open letter to my second-born son on his first birthday.

June 6, 2016June 6, 2016 / lindsay / 2 Comments

Dear Case,

The calendar says it’s June 6, 2016, which is a full year since your birth. I must be mistaken though, because I could have sworn you were born only yesterday; I can remember it so clearly, and your infancy has flashed so quickly before my eyes. But I suppose the stifling heat outside doesn’t lie — it is finally June, and you are a year old today. And the past year has been the most joyous (and most exhausting) year of my life to date.

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DISCLAIMER: The curse of the second child means you will hear me compare you to your older brother Dax a lot. I wish I could analyze you and your life without that comparison, but the truth is that parenting Dax is all I knew until you came along, and so now I have to relearn how to do this thing properly. Hope you’ll forgive me for that.

The first couple days with you in the hospital were much different than the ones we had with your brother when he was born three years earlier. Your dad left me alone with you a lot so he could go home and take care of Dax, so you and I had a lot of time to bond and learn how to nurse. Like your brother, you took to nursing pretty much immediately. You were a champ out the gate. Unlike your brother, however, you would not be quelled with a pacifier. You still can’t be. (You never took bottles, either, which means that the first six months of your life — when you were exclusively breastfed — we spent a LOT of time together. We were practically inseparable. For better or worse.)

You lived up to your nickname (Rainbow Baby) pretty much from the minute you joined us. You barely cried when you were born (it was just a breathy squeak, really) and were just content to be snuggled. I remember your first smile actually happened while we were still in the hospital. It nearly knocked me over. Your brother didn’t smile until he was six weeks old, so getting that flash of sunshine SO EARLY was unexpected and oh so precious.

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Adjusting to life at home with you was both easy and crazy difficult. It was easy because you drifted into our lives with such little fanfare; you were rarely awake, and when you were awake, you were hardly ever fussy (only when you were obviously hungry or wet). To compete with a rambunctious, potty-training toddler was almost impossible. I remember chasing after Dax for long stretches of time and stopping after several minutes to think to myself, Oh dear, where is Case????, and I would rush to find you exactly where I’d put you (in the pack n’ play, or in your bouncy chair) completely content and quiet. Just happy to be here with us in our chaos. You were so easy.

But life was also crazy difficult. Though you were always so happy, you were also very attached to me. Like I already said, you wouldn’t take a pacifier or bottle, so the first six months of your life I couldn’t leave the house for more than two hours at a time. I also didn’t sleep much, because you wouldn’t sleep unless I was holding you. You wanted me and only me. Dada wouldn’t cut it, and forget a babysitter or other family member. You were a Mama’s boy through and through, which wore me a bit thin.

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Now that you’re a year old, and I get at least a solid 4 hours of sleep each night, I can say that I loved being so needed by you. I love that I’m your favorite person, your nighttime lovey, your everything. But I remember being in the thick of it, trying to work/parent/survive on just an hour of sleep every day, and it was bizarre and terrifying. I learned to heavily rely on coffee, and I still have to pound a mug or two of it before 9am in order to function. (You’re so worth it, though. I promise. I wouldn’t have it any other way.)

I’m so grateful I was able to give you so much rest because in your waking hours you had enough energy to crush all of your milestones. You rolled over at only two months old, pulled up to standing at 6 months, and were eating solid (not pureed) food by just 7 months, despite having NO TEETH. (You finally popped your first and only tooth to date just a few months ago, though tooth #2 is starting to sprout.) You also eat pretty much anything that isn’t nailed down, but your current favorite foods (besides Mama Milk) are tomatoes (YEAAAAH!), peas, black beans, and… seriously anything else I throw at you.

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Around 7 months you started to talk back to us. Your first word was “Baba,” which has turned into “Bubba” (which is what we call Dax). This doesn’t shock me at all; you are HANDS DOWN Dax’s favorite person on this planet, and so his name being your first word is completely appropriate. After that you said, “Mama” (yay!) and then you learned how to say MILK and MORE in sign language, and finally you spouted “Dada.” At the time of writing you also say, “Kitty,” “Nana,” “GG,” “Uh oh,” and “hi!” You’re working on saying, PLEASE in sign language, but that one is proving to be a bit tricky. Instead of rubbing your own chest, you want to rub the chest of whoever is closest to you at the time. (You’ll get it, bug! I promise!)

