Kingston's 2nd Annual Birthday Letter

There are times when I sit down to write and the words just flow…when the words are there, just waiting to be written.

This isn’t one of those times.

Each time I sit down to write this letter, I stare at a blank screen.

That is how much I love you, my sweet boy. There aren’t words for this kind of love. You are, without question, one of my life’s greatest gifts.

With your hugs and the way you hold onto me as though just a few minutes longer are all you’ll need. I know I should go but you make me weak. I need that.

Thank you, Kingston. Thank you for wearing your love for me on the outside; for holding me with all that you are.

Just saying your name makes emotion pour out from my heart. Never in my life have I experienced such a deep love for something or such an overwhelming amount of pride and joy. Thank you for making me a Mommy and your Dad a Daddy. We have such a special bond from being your parents, that we can often just look at each other and without saying a word know exactly what the other one is thinking or feeling about you.

Watching you grow up this past year has been a blur. A blur of you. You’ve changed so much, so fast! It’s been hard for me to keep up. One minute you were unsteady on your feet and the next you were running through the house like a crazy boy. It’s so hard to remember the days when you were stationary.

You went to bed one night barely speaking and woke up the next morning with words exploding from your mouth. You want to know the names of things! And when we tell you what things are you say them back to us. And let me tell you, you have the quite the vocabulary. Words like "broke", "buzz", "buddy" and some sounding like four letter words we wouldn't dare say. Take "truck" for example or when you tell Blue to sit.

It hasn’t been an easy year for us, you and me. We’ve had some…adjustments. With these new found words of yours has come a serious case of toddler ‘tude. You like to say “No, NO” when you don’t want to do something we want you to do. I know you’re just testing out the world a little bit, trying to find your own sense of control over the little things, so I cut you some slack, sometimes. But not always. You have to get out of the bath. Ad you could possible brush your teeth away if brush for a y longer. And I have to change your stinkbutt diapers. Be nice to girls, Even if they have cooties.(And they ALL have cooties until I tell you otherwise. Except me. Mamas don’t count.)

You need lots and lots of cuddles. Sometimes you still need a few middle of the night snuggles, and while I’d rather stay in my own bed, all comfy and cozy(and asleep), I’ll give up a few minutes of rest to breathe in your toddler scent in the middle of the night. That’s when you snuggle your face into my neck and sleep the most peacefully. It’s hard for me to put you back into your crib when you snuggle like that.

In the past year you’ve taught me how to be a mother–your mother. This is something I always wanted, and there was a time when I didn’t know if I’d ever be even sort of good at this. But your cuddles, your kisses and hugs, and they way you call for mommy, tell me that I’m more than just sort of good. I’m pretty okay. Even when I’m not.

You know what you want, when, and how you want it. Boy, we have had quite a few disagreements over your opinion. No, you cannot eat gummies for dinner. Im sorry but we cannot go outside at 9pm. And please try to remember the vacuum cleaner is not to be used as a riding toy. Please try not to kill our dog. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve actually thought you murdered Blue with your toys, eye gouges, and hair pulling.

I have shed many tears over the passing of your second birthday. Because you’re getting so big and my baby is gone. Because it’s difficult to remember every moment of the past two years. Because Daddy and I haven’t decided whether you’ll have a brother or sister. Because with each passing moment I'm acutely aware that these precious moments with you will not be forever.

2 years ago today you were a stranger. I could only dream of what your voice would sound like when you said, “Mommy". I could only imagine what you would look like when you took your first steps. I could never comprehend how proud I would be every time you learn a new word, when you blew out the candles of your 2nd birthday cake, and all your other little accomplishments. I would have never guessed how much joy and happiness you could bring to me.

2 years ago today I wasn’t sure I could do it. I still have days that I’m not sure I can do it. But, I hope you know how much I try to be the best mom possible. I love making you laugh so hard that your face turns red and you get hiccups. I love tickling you so hard that you giggle and say, “No, Mama! No!”. I love that I’m the only one who can understand your “kinglish”. I love that I get just as excited as you (okay, maybe more excited) when we see a big cuck (truck). I love getting to discover new things with you.

2 years ago today I knew I loved you, but I could have never imagined how much more I could love you today. Kingston, I love you so much and am so proud of the boy you are. I can’t wait to see how much you change and grow over the next year.

I’m thankful that YOU still love me, even when I don’t love myself very much. Even when I don’t think I’m very good at this and we’ve had a terrible, horrible, no-good, really bad day. You still come to me and say “Mommy up!” waiting on me to show you the world above your eye level. And there’s something kind of poetic about that. Something kind of awesome.

You are my sunshine; my bestest little boyfriend.

With a heart bursting with love,

Mommy

Newborn nostalgia (aka the lies we tell ourselves)

It wasn’t so long ago that I was the clueless mama of a newborn baby boy.

