How a Preschool Craft Restored My Sanity

The post Thanksgiving blues have left me feeling stuffed like a turkey.

And not just physically, but emotionally and creatively.  I fill myself with so many good things, food, literature, blogs, Pinterest pins, Facebook and they all taste lovely on the way in.  But afterwards I feel sluggish, lazy, and gluttonous.  I have the nagging thought that I am consuming but not creating.  I am out of balance, out of whack.  The truth is I'm not so good at follow-through.  Moderation is not my strong suit.  The fear of failure keeps me forever in the planning stage.  I get stuck.

And then my sanity was restored in the most unexpected way.  A gifted birthday craft tucked away for a rainy day was discovered by eager little hands.  After a mighty tornado of glitter whipped through our kitchen, landing on everything in sight, a completed project sat before us.  Eleanora beamed with pride and so did I.  I was reminded how good it feels to use my mind and hands to create, not just devour.  To contribute and not only consume.

I am inspired to unearth my knitting basket from the attic, try my hand at that modern cross stitch pattern, make a few more homemade gifts this year, and maybe even show some love to this poor neglected blog of mine.  And if I am in need of further inspiration, all I need to do is peer closely at Ben's beard for the stubborn traces of glitter still plaguing him a week post-tornado.  The joy that brings me is enough to make me want to roll my sleeves up and dig in all over again.

Roller Coaster

I hate roller coasters.  I find no exhilaration in ridiculous heights, raging speeds or stomach-dropping hills.  If coerced onto such a torture devise, I triple check my safety harness, close my eyes, and hold on for dear life while muttering a few incoherent prayers of protection through clenched teeth.  The only joy I find is the sweet relief of opening my eyes and realizing I have survived what I was certain would be the death of me.

Samuel's journey into this world and his following diagnosis were the worst kind of roller coaster.  There were unseen drops, terrifying turns, and worst of all, the uncertainty of what may lie ahead.  I was forced to strap myself in and travel a road I never would have chosen.  I spent much of the past two years holding my breath, muttering incoherent prayers and being reminded again and again that I have no control where this ride is taking us or what lies ahead.  Even in our darkest hours, Ben has never wavered in his belief in Sam's future.  No matter the outcome, he has always been certain that Samuel will do amazing things and make a difference in the world.  But I wavered.  I worried.  I held on for dear life to Ben and his unshakeable faith was my safety harness.  He saw the signs that the ride was slowing down before I did.

The summer of 2012 will forever be the Summer of Sam for our family.  

He found his voice, truly, and loves to use it.  He's speaking in three word sentences, and his favorite animal is POR-CU-PINE (said in a deep voice he learned from his Opa).  He speaks in sentences Where ball go? I get da ball! Bus! I hear Bussie! and calls Streetcar Named Desire-style for his neighbor friend, Lila YAYA! 

He found his legs.  After a few days of being unwilling to touch that creepy stuff called grass, he began walking in it.  Then he began walking up the steep hill in my parents' yard.  Loose sand, mud, and stairs are no match for this guy.

Yes, the signs were there that the roller coaster was closing in on the finish.  But still, I had my eyes closed, my breath held, my teeth clenched.  I prepared myself to continue on with appointments, therapies, and specialists.

Then an evaluation changed everything.  Samuel tested within the normal range for every area of development.  No delays.  None.  Our beautiful 30 week preemie with a bi-lateral grade 3 brain bleed is not disabled.  He's not delayed.  He's normal.  Except he's not.  He will never be normal.  He's a miracle boy who beat the odds from the start.  His new pediatrician watched him run and jabber and flirt for half an hour today and couldn't find a single thing to be alarmed about.  She said without his chart she would never guess his medical history is the size of a novel.  She said it's children like him that make her love pediatrics.  She said based on the severity of his brain bleed, he should not be where he is.  But the brain is an amazing thing, and Samuel is downright astounding.

And as I drove away from her office with my beautiful, amazing, super hero of a boy chatting away behind me, I exhaled.  I felt the sweet relief of solid ground beneath me.  What lies ahead is still unknown, as it is for us all.  But I can face it.  My faith is renewed.  My joy is true.  My cup runneth over.  

First day

No fear, no worries, just pure excitement. 

She is the best medicine.