At the moment your favorite activities are playing with your brother, getting tickled by your Dada and me, and putting things inside other things. If we need you to be occupied for a while, we will give you a handful of random objects and a bowl or bucket. You’ll be set for a long while. It is not strange for me to go to lace up my running shoes and find tiny toy trains deep inside them, or head to the bathroom for a shower and discover your brother’s clothes floating in the toilet.

You just love to put things inside of other things. And as frustrating as it can be sometimes, I love to find evidence of your exploration all over our apartment.

My dear Case, you’ve heard me call you our Rainbow Baby. This is a term that is given to babies who are born after miscarriages. While you are too little to know what a miscarriage is, just know that my pregnancy with you as well as this first year of life with you has been more precious to me than I can probably ever articulate. Just the fact that you are here and I can squeeze you is a miracle — a rainbow after a storm. But as if that wasn’t enough, your personality is nothing short of a colorful sky. You are always joyous, bright-eyed, and delightfully lovey. You are quite literally a rainbow personified. You are God’s promise of hope and beauty in a world that can sometimes be dark and ugly (despite your blase attitude toward cupcakes).

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Case Daniel, before you were born I didn’t know how badly we needed you. Now that you’re here, I don’t know how we ever lived without you.

Happy birthday, my sweet Rainbow Baby. I love you so, SO much.

Love,

Mama.

their first love.

March 3, 2016March 4, 2016 / lindsay / 1 Comment

A few weeks ago, my son walked in on me doing something he’d evidently never seen before.

“Mama, are you trying to take your eyelashes off?”

My mouth fell open and I broke my gaze from my bathroom mirror in order to meet Dax’s three-year-old baby blues, squinted in confusion. I paused for a second, then acknowledged the mascara wand in my hand.

“Oh no, baby,” I chuckled. “I’m putting mascara on my eyelashes.”

“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious.

And I didn’t have a satisfactory answer.

Because I need to make my eyelashes darker than they naturally are? Because I have this fear that when my eyelashes are naked it makes my face look washed out and tired? Because I am a woman and I need to prove to society that, despite being in a happy marriage and caring for two small children, ONE OF WHOM STILL WAKES SEVERAL TIMES A NIGHT TO NURSE GODBLESSHIM, I’m “not letting myself go”? I am still pretty, right?

“Because that’s what grownups do sometimes,” I half-heartedly offered after a beat.

He glared at me, still confused. Then he shrugged and left the bathroom.

Last night, after Dax and Case were in bed for the night, I turned to Dan with bright, expectant eyes.

“Can we dye my hair now, please? You promised you’d help me do it tonight.”

He shrugged in agreement, not entirely convinced I needed to dye my hair. But I’ve been overwhelmed by the army of grays storming my crown, growing bulkier and more threatening each day, and the box of hair color I picked up from CVS in a panic was burning a hole in my hand.

As soon as I mixed the hair color and began sectioning out portions of my hair, Dax quietly crept out of his bed and into the bathroom.

“I have to go potty,” he announced, shuffling past me.

He sat down on his potty, and Dan sat down on the toilet across from him.

“What is Mama doing?” Dax asked.

I felt a pang in my stomach, the very same kind I felt when he asked about my mascara, as I listened to my husband trying to explain.

“She’s changing the color of her hair,” he said. “You know how you paint? Well, she’s kind of doing that. She’s painting her hair a different color.”

He looked at me and took the whole scene in — me, wearing thin, too-roomy plastic gloves, squirting dark goop onto my scalp and trying to spread it around — and just shrugged. “She needs to do that in the shower.”

My brain flashed backward to when Dax was maybe a little older than a year old, and I did something (can’t remember what, maybe picked him up?) that made him exclaim, “Mama strong! Mama Hulk smash!” and I remember thinking that I wanted him to always think of me that way.

Strong. Confident. Hulk smash.

Not overly concerned about my appearance. Not going to pretty inconvenient lengths to disguise my age.

A while ago I found some weird meme that had a picture of a young mom and her baby boy with text that read, “You’ll always be his first love,” or something, and I kind of rolled my eyes at the time, but I get it now, especially since the birth of Case who has unashamedly claimed me as the love of his life.

The look on Dax’s face as he was trying to figure out why in the world I’d want to change anything about my appearance, for seemingly no real reason, was pretty humbling. And I’m not sure he’ll even remember these instances but I will. And I hope to go forward from this in a different direction, one that brings my kids up knowing their worth does not depend on their looks, nor does the worth of the women around them.

Especially not their first love.

embracing stillness.