But it’s been long enough that I look back on those days with the sepia-toned lens of nostalgia—one not covered with spit up or smeared with overflow from a leaky diaper.

In other words, my memories of that time are filtered through a thick layer of bullshit.

See for yourself:
B.S. Mirror: From the moment I found out I was pregnant I felt glowing and embraced the life that was growing inside of me. Yes, there were aches and pains; some discomfort, but it was all going to be worth it in just 40 short weeks.

Reality check: Pregnancy sucked. I was bloated and tired. I worried constantly that I was not caring for this child enough to make a perfect human being. He broke my ribs. He dislocated my pelvis. I was In constant pain but refused to let anyone know. 40 weeks is BULLSHIT. K arrived after 42 weeks of torture.

B.S. Mirror: January 12 is going to be my big day, when I can finally rid of this physical burden on my body. I will be able to move again. My perfect delivery is within sight. This is what we have been waiting for. The pain wasn't so bad. And after all, this perfect human is worth it.

Reality check: My unmedicated delivery hurt like a mother-fucker. My husband did not watch in admiration and love; he was too busy playing on his PSP. K ripped apart my undercarriage to the tune of 53 unmedicated stitches.

When I arrived home with my not-so-cute screaming bundle of joy I did get normalcy back. In fact it was too normal. Vacuuming and entertaining just 12 short hours after K butchered his way into the world. I wanted everything back to my pre-baby honeymoon with dear husband also. So much so that, I ignored the advice and pleas of my midwife to stop causing her to redo stitches.

B.S. Mirror: I see myself cuddling under a blanket on the couch, my son snuggled on my chest. I smooth the downy peach fuzz away from his face and smile, feeling strangely complete as we both drift into sleep.

Reality Check: I am exhausted. I haven’t had more than two hours of sleep in seven weeks. My back hurts. My boobs hurt. I want nothing more than to escape back to my childless days for a little while—just long enough to get a few precious hours of shut eye.

Deciding to ignore all the warnings about the dangers of sleeping with your child, I collapse on the couch, willing myself into unconsciousness. But when I do finally fall asleep, I dream I’m smothering my son and jerk myself awake—feeling even worse than I did before.

B.S. Mirror: I am strolling down the street on a breezy spring morning, my son gurgling happily in his stroller. I chat with him as we walk, pointing out the trees waving in the wind, the puffy clouds in the sky and the brightly colored flowers blooming along the sidewalk. There is no place I’d rather be.

Reality Check: I am walking briskly down the street with my son thrown into his stroller. It’s only after we’ve walked for 15 minutes that his hiccupping sobs finally quiet.

Although I feel like an absolute idiot, I dutifully keep a running dialog going as we go. Why? Well, I’m afraid the Parenting Gods will strike me down if I fall silent and leave him to his newborn ruminations. But really, there’s only one thing I want to know—how many extra calories do I burn with his eight-pound body as extra baggage.

B.S. Mirror: I sit on the floor in the family room, humming to myself as I fold another load of tiny little onesies. The house is clean, quiet and peaceful, and I feel lucky to be alive.

Reality Check: I swear under my breath as I fold yet another load of onesies. The house is in chaos around me. Dishes haven’t been done in days, the carpet is buried under a layer of dog fur and dirty burp cloths are strewn everywhere I look.

Just as I finish, a scream breaks through the silence, and I tiredly trudge up the stairs for the 15 bazillionth feeding of the day. I fervently wish my mommy would come and save me.

I know these things are all true because, well, I have a blog. And I wrote this stuff down, yo. But that doesn’t keep my hormones from melting into goo every time I see a newborn. And it doesn’t silence the voice that says, “Oh, come on. You know you want another one.”

Stupid hormones.

What does your B.S. mirror tell you?

20 Things I bet You Didn't Know About Me

FROM THE BOTTOM UP

1. I like to wiggle my toes when I’m waiting for something – like in the waiting room of my dentist. It makes me less nervous.

2. I like to be sockless as much as possible. Places I’m definitely barefoot are: a) at home b) in bed c) in the shower.

3. I love to sleep with a snuggle pillow. It has to be just the right pillow--not too hard and not too soft. For this purpose, Ryan and I often have to have a "Pillow Draft" at the start of the night.

4. I am a sucker for pain. I love it. It makes me feel alive. Controlling pain makes me feel tough. And just for shits and giggles I love hearing Ryan say "ow". He knows the look now, so will just give me an arbitrary "OWWWW" so that he doesn't get hurt.

5. Okay, I must confess. I love wearing high heel shoes. I love hearing the click click click as I walk. It makes me feel sophisticated and sexy.

6. Oh, I forgot to tell you about my ankles, calves and thighs. Well, later.

7. I hate talking on the phone. Send me an email. A text. A smoke signal. I can't stay focused on the phone.

8. I sing in the car. I sing loudly and proudly...that is until someone pulls up beside me. I may have pretended to be talking on my hands-free phone once or twice. Go ahead, judge me- you know you've done it.