Big Job

Eleanora takes her job as the big sister very seriously.  She is convinced I will forget that Samuel is toddling a few steps behind us and will leave him behind at the gardens/zoo/grocery store/library/living room.  Momma! Don't forget Samuel!!!!  She loves to start her sentences with Sam we do not...  She translates his every grunt to suit her mood. Sam says he wants Daddy and a cookie, ok Momma?  When I tell her for the millionth time that she can relax and just be the big sister and let me be the Momma she tells me, Big sisters tell their brothers no-no, and Mommas hold them when they cry.

Sam is not always a fan of her mothering attention.  He's been subject to many many many imaginary doctor's visits where he is reminded to be a brave boy as he is pinned down to recieve his hundredth injection.

Eleanora's other self-appointed job is to be our family dictator, I mean director.  Every scene of imaginary play has been carefully scripted and must be followed to the letter.  She interrupts lackluster performances to remind us to really scream like a dinosaur is going to eat you up, ok?  Deviations and improvisation are not tolerated unless they involve tickling.

Bedtime is carefully choreographed, down to the number and placement of bedtime kisses.  There are silly kisses, real kisses, elbow kisses, forehead kisses, and nose kisses.  Her sweet hands squeeze my cheeks and angle my head to receive the kisses appropriately.  I'm tired, so ready for a few precious adult hours.  I'm tempted to cut her off, lay down the law, and close the door.  But somewhere deep down I hear the whisper, savor this moment.  And so I lean in for yet another super-sloppy, open-mouthed, suction-cup kiss on the cheek.  

Every day races by so quickly, I don't want to forget a moment of it.  I don't want to forget how she refers to the nursery at church as The Nursery Rhyme and it's volunteers The Nursery Rhymers.  I don't want to forget how she starts every other sentence with a sharp intake of breath and the words, I have an idea! or how she calls Ben her best friender and she tears up every time he leaves for work.  I don't want to forget a single snuggle, sweet sleepy sigh, or whispered I love you.

And so bedtime will take longer than I planned and my precious adult-only hours will start a bit later, but every kiss makes it worth it.

Special

Special Needs

Why do these two words, special and needs when put together make my Momma heart simultaneously sink and bristle?  It's undeniable, my baby boy sees three specialists a week to help him speak, move and develop.  For most of our appointments we go to a wonderful children's clinic full of fish tanks, therapy dogs, toys, bright colors and beautiful murals.  Many of the children in the waiting room are severely disabled, and I tell myself that Samuel doesn't really belong here. That we are just here for extra credit. That's it's all preventative.


And then my bubble of ignorance is burst.  Because Samuel is not walking, physical therapy is suggested.  Low muscle tone is diagnosed.  Leg braces and foot supports are discussed and appointments for fittings are made.  I fall into a tailspin where I question for the millionth time why and what if and if only.  I again question every decision I've ever made regarding both of my pregnancies and give myself a pretty good flogging for not trusting my instincts more and following my natural intuition.  I circle yet again through the stages of grief, faster this time than in the past, but painful nonetheless.  I renew my efforts to speak more gently to myself so that I can hear the whispers of my instincts. When at last I feel acceptance and peace coming around the corner, I get a little nudge from my precious boy.


He decides to start walking.

To be honest, his sister decided he should start walking, and that boy would go to the moon if she told him it was the place to be.  Eleanora flung open her arms from across the room and called to Samuel, "Walk to me!" and he did, just like that.  Again and again they continued this game, each time with Samuel walking further, each time ending in a sweet sibling hug of congratulations.  And as he walks across the room, he gives me a smile that says, relax Momma, we're going to be just fine.


And you know what?  I believe that wise, wonderful little guy.  He knows what he's doing and I'm just happy to be along for the ride.

Bliss

Post speech therapy, sister's at school, so I have Momma to myself snuggles.

Beach Boy

His hair is way too long, but I don't have the heart to cut it.  I love it when he shakes that beautiful, beach bum blonde hair like surfer coming out of the water.  I love the cleft in his chin that matches Ben's.  I love his piercing blue eyes.  I love the dimple he gets high on his cheek when he is really happy.  I love his sweet voice practicing new sounds and silly voices.  I love his very rare "Momma" and his much more frequent "Dada".  I love his giggle, his sweet nature, and the sight of his chubby fingers nearly always clutching a car or truck.  I even love the way he always kicks his left foot over his body when he's having a tantrum.