December 13, 2015 / lindsay / 2 Comments

This month Case turned 6 months old, which is purely impossible seeing as how I just gave birth to him yesterday. But alas, his first half birthday has come and gone, and we have now entered into the wonderful phase of baby parenting that includes the joys of first solids and the sorrows of navigating sleep routines.

Until recently (like, as recently as this week) Case wouldn’t really sleep unless he was in my arms. He would nurse until he was content, and then slacken and unlatch in a quiet contented slumber. But if I tried to put him down, or even scoot him to be next to me, he would pop wide awake.

That’s how I rang in my 30th birthday, actually — lying on my couch nursing a sleeping Case — which I suppose is pretty appropriate.

It was precious. And lovely. But exhausting for me, because I have never been one to sit still for long periods of time, let alone lie down for long periods of time or nap. (I’ve always been too afraid to miss out on anything, you know? Extroversion be damned!) And sleeping while holding another person isn’t exactly comfortable or easy.

Because of my buzzing disposition coupled with the actual physical pain associated with lying still while holding a tiny person, Case’s little routine was hard to navigate. While my sweet baby snoozed into my ear, my twisted back would ache and I would get antsy and frustrated at these wasted moments that should have been spent organizing piles of laundry or cleaning dishes or writing blog posts but were instead spent in bed.

Things didn’t seem to be changing any time soon, so I eventually embraced it; when Case would get tired, I would line up a few of my favorite NPR podcasts on my phone, put in my earbuds, and snuggle in with him for the long haul.

After a while of doing this, I found that even I would doze off for a bit (any length of time between 20 minutes and a whole hour!) presumably because I’d finally let my expectations of anything else go.

It’s amazing how much can change in a week, though. In desperate exhaustion, I finally broke the news to Case that he’d have to learn to sleep on his own. Not only was I tired, but he was overtired as well, only getting in a catnap here or there throughout the day (usually snuggled up against me in my ring sling) and we both needed a change.

He responded pretty well to sleep training (better than I did, to be honest!) probably because he needed it so badly (even though he didn’t know he needed it) and now he sleeps relatively well by himself in his crib (teething and a gnarly sinus infection notwithstanding).

Only when I embraced the first frustrating stillness was I able to fall asleep. Only when Case embraced his crib was he truly able to rest. When our expectations changed, we witnessed the stuff of miracles.

Life is funny that way. We can want so badly for it to go one way but it doesn’t, and our expectations leave us downtrodden. But I’m finding that in this messy life, miracles happen more often than not. We just need to embrace them AS they come rather than HOW they come.

the case against the cry room.

November 16, 2015November 16, 2015 / lindsay / 3 Comments

I can’t remember if I’ve blogged about this or not, but Dax had a pretty gnarly case of colic when he was born and so for the first several months of his life, if he was awake, he was screaming. Not crying, screaming. And as a relatively young first time mom, this was not only exhausting and frustrating, but also embarrassing and demoralizing.

One time while I was still on maternity leave and absolutely dying from cabin fever, I remember I mustered up the courage to take Sir ScreamyPants out into the open. For once. We went to a local park to take a walk and get some fresh air.

About halfway into it, as I knew would happen, Dax woke up in the stroller and started to scream. I did my best to get him over to a bench as quickly as possible, put on my nursing cover, and wrestle this wriggling, screaming, angry little human into submission for nursing. A lady came up to me while all of this was happening and, instead of offering to help me, just spat out, “GOD are you going to DO something about that baby or WHAT?”

My cheeks burned.

For the majority of the first year of Dax’s life I didn’t think I could leave my house and go anywhere without feeling like my baby and I were just one big inconvenience.

Including church.

During my motherhood hazing period, I didn’t sit through a single sermon, despite being married to a youth pastor and, therefore, going to church (dare I say it) religiously. I spent the time I should have been in worship huddled in the church coffee shop, rocking and shushing my baby, trying so desperately to be seen and not heard. My loneliness was palpable, only exacerbated by the fact that my husband and I were one of the first couples of our friend group to have babies. I obviously didn’t know what I was doing, and it seemed my baby was shouting that fact out to the world, and I felt like he and I were broken, alone, and a nuisance to everyone around us.

When we moved to Naples two and a half years ago for my husband’s (and, at the time, my) ministry career, we discovered that our new church has a room attached to the sanctuary dubbed the “Mommy and Me” room, where moms can take their fussy babies during church services so as not to disturb the other worshippers. It houses a changing table, rocking chairs, and lots of toys, and is pretty sound proof. The audio from inside the sanctuary broadcasts in that room, and upon discovering it I thought, “Oh man, if I would have had this when Dax was born, I would have actually been able to enjoy church!”