9. I hate forks! The sound of forks touching things freaks me out. It makes my teeth hurt. Gawd forbid someone scratches the plate, or AHHHh their teeth or if they get stuck together in the dishwasher (in this case they will stay there until Ryan separates them).

10. I get excited when I can solve a math problem. I am not talking complex linear algebra--I am talking "Hey, you did it Mrs. Whitehouse".

11. I won't be all negative but I HATE when people breath on me. People in lines at the grocery store, people telling secrets, Ryan while sleeping. I might add tomatoes and oranges to the ever growing list of things that just freak me out.

12. I don't talk about my childhood. Not becuase it was horrible but because it tends to lead to pity. My mother was highly disfunctional. So I don't bring it up. Most people only know me as the "teacher girl who has shit together". Ha gotcha fooled don't I.

13. I can't write. Never could. I find it amusing when you comment on my writing ability.

14. I am a people watcher. If I am with you in public I likely tuned you out 10 minutes ago while I was watching that guy try to figure out if he has BO. Probably, shouldn't have told you that one. But, now you know.

15. I have never had close friends. I tend to keep everyone at a distance. Those that I have been close with have never been so for very long. If I sense that I have let you down, or I am not perfect in your eyes anymore, I will push you away. Sorry, just the way it is.

16. I remember things in smells and sounds. I hate flowers because it reminds me of my moms funeral. I love the smell of men's cologne; it reminds me of when my dad would say goodnight. I could honestly have an epic soundtrack for my life. The music is constantly going in my head. In fact, I probably have a song that reminds me of you.

17. I like feeling sad. I like crying. It is as though I know I am alive. Just like a good laugh, a good cry feeds the soul.

18. When I am bored or am thinking I write using my fingers. An "air-write" of sorts. If you ever see me moving my fingers I am probably air writing those 4 letter words of which I am so fond. But I will never tell you what I am writing about ;) And Ryan insists that I add that when I am holding something back I bite the corner of my bottom lip. Probably, shouldn't have told you that one either.

19. I procrastinate. I work well under pressure.

20. I love to love. I am good at.

21. And now you know that.

On Being Strong

  

I've been in a bit of a head space lately.  I have been thinking about the relationships around me and who I really am.  I know deep stuff for mid-summer and probably about 10 years to late. But then again, it is never too late to figure out what has brought you to a particular point in your life?

I have never written about my mom, our relationship and the way that she ultimately died.  Is now the time to spill it? Probably not.  What I will say is that she taught me a lot about who I want to be and what steps should be taken to get there.


So here is where I become conflicted.  My mom was a person who constantly wore a mask.  She pretended everything was perfect all the time.  When she was dying inside you never would have known it.  I strongly believe that this is what killed her.  I swore from that day 9 years ago that I would be real.  The good the, the bad and the ugly.  And gosh, Ryan sees it all.

People comment all the time about how strong I am.  Friends wonder aloud to Ryan how the eff Nat turned out so normal.  The pressure to be strong all the time gets to wear on a girl.  I think that when it comes to physical pain I am strong--I block it out well because it is far easier than my other struggles.  When it comes to emotional pain I am far weaker.

I am easily wounded. If I think about the events that have scarred me in the past and continue to stay with me they all come down to one thing.  Feeling disposable. I often feel like I am disposable to people, it probably because I am acutely aware that my mother really did not love me (no no not a sob story--no sympathies needed).   There are precious few people who know these weak sides of me; who know how I fall apart when felling thrown away.  

F U!!

I fully recognize that for those of you living in blissful unawareness of what some mothers are actually thinking, this may be an UNPOPULAR post.  With that said, there are those of you who may actually feel liberated with what follows.  Here it is!!!

I swear at my kid.
Yes, I said it and I meant it. Each and every day, I swear at him.
I’m not ashamed to admit it.
My kid can be an asshole. Tell me your child hasn’t ever deserved to be cursed at and I’ll call you a liar.
I’ll even go so far as to say that I believe that swearing at my children makes me a better parent.
I’m not talking curse words like “dammit” and “hell.” Oh, no. I pull out the big guns. Those four letter ones of which I am such a big fan.
Now, I would never actually shout obscenities directly at my offspring. Obviously.
But, when Kingston is screaming at me because I won't put my sweater back on or banging his head against the wall because I have taken the BBQ lighter away, I may just have seen the words “shut the fuck up” float over him head in my imaginary commentary of the scene. And it may just have kept me from really losing it with him.
When Kingston is thrashing on the floor because I didn’t let him have a third bag of Goldfish before lunch, singing a little ditty that goes “Shut the fuck up, you pain in my ass. Shut the fuck up, my dear.” in my head, somehow, makes the moment more bearable.
And, his incessant whining can be blocked out by my asking “are you ever going to shut your little fucking mouth, you annoying child?” in my head. Logically, I know the answer is “not likely,” but just asking always makes me feel better.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Just fucking shoot me now.”
“Fuck off, sweetheart.”
Does saying these things mean that I love my children any less than a non-swearing mother? No. Does it make me a bad parent or role model? No, I don’t think so.
Because, by thinking these awful things, I keep myself from actually saying anything terrible to him. Which, I argue, would be far worse.
It’s a coping mechanism, of sorts. A tool to survive motherhood.
So, next time your child is screaming at the top of his lungs because he doesn't want to change his diaper or get his head out of the toilet or stop beating the daylights out of the poor dog, flip him off... in your head.
I know he deserved it.