I am so proud of my precious boy.  He may not have many words yet, but he makes sure his voice is heard.  He may not be walking yet, but his determined head-down-full-speed-ahead crawl gets him anywhere he wants to be.  He may not be able to tell a joke yet, but his sense of humor is evident when he giggles and puts his sock on his head. 

And his joy?  It's contagious.  You'd be hard pressed to find a happier boy.  And you certainly won't find a Momma more in love.

A Day in the Life

Things around here have been busy, busy, busy.  Preparing the house to go on the market, getting ready for the big move across the country, traveling, school, and the day-to-day craziness that comes with the Littles. My focus can be so narrow, sometimes I need to step back get a different perspective.  The days are exhausting, but the rewards are something else. 

The following is an original photo essay by Eleanora Hoffman.

"I'm a mom traveling with my kids.  For me, this is not a vacation. It's a business trip."

-Claire from "Modern Family"

So very, very true.  

Vacationing with Littles couldn't be more different than my pre-children vacations.  No more stacks of books to plow through between naps on the beach.  Instead, the day-to-day needs of my sweet ones are intensified by unfamiliar surroundings.  Sleep is disrupted, meals are not on time, tantrums result.  

I long to be that zen Momma who rolls with the punches, projects calm in the storm, never snaps at her husband, and keeps her cool when the sugar demons take over my sweet girl's body.  In reality, I become to easily unnerved and rattled.  I'm unhinged long after the tantrum has passed.  I grumpily wonder if this is a vacation at all. 

And then I remember... I'm not really on vacation.  I am out of the "office" and traveling with my work.  And it is the best, hardest, most wonderful job there ever was.  And man-oh-man are these smiles it worth it.

Three

Three.  My beautiful round-faced baby with dark hair has become a willowy, long-haired, blonde little girl.  

She's a handful, this one.

For months she's been telling anyone who mentions the words two or three,

I two, but I'll be three on my next birfday.

I may be the Momma, but she is teaching me something new everyday...

...no hug is big enough (bigger and bigger!), no kiss is loud enough (bigger and bigger!) and no snuggle is long enough (just one more snuggle, but noooo singing)

...imaginary friends deserve birthday parties too

...magic eraser removes permanent marker from stainless steel appliances (thank you, Lord)

...one more book is always a good idea

...dancing and spinning are mandatory

...every morning is a reason to celebrate

...Daddy is so fun, he shouldn't need a bathroom break

...putting shoes on is an art that cannot be rushed, especially when we are running late

...mustaches are cool (Liam, I like your mustache. I wish I had a mustache.)

...singing is very important, knowing the words is not

...I am so, so blessed

Happy belated birthday, sweet girl!

PJs in Public

Little Red Riding Hood, the Wolf, Granny, and the Woodsman

It was my first attempt to make costumes for the Littles and pull off a costume theme for the family.

Let's look past the wolf's wonky ears, crooked nose, and eye falling off.

Let's pretend I wasn't one of the few mothers dressed up at the school Harvest party, and certainly the only not dressed up as a beautiful fairy/beautiful witch/beautiful woodland creature.

Let's forget that I was on the receiving end of some strange looks (I don't think people could figure out what I was), and comments such as "you look tired" (as in so tired I forgot to get dressed??), and "you are brave" (really, really, not).

The kids were adorable, Ben rocked the woodsman outfit, and I spent an entire evening in public dressed in an oversized nightgown, robe, and slippers.  

I bet I was a whole lot more comfortable than those beautiful fairies.

Faux Fall

September = sweaters, cozy fires, apple picking, and hot cocoa.  

September in Arizona = triple digit temps, sweaty car rides, apple picking and did I mention heat?

I miss you, Autumn.

Photo Credit

I failed to give credit for the beautiful photos in the last post to our amazing friend and photographer, Sarah.  Any photographs that made you gasp with their technique and composition were the result of her artistry.  Thank you, Sarah, for such lovely photographs that we will treasure for a lifetime.

Homecoming

Just over a year ago, I had to call to the NICU to check on Samuel before going to bed.  