Even though there is a sign on the door that clearly reads, “Mommy and Me Room”, I’ve never heard it referred to as such by anyone at our church. Anyone I’ve heard talk about this room refers to it as “The Cry Room”, which has always bothered me for (until recently) an unknown reason.

Why did this room’s nickname tick me off? Was it because I have always been a staunch rule follower, and people are clearly not following the rules by referring to this room by a name it was not originally given? That seems a bit unreasonable, even for me.

It wasn’t until I had my second son that I figured out why I hated “The Cry Room”; this room, as its name suggests, is not just a place where babies go to cry. It is designed to be the place babies go to cry.

After having two of them, I now know one true thing about babies: they cry. A lot. Sometimes, if they have colic like my oldest son did, they cry almost incessantly. Sometimes they only cry if something is obviously wrong, like my second son does. But regardless, they cry. It’s how they communicate. And it’s not wrong or bad or inconvenient.

It just is.

By encouraging moms to separate their babies (and in tandem, themselves) from the rest of the body of Christ — to send them from the living room to the garage of God’s house, essentially — simply because they are crying, we are cultivating a culture in which we can only approach the foot of the cross if we

are silent

are compliant

are orderly

aren’t annoying anyone

are clean

are perfect.

If we only allow babies (and children, for that matter) among the Body when they’re in good spirits, we’re telling them that God only wants part of their whole selves. We’re communicating that since we can’t be bothered with their noise or their innate baby-ness, God can’t be, either.

And that’s extremely frustrating to me as a mother.

After having Dax, I hated feeling like I was an outsider even in my own church just because my baby acted like a baby.

So when Case was first born, I unapologetically brought him everywhere with me, even into the pews with me on Sunday morning. A lot of the time he’d sleep right through the entire service, but if he woke up and started to fuss because he was hungry, I wouldn’t gather him up into a heap and hurry off to “The Cry Room”, frantically shushing him along the way, before annoying anyone in the Sanctuary. Instead, I just snuggled him and nursed him right in the pews.

Sometimes he’d quiet down after he ate. Other times he would start loudly squawking, adding his own baby-commentary to the sermon. Other times he’d continue to wimper and I’d jiggle him and attempt to make him a bit happier.

But unless he needed a diaper change, I didn’t want to take him to “The Cry Room.”

The thing is, Jesus died for that little squirmy, hungry, squawky baby, in all his glorious baby-ness. Just like he died for my colicky first born (who has grown into a way-smarter-than-average three-year-old). I never want either of them to feel like they can’t bring their whole selves to the altar.

Because if my children can’t be welcomed to cry in the House of God, then none of us should be.

sick baby.

October 30, 2015 / lindsay / 2 Comments

a fever is just
a hot forehead until it’s
an ear infection.

light in august.

August 9, 2015August 9, 2015 / lindsay / 2 Comments

A lot has happened since my last real blog post.

Well, really, ONE thing has changed, but the change is so huge that it has been the catalyst to several other changes.

Just over two months ago, at 4:12pm on June 6th, Case Daniel came into my arms for the first time after a swift and smooth six-hour labor two weeks before his due date. (Considering he was 8 lbs 1 oz and 20 inches, I’m so glad he didn’t stay in there growing for another two weeks.) And so, we’ve been adjusting to life as a family of four.

Apart from physically (he is almost a carbon-copy of his brother) Case is such a different baby than Dax was. Poor Dax was plagued by colic, reflux, and a severe dairy intolerance, so I distinctly remember that he spent the first three-ish months of his life screaming bloody murder which, for a first-time mother, was something I never thought I would live through. Case, on the other hand, is quite the easy going little one. He fusses when he’s hungry or tired or gassy, but otherwise he is absolutely peaceful. And he was born knowing exactly how to nurse and sleep at night. He’s one of those dangerous babies who make you think you could have a hundred of them.

He was born right after the school year ended, so I’ve been trying my best to figure out how to work from home with a newborn and toddler in tow all day everyday. It means pulling a lot of weird hours, enlisting help from whomever can offer it, and stopping mid-project to nurse or accompany Dax to the potty, but all the hardest things about my current situation pale in comparison to the hardships I faced when working outside the home. It is a challenge to hit all my hours each week (and, you know, get a decent amount of sleep) but I am so grateful to have the job I do that not only fulfills me vocationally but also affords me this precious time with my babies. They are only this small once and, as someone who is getting ready to send her eldest to Pre-K 3, I know firsthand how quickly these years fly by.