Desperate times call for...great friends

I have made a number of close friends in my life. Some are from jobs I’ve had over past ten years, some are from high school, a few from college. All were life preservers in rough waters when I was trying to figure out the who’s, how’s and what the f*&$%’s of an intimidating new world.

Becoming a mother makes for quick and lasting friendships as well–there is nothing like the desperation of women who haven’t slept, smell like spit up and are leaking milk from one or both boobs. We need each other; who else wants to sit near us?

When I had Kingston, instinctively I knew I needed to find other moms. When you are seeking out your herd, look where the herd gathers. I made it my mission to make friends with women in the same situation–new baby, not working for the first time, isolated at home, feet still swollen even though we were promised they’d be back to normal by now. I followed women with babies into Starbucks. I went to any moms group, lunch or music class I could walk my stroller to. Some women I clicked with, some clearly wanted a better catch than I–which did have the familiar sting of rejection. Singles bar.

The women I met in the first months after having Kingston make up a large portion of my current greatest friends. Kingston was 10 weeks old and I was in the depths of new mommyhood loneliness. My misery was as obvious as the lack of sleep was on my face. I felt as though I had no one outside of a husband, infant and dog in my new life. I struck up conversations with the barista at Starbucks just to have adult interaction. Every decision I had made seemed wrong. How did I end up alone with a crying, gassy baby all day, watching The View and emptying the dishwasher every hour?(Thank God for dishwashers, by the way. And Barbara Walters.)

The neighborhood moms group saved my sanity, my life and (don’t judge me, but) possibly my son’s life. I was a walking, crying, screaming, mess. Between the breast pump and the endless laundry, I was a prisoner in my home. My eyebrows were overgrown, my roots dark and I thought I’d never be out of maternity clothes. It would be of no service to anyone to pretend I wasn’t disappointed with the lack of bliss in my domestic life.

Conversation in our group often revolved about returning to work, negotiating holiday time with in-laws and finding a pediatrician who doesn’t make you wait five hours for your appointment, and the best deals on BabySteals. I would also be lying if I didn't say that we had our fair share of "my husband is useless" rants. I liked all the women and truly felt we had a bond among us because we knew what being “up all night with the baby” really does to a person. But it was the women willing to break down in sobs at “how was your weekend?” and admit their desire to walk out the door, leaving husband and baby to fend for themselves that I wanted to hang out with every day. Tell me you hate your mother for instructing you on burping the baby and I will love you forever. I needed the authenticity, the empathy and the embrace of other women who were knee-deep in poop and not. at. all. happy.

Memories of the early days of our budding friendships stay with me: three girls overpowering a tiny suburban coffee shop with our babies, breastfeeding, bottles and burp cloths–and always, the stink of dirty diapers and one hysterical mother and infant (not necessarily related). Almost immediately, and with the enthusiasm of someone who has found religion, we signed on to support, listen to, vent with and entertain one another. We had found our soul mates.

One year later we remain close. One is on to her second child, while the other two of us drag our heels hanging on the memory of the Maternity Leave Mayhem. We are back to work. We rarely see each other as a group. Sometimes I go weeks without talking with them. Despite our early expectations, we are all reasonably happy and mostly well adjusted to family life. While we no longer have standing playdates or meet at Starbucks with our massive strollers, I know that when I am about to ask my husband for a divorce on Facebook or put my child up for sale on Kijiji, I can turn to either of these women for a laugh and perspective, and without the slightest chance of judgment.

I am so grateful!

On Becoming a Big Boy

Kingston is straddling the thin line between still being a baby and becoming a complete big boy and I feel like I’m standing on the Team Baby Side with homemade signs and confetti, dragging him back with all my might.

He doesn’t appear to be listening very well.


I cuddle him as much as I humanly can, I’m totally slacking on gentle hands enforcement, because he gives the BEST "I'm sorry" kisses. I MAY be beginning to understand those women who still breastfeed their four year old’s. Well, not really. But, I am having a very hard time with my baby losing his babyness.

I’m just not ready.

Even if he is.