And then, one year ago, we celebrated the homecoming of our sweet boy.

That night (and many following nights) we slept snuggled up together in bed, my nose resting on his head to inhale his heavenly smell.  Last night, I crept into his room, tucked his blanket in under his chubby legs, and watched him sleep.  My precious baby.  My little fighter.  

He has come so far.  From this...

...to this

From this...

...to this

When I'm lucky, this bruiser of a boy (and his nosy-pokey-chatty-loving sister) will let me rock him to sleep.  I hear his sweet shudder sigh as he relaxes into me and I try to drink it all in, every last drop, and sear it into my brain.  

Welcome home, beautiful boy.

The Great Escape

What a difference a day makes.

A full 24 hours of only feeding ourselves, not preparing a meal, changing a diaper, wiping a nose, or refereeing a conflict over a toy.

A chance to think complete and somewhat coherent thoughts without interruption, to lay in bed and feel the breeze through an open window while listening to a lovely afternoon thunderstorm.

Sleep.  Deep blissful sleep, with no chance of having to drag ourselves out from under cozy covers to assure our imaginative toddler there are no monsters in her room, or clunk around the kitchen making a bottle at two a.m.  

We ate our meals slowly and lingered at the table without the pressure to get home, relieve a babysitter and go to bed before an early morning wake-up call.

We had time to step away from the craziness of day-to-day life to evaluate, plan for the future, and set priorities.  We drafted a family purpose statement to help keep us focused on what is truly important and filter out everything else.  It will help us make decisions in how we spend our time and money.  It is also a picture of who we are and who we want to be as a family.  We set priorities to feed our bodies healthy foods, to become debt-free, and be and to generous and extend grace to each other and those around us, among other things.  All wonderful, deep, challenging priorities for us to aspire to.  As we were wrapping up our serious, future-looking conversation, Ben added one more item to the list...

Be silly and laugh together.

There is a reason this guy is about to get his PhD.  He is one handsome genius.  What is more important in these trying/wonderful/wild/fleeting little years than to laugh?  I have the choice a hundred times a day...Will I be frustrated when I find Samuel examining the bottom of a previously full container of dry oats?  Or do I grab the camera before I grab the broom?  Will I be embarrassed when Miss Independent insists on dressing herself and has her clothes on inside out, shoes on the wrong feet, and misshapen cowboy hat on her head when we go to the library?  Or do I praise her efforts and ignore the rest?

I choose to laugh.  And I have a sneaking suspicion that we will need our sense of humor even more in the years to come.

Although it was heavenly to have 24 child-free hours, we couldn't wait to get home.  The time away gave me  a rare chance to miss my precious Littles.  It gave me the energy to focus on priorities I've been putting off and things I've been neglecting.  I'm motivated to really buckle down...and get silly.

A HUGE thank you-thank you-thank you to the most amazing "Aunt NaNa and her Wee-am (Liam)" for taking the plunge into temporary parenting with grace and expertise.  A couple more weekends like this and we'll call it even for being the masterminds behind your love connection.  

Zen Masters

The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or anticipate troubles, but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly.

-Buddha

I read somewhere that babies are little zen masters.  The past is forgotten and the future doesn't exist.  All that matters is right now.  My normal state is far from zen.  I fret and worry wondering is there enough flax in her oatmeal to fortify her brain against another episode of World World, did we read enough today, am I talking/playing/directing enough but not too much?  I realize some anxiety is just a normal part of motherhood.  But how much is too much?  What is the tipping point between healthy protectiveness and overzealous mothering?  Good grief, I am even anxious about my level of anxiety.

As Buddha said, mourning the past allows my mind to be unhealthy.  I mourn the what-ifs, the should-haves, and the if-onlys.  And anxiety is a part of my genetic makeup.  I come by it honestly, but it is something I long to conquer.  

Samuel's traumatic birth and related health complications have certainly stretched my mental health to the limits and exposed my glaring inadequacies.  There is so much that is unknown about his future.  We have been given the following statistics for children with his diagnosis: 

1 out of 3 babies are fine.  A word I despise, by the way.  What mother wants her baby to be just fine? Or is that just the perfectionist, type-A personality in me?  Hello, anxiety.

1 out of 3 babies have developmental delays.  This could be a speech or motor delay (Samuel has been diagnosed with both) that will be overcome.