A month after Case was born the Cases (the family after whom he is named) drove six hours to come visit us and meet him. And I have to tell you, that was one of the best (and heaviest) things I’ve ever gotten to experience. Dan was in the shower and so I was holding Case when they arrived, so when we heard them knocking Dax ran to answer the door and let them in. My heart was racing and my palms were sweaty while I tried to keep my composure. But in that moment, while I held this precious little gift in my arms and then laid eyes on four people that have bestowed countless gifts upon my husband and me, I was incredulous. Here I was, surrounded by the deepest love I could comprehend, and why?

How did I deserve all of it? Two precious babies, and a group of people who love us enough to drive basically to the end of the earth to come see us? It just felt too good to be true.

So we took a picture with a selfie stick to make sure we had proof that it really happened.

(If you use your imagination, it’s like a human Venn Diagram!)

July brought with it stifling heat that, thankfully, I rarely encountered since I work from home, and Dax’s third birthday. And just a few days before that joyous day, my father, whom I haven’t seen in 20 years, died suddenly. I might blog more about that later but, for purposes of this post, know that the death of my father has stirred up some darkness within me that I wasn’t really aware of until now.

Granted, I did just have a baby. And the newborn fade makes life in general a lot harder to cope with, even without a sudden passing. But in conversations with my husband and spiritual mentor during this time, I’ve discovered some pretty disturbing things about my spirit and the way I view the world that, now that I’m aware of them, I hope I can now begin to grow and change.

And so, here we are. August. Heavy with heat but with it, light.

The house does not stay clean. The laundry does not end. My patience wears thin and I fail to meet my self-made standards on the daily. At this very moment I am blinking sleepiness away, feeling always-tired and yet at peace, because while I am certainly drowning in diapers and dishes, I am also held afloat by a bewildering grace.

open letter to my firstborn son on his third birthday.

July 19, 2015July 19, 2015 / lindsay / 2 Comments

Dear Dax,

Few things can drag a group of people outside in South Florida in mid-July, but a year ago, friends and family gathered under the weight of the bullying heat and humidity to celebrate your birthday.

We swam in the pool (though you kind of hated it), ate Chick-fil-A and cupcakes, and showered you with presents (mostly Spider-Man themed).

And just like that, you were two.

We finished out the summer by doing what you do; staying up way too late to catch the sunset on the gulf and splashing in the waves.

And as summer made a way for the fall, we started a year that was going to be full of crazy changes. And you took them all in stride.

First, a month after your birthday, we took you to Open House at your new school, The Village School. You were starting Pre-K 2 in the fall for two days a week and so we took you to meet your teacher, Ms. Amy.

I felt like my heart was in a vise the entire time, but you had a blast. You loved Ms. Amy and her puzzles that day and you loved them every day afterward.

You and I were both a bit nervous at first. As a matter of fact, the first few months, you cried whenever I would drop you off. But before long, you couldn’t wait to get to school to play with your friends Annabelle, Drake, and Zion.

You got your first big boy haircut a few weeks later in preparation for your school pictures. I was a bit worried you would squirm too much, but you did so well! Everyone in the hair salon said you were such a good two-year-old.

I think it turned out pretty good, don’t you?

A month after you started school, you and I went to Target by ourselves to get a pregnancy test while Dada was napping. After I put you down for a nap, I took the test, and we found out that you were going to be a big brother! You were so excited, and so were we!

You loved going to the doctor to hear the heartbeat (or “heartbeep” as you called it) of the “baby in Mama’s belly” and whenever we would visit my OB, you would crack up the entire office because you loved to talk to everyone. You also insisted that you be weighed every visit just like Mama. You loved to see the numbers on the scale pop up whenever you would step on, and we loved watching you grow right alongside me.

With pregnancy, my milk supply began to finally diminish so my body could put forth all of its energy into carrying your younger sibling. So it came time to wean you. On my birthday (because I’m a masochist, I guess) we snuggled right before bedtime and you asked to nurse. And I told you that Mama’s milk was all gone, and you said okay, and then you lay your head on my chest. I put my arms around you and heaved silent sobs into your blonde hair, mourning the last real component of your baby phase. But after it’s all said and done, I’m so proud that I nursed you until you were well over two. I wanted to make sure you got as much of that liquid gold as possible.

This year was the first year you really understood holidays. First was Halloween, and when you figured out that all you had to do was dress like Spider-Man and people would give you candy, you were hooked. We took you to a Trunk-Or-Treat at your school and saw so many other superheroes, but none of them owned it like you did.

