known to man. Who feels as if every time you pull it out of your diaper bag and throw it over your body, you are declaring to the entire area, "BEHOLD!!! I AM NOW GOING TO BREASTFEED MY BABY!!! BUT I'M GOING TO DO IT UNDER THIS LARGE TENT DECORATED IN BLINDING COLORS SO AS NOT TO OFFEND ANY OF YOU!!! BUT PLEASE KNOW THERE IS LACTATING CURRENTLY HAPPENING. UNDER THIS TENT. THIS TENT RIGHT HERE. LACTATING."

Yes, I salute you and your tie dyed nursing blankets. And to those of you living in the desert and breastfeeding in sweltering heat, I salute you twice. You and your sweaty babies.

I salute you, mothers who have endured nasty stares, rude comments, and blindly ignorant opinions regarding breastfeeding. For those who have friends, family, and co-workers who gag on the very word "breastfeed" and can barely make eye contact with you when you must do so in front of them. To those who have been told that breastfeeding is "so gross" by a world that pours the breast milk of a farm animal on their cereal every morning. And to those who have not only ignored these people, but have also rebounded with a quick remark of your own, or better yet, a shot of breast milk in their eye, way to go mama!!!

Nursing Jones with my "flamboyantly yellow" nursing cover

To those breastfeeding mamas who were promised it was the cheaper, more economical option than formula, but have spent a small (or large) fortune on breast pumps, lactation consultants, nursing bras and pillows with names like, "My Brest Friend", I salute you. 

I salute those breastfeeding mamas who have fed their babies at restaurants, in the car, at the park, in the garden aisle at Target, in the front pew of their church and in the shallow end of the wave pool. 

I salute those mothers who have mastered nursing their babies while cooking, cleaning, blogging, and sleeping. Who take the term "multi-tasking" to a new level.

To those mothers who pray for a hypnotist that will one day be able to remove from your husband's brain the image of you pumping on the living room sofa while eating a bowl of ice cream. Who wonder if your son will someday require expensive therapy for all the times he's seen you whip out your boobs. I salute you, nursing mamas, who have caught your young daughters lifting their shirt to feed their baby doll, and felt pretty proud of yourself when you did. Good job mama, I salute you and your future breastfed grandchild.

To those working mothers, who have lugged a pump, a cooler, bottles and ice packs with them to the office every single day, I salute you. You, who have spent hours upon hours attached to a groaning machine, watching your nipples stretch to unnatural and horrifying lengths while you pray that you'll squeeze out enough milk to get your daycare provider through the next day. You, who have pumped in closets, cars, your boss's office and rooms labeled "LACTATION", praying no one walks in and sees you in a way no person should ever see another person. Ever. To those mothers who have driven home at ungodly speeds in order to make your baby's next feeding, only to walk in and find your husband giving him a bottle, I salute you.

You, who puts your very value as a mother and a human being in the amount of milk you tote home that day. Who knows how much work and time went into those bottles and turns into a raving lunatic if anyone says the phrase, "Is that all you got?"  I salute the mothers who have literally poured out themselves into providing the best for their baby, only to accidentally knock it off the kitchen counter. I salute those of you who have had husbands jokingly tell them not to cry over spilled milk. And I salute you if you did, or did not, throat punch him.

On that note, I'd like to take a moment to salute the dads of these breastfed babies. To those husbands who have stood by their partner and supported her through the tears, the fears, the failures and the big wins. Who have taken on diaper duty because it is only fair that if she is in charge of input, you should be in charge of output.  You, who have listened to the phrase, "Looky, no touchy" for a year or more and have given tender nicknames to your offspring like "Titty Monster" and "Boobie Hog". To those dads who have spent countless hours washing pump parts and fetching ice water to make things on mama a little easier, I salute you. 

To those mothers who have powered through sore nipples, nursing strikes, teething babies, and growth spurts, I salute you. You, whose babies have the power to erase every bad experience and melt away every ounce of stress and frustration with one tender glance upwards as they nuzzle up against you. You, who feel both elation and depression at the very thought of weaning your nurslings. 

To all the mothers who have spent hours crying and praying and stressing over feeding your baby, and have been rewarded with one of the most special experiences this life has to offer. You, who knows what "milk drunk" looks like, and your heart fills with pride and joy that you are the one who put that pure look of contentment on your baby's face. You, who cherish those quiet moments in the wee hours of the morning when it's just you and your baby, doing only what you and your baby can. Who practically melts when your baby wraps his hand around your thumb, or pats your chest, or plays with your necklace. To all the mothers who have sacrificed your body, your sleep, your time, and a bit of your sanity in order to offer your babies the gift of mommy milk, this week is for you.

I salute you mama, and your baby does too.

I am so blessed to get to nurse Jones. I know it is a blessing and a privilege and I don't take it for granted one bit. I worked so incredibly hard to have the breastfeeding relationship with him that I do, and that work was worth it to me, because I didn't have a positive nursing experience with the twins and I very much wanted to have one with Jones. It is only by the grace of God that we made it past those first two months and finally got the hang of things, and I very often thank Jesus out loud that He did get us through it! I often spend the time I am nursing Jones just staring at him and thinking about all God brought us through to get me to this point, and how He built in this special time of reflection for a few hours into each of my days. So in celebration of all it took to get us here...Happy World Breastfeeding Week, my fellow nursing mamas. Go buy yourselves a treat. ;)



Nursing Jonesy...sans cover ;)