1 out of 3 babies have developmental disabilities.  This could include anything from cerebral palsy to a learning disability.

Only within the last few months have I been able to say the words grade III intraventricular hemorrhage resulting in mild hydrocephalus without stumbling over them.  I had some sort of mental block about Samuel's diagnosis that kept me from remembering, let alone comprehending, what those scary words meant. 

When we first learned of Samuel's condition, Ben quickly went into gatekeeper mode, gathering information, asking thoughtful questions, gently insisting he handle the depressing literature being handed to us.  He protected me from the terrifying possibilities, knowing it was more than I could handle.  Gratefully, I sank into an ignorant cocoon and focused on the more immediate issues we were facing during life in the NICU; regulating oxygen, eating by mouth, and staring at the blinking, blaring monitors as if by sheer force of will I could control them.

Months passed.  After haltingly explaining Samuel's diagnosis to yet another specialist and being gently corrected, it was time to shed light on the ignorance I had clung to.  I nervously typed "hydrocephalus", "IVH", and "grade III" into the Google search box.  I willed myself to focus on the medical sites, not feeling ready to read message boards or forums.  As a result, I now know more than I ever wanted to about the possible outcomes for grade 3 brain hemorrhage sufferers.  

And despite the odds, our Samuel is making wonderful progress.  He has recently progressed fully from army-crawl to upright crawl, an important developmental milestone.  He is vocalizing more and more, repeating consonants (dah-dah-DAH!) with varying inflection.  Weekly visits from a lovely developmental specialist, upcoming visits to the speech therapist, and frequent check-ins with the neurologist to monitor fluid levels in his brain are now just a part of our routine.  He is a beautiful, snugly, sweet, happy, resilient little boy, a zen master with the Buddah belly to match.

With so much of the past to mourn and question and so much of the future to worry and fret about, I must remind myself not to miss this precious present moment, and experience it wisely and earnestly.  The Prince of Peace asked,

Can all your worries add a single moment to your life?

-Jesus (Matt 6:27)

If I let it, worry can steal moments of sweet joy.  Moments like this...

And so I will again attempt to shake off the weight of worry and instead embrace my little zen masters knowing this moment, right now, is all that that really matters.  

Off to School

 I love fall.  The changing leaves, cooler temperatures, apples, pumpkins, clean notebooks and pencils all inspire me to make of a fresh start.  I still think of the year in terms of the school calendar.  That may be because my super-smart husband is entering his seventh (and final!) year of graduate school before entering an academic profession.

The school year took on a whole new meaning for me as of yesterday.  I dropped my first-born baby off for her very first day of school.  I swear we brought her home from the hospital just yesterday.  How did this happen?  Samuel must have sensed by neediness and compensated by insisting I rock him to sleep for his nap.  With no toddler holding his foot to her chest because, "his foot is my baby and I hug and kiss it" causing Samuel to squirm and giggle and fight sleep, he drifted off in no time.

As for Eleanora, she had a wonderful morning.  After some initial nervous clinging and crying, she got right down to the business of playing with all-natural toys, baking bread, listening to stories with handcrafted puppets, and playing outside (oh how I love you, Waldorf).  When I arrived to pick her up, she noticed me, then turned back to her circle of friends to calmly explain, "that's my Momma".  Way to play it cool, my dear.

"Lambie" was a mandatory companion for school today

Today was a much tougher morning.  From her first bite of pink pancakes (pureed beets + ricotta cheese = delicious and little girl friendly), she explained that "you stay at school with me today Momma, ok?".  Drop off was rough, rough, rough and left me standing outside her classroom door hiding tears behind my sunglasses listening to screams of, "Mooooomaaaaa!".  I forced myself to the car, while clinging to Samuel a little too tightly, and called Ben to convince me not to run back in and take her home.  

As tough as it is to be apart from Eleanora, it is such a gift to have the chance to miss her.  And as much as sweet Sammy loves his big sister, the one-on-one Momma time is so good for him too.  He is already vocalizing more, or maybe I just can hear him better in the quiet? 

I know that school will be good for Eleanora, good for Samuel, and good for all of us.  But right now, I'm counting the minutes until I scoop up my precious girl and bring her home.