You kept the entire costume — including the mask — on until we had to peel it off of you at bedtime. You were COMMITTED. Other kids were tearing their costumes off in the parking lot, but not you.

Thanksgiving was impressive because, despite being an extremely picky toddler, you actually ate pretty much everything on your plate. And then came Christmas…

Christmas this year was nothing short of magical. You had sparked an interest in Thomas the Train, asking to watch him everyday, so your dada and I got you some train tracks and some Thomas toys to open on Christmas morning and You. Were. OBSESSED.

For a week and a half, you wouldn’t eat or sleep. You just wanted to play with your trains and nothing could take you away from them. It resulted in some pretty epic meltdowns, but we eventually settled into a rhythm with Thomas.

To this day, you will play with your trains all day. Everyday. And your collection has expanded, thanks to your father’s inability to restrain himself whenever he stops by Walmart, Target, or Toys-R-Us. Just a few weeks ago, he moved all your toys into your room because our living room had all but turned into the Isle of Sodor.

It is so fun to watch you experience the world for the first time. We took you to the zoo this year, and to this day, you still remember watching kids feed the giraffe lettuce. You always remark about how you ALSO eat lettuce, but when you do, you eat it with ranch. (Maybe the giraffe could take a few pointers from you.)

You also love the Children’s Museum and if I had more money I’d take you there more often.

Soon, we found out who was growing my belly. It was a baby brother for you! And we named him Case!

We let you be the one to tell everyone on social media all about your baby brother because you were just so excited. I wasn’t sure how you would be once the baby was actually born, but while I was pregnant, it was so fun to see you fawn over the baby in my belly.

As the year progressed, so did your independence. You wanted to do everything yourself. And as I got rounder and rounder with your baby brother in my belly, I wanted to pull you even closer. You were my first, and the old adage is true that there is just something different about your first. So I would take you out on dates, just the two of us, so you would know how much I loved you and how that wouldn’t change, even with the introduction of another baby. A typical two-year-old, you were no stranger to time outs and reprimands, but on our special dates when it was just the two of us, you were polite. You obeyed. You stayed close. You listened. I think you appreciated the time as much as I did.

Your last day of Pre-K Two was an eventful day. Not only did you get to celebrate Water Day, and not only did we find that you grew what seems like a whole foot, but I also went to the hospital with contractions as I was in early labor with your brother.

A few days later, on June 6th, your brother Case Daniel came into this world and, let me tell you, I was so nervous. I felt so guilty making you share me and your father with a sibling. I had prepared myself for you to act out, be jealous, and to turn into a terror. But none of that happened. Dax, you were made to be a big brother. Watching you love on Case has been one of the biggest blessings I’ve received as a mother.

Your dad was feeling a bit ambitious when we brought Case home from the hospital because he decided that was when he was going to potty train you. I think you loved the extra attention it got you, especially since I was basically out of commission with a new baby, but man. Talk about stress.

Oh and potty training killed your naps. And it makes me so sad. As cute as you look in big boy undies, I’m not sure they’re worth this casualty.

Yesterday, a day before your actual birthday, all of us took you to the Naples Train Museum to celebrate. GG even came down for the occasion! We also met up with your best friend Evelyn and her family and had a blast watching you play and ride a real train! The museum even had a Thomas train which, of course, is what you loved most.

After the train museum, we took you to Chick-fil-A so you and Evelyn could play. When it got too overcrowded with kids, we took you home where you opened up all your presents (all Thomas-related, except the super sweet BIKE you got from JJ, Uncle Marc, Aunt Katie, and Uncle Brian) and then played with them until dinner time. We had your favorite (Mac and Cheese) and then capped off the night with (of course) a Thomas birthday cake.

When I took social psychology in college, I learned that humans’ personalities are pretty much solidified once they turn three. If that is the case, I’m so happy with the person you’ve become. You’re sweet, compassionate, and empathetic, but also strong-willed, stubborn, and independent. A beautiful combination of your father and I.

Dax, every year with you gets better. It is such a joy to watch you come into your own. I can’t wait to see what this fourth year has in store for you.

I love you so much! Happy birthday!

Love,

Mama.

mothers and moms and sheep and goats.

May 23, 2015 / lindsay / 3 Comments

The other day I was working at a Starbucks instead of at home (it’s nice to get out, you know?) and this particular Starbucks has its bathroom located outside between it and another store.

When my phone buzzed to remind me that it was time to go pick up Dax from school (do NOT judge; sometimes I’m so engrossed in my work that I don’t notice what time it is) I packed up my things and headed to use the bathroom before I left.

While waiting my turn, I noticed a young couple — probably not much older than Dan and me — sitting at one of the outdoor cafe tables. The woman was carefully holding a brand new sleeping baby girl, obviously their first and only one. They had the words, “BRAND NEW PARENTS” written all over them in that they were accompanied by a huge, new stroller adorned in countless baby toys and teethers and an obnoxiously overflowing diaper bag. And they looked tired. Happy, but tired.

I just gawked at them. That time in my life seems like it was forever ago, but it really wasn’t. It was only just a little bit shy of three years ago.

My mind was reeling. That Baby Girl was so impossibly tiny. “Are babies really that tiny when they first come out?” I thought to myself. “I mean I guess they are, right?” But I can barely remember a time where it didn’t almost break my back and tear my biceps to shreds when I go to pick up my solid-as-a-rock toddler boy.

Finally the bathroom door swung open indicating it was my turn. I went inside, did my thing, washed my hands, and zoomed out of there. I had to pass the couple again on my way to my car. I wanted so badly to stop and talk to them, but I was already almost late picking up Dax. So I just thought about what I wanted to say to them in my head really hard, hoping that by some chance they were mind readers and could hear me through my skull.

“I just want you both to know,” I furrowed my brow hard as I thought these words, “in case no one has told you, that you’re doing a really great job.”

That’s it. That’s what I wanted to tell them.

I remember the first three months of my son’s life nearly killed me. The sleep-deprivation, the incessant colicky screams, the bleeding nipples, everything. It all sent me to the edge of my limits and I remember thinking at more than one point that I was doing a terrible job and that motherhood must not come as easily to me as it does every other woman and that I was doomed to fail. In those early months, all I wanted to hear from someone was just a small, quiet, unprompted, and sincere, “Hey, you’re doing a really great job with that boy. I’m proud of you.”

Two weeks ago was Mother’s Day. The night before, appropriately I guess, I couldn’t get much sleep because, well, that’s what happens when you’re 30+ weeks pregnant and it hurts to sit and also hurts to lie down and also hurts to stand. I had spent the night tossing and turning in our guest bed trying and failing to get some rest. (Our actual bed is a 20-year-old broken hand-me-down mattress and it has screwed my back up in ways I never knew possible, and our guest bed is newer so that’s why I was giving it a try.)

When my alarm went off to tell me to get up and get ready to go to church, I was already awake and angry about it. I shut off the alarm and went into our bedroom feeling quite defeated. I turned on the shower to begin getting ready and heard my husband stir.

“Hey! Happy Mother’s Day!”

My eyes filled with tears and I just flopped down on the bed and told him that no, I did NOT want him to tell me Happy Mother’s Day because I don’t deserve it because I’m not a good mother and you should only say those words to people who are good mothers.

“I feel like just a mom,” I went on to explain. “Not a mother. Mothers have their junk together. Mothers meal plan. Mothers pick out matching, cute clothes for their kids. Mothers actually, you know, clean their houses. Mothers know what they’re doing. I never know what I’m doing. I’m always flying by the seat of my pants. I’m just a mom; I’m not a mother.”

Ahem. Mothers don’t wait two weeks to write blog posts about their Mother’s Day. They sit down and write about them, you know, the day they happen. But here I am, writing about Mother’s Day two weeks later, because I’m just a mom. Not a mother.

I realize this is a ridiculous assertion. I am obviously a mother in the most basic, biological sense. I grew, birthed, and then fed another person with my body. And I’m working on doing that a second time. But while sleep-deprived and hormonal, it made perfect sense to me at the time. I was separating the sheep from the goats in my own head, the sheep being the mothers who make DIY presents for their sons’ preschool teachers and the goats being the moms who pick up a Starbucks gift card with their morning lattes because oh crap, is Teacher Appreciation Week THIS WEEK?

One of the earliest memories I have with my own mother is her chasing me around the house with a hairbrush while I dramatically hid from her with my hands covering my head, screaming. Yes, actually screaming. I hated to have my hair brushed. And teeth brushed. And I didn’t really bathe. I was kind of gross, actually.

Another vivid memory I have of my own mother is sitting with her on this bright orange velour chair we used to have (thanks, late 80s trends) and listening to her read a book to me. I can’t remember what book it was, but I remember it was one that I basically had memorized. I knew the story backward and forward but still insisted that she read it to me. And she did, because she loved me and was usually really good at hiding how annoyed with me she must have been.

My mom was (is) a single mom. And I’m sure she could have used a positive affirmation every now and again. I’m sure there were days when her drama queen of a daughter fought vehemently against the evils of, you know, basic hygiene and made her feel like she was failing, too.

I don’t really have a resolution for this post, but I’ll just end it with this:

Mothers — sheep and goats alike — you’re doing a really great job. I know it’s hard, and I know it’s thankless. And I know it isn’t glamorous. And it isn’t all Pinterest DIY projects and home-cooked meals. Sometimes it’s late birthday cards and pizza three nights in a row. But you’re doing a good job.

calm after the storm.

April 8, 2015 / lindsay / 2 Comments

Just a few moments ago, as I was putting Dax to bed, I heard the tell-tale sound of summer.

Thunder.

Next month it will be two years since my family moved to Naples; we relocated just as the hot, rainy season was ramping up, and I remember that not a day went by in those first weird months that I didn’t hear that throaty rumble of the angry, humid skies.

And I heard it again today for the first time this year and it sent me into a spiral of nostalgia.

When we first moved here, we didn’t have any friends. We didn’t know a soul. And Dan was out of town for work a lot, so many nights I would sit by myself on our lanai and watch the lightning and listen to the thunder. It was lonely, sure. But it was also peaceful. I didn’t know much of anything about my new town but, being a native Floridian, I knew that sky and I knew those sights and sounds enough to not feel completely out of place. Being naturally extroverted, however, it was a whole new challenge to find so much time to myself. To be silent. To listen and to not speak.

To anyone.

Today was one of those days I wish could have been struck by some of the lightning I saw tonight; both Dax and I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, each of us already counting down the minutes to nap time before the last bite of breakfast was swallowed. I’m hormonal, and he’s two. And then a massive poop cut off a huge chunk of nap time, causing the rest of the afternoon to go just as poorly as the morning. He tested one too many boundaries and I lost my temper in an embarrassing way one too many times. And when I didn’t think I could possibly handle any more, I got a phone call from a debt collector wondering why we haven’t paid the nearly $3,000 still owed to the emergency room for last year’s miscarriage.

Seriously, Wednesday?

The storm is over now. Rain is no longer falling and thunder is no longer rumbling, but the ground is still sopping wet. Similarly, Dax is no longer raging against the Mom Machine but is soundly asleep in his crib. I’m no longer yelling at him, but am sitting on the couch in a funk so intense it almost has a color, contemplating eating cookie dough ice cream straight out of the carton (BECAUSE WHY THE HECK NOT, I’M 30 WEEKS PREGNANT) feeling both relieved to finally be done and ashamed at the ways I missed the mark today.

And Dan is away at work and I’m home by myself.

The sun will come out tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar.

little victories.

October 18, 2014October 18, 2014 / lindsay / 3 Comments

I just got done reading this article about who Supermom is (it’s click bait, certainly, so I’m sure you can figure it out). And, as a mom, of course it resonated with me.

I think the reason there is so much pressure put on moms (on dads, too, but to a lesser degree) is that there really is a lot at stake. I mean, you’re shaping a human being. The decisions you make each day have a direct effect on the person entrusted in your care and will inevitably contribute to conversations had in a comfy chair in a therapist’s office years later.

In the day-to-day of motherhood, each day brings with it the little failures — the tantrums, the times you lose your patience and raise your voice, the times your kid wakes up in his crib before you and, when you finally hear him, it’s after a poopsplosion, etc. And because the stakes are so high, it’s easy to focus in on those little failures and deduce that you’re doing a really horrible job.

Yayyyyy… $:\$

But just like in everything, the fact is that sometimes you nail it, and sometimes you don’t. So why not focus on the times you nail it?

As our weekend is winding down, I gotta say *brushes shoulders off* this weekend, we nailed it.

That is, we are currently celebrating a few small victories in our house. Notably:

Dax’s lunch was comprised COMPLETELY of vegetables yesterday. And he asked for more! (So what if it was just cucumbers? Baby steps.)
He now understands reasoning, so instead of completely freaking out and throwing the dinner I make him, he allows me to bribe him to eat his dinner with things like animal crackers and marshmallows. It’s not perfect, but I’d rather him have a belly full of real food and marshmallows than going hungry like he had been.
He has learned how to actually kiss. And I would venture to say that there are few things better than the feeling of little tiny toddler lips on your cheek. Ugh. So perfect!

So yeah. It’s been a good one. 🙂

fueled by diet coke

failing upward

motherhood