Daddy's Little Girls

Welcome to the February Carnival of Natural Parenting: Love and partners!


This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama. This month we're writing about how a co-parent has or has not supported us in our dedication to natural parenting. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.


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Sometimes I feel like a movie star (minus the designer clothes, personal chef, and big paycheck). After all, I have an entourage that follows me everywhere - even into the bedroom.

Ah, the family bed. I wish I could say I love every moment of cuddling up next to my peaceful cherubs, but then I’d be lying and might end up in the gossip column. Snuggly babies are one thing, but lanky 5-year-olds and toddlers who think Mom is a mattress and cuddle right on top of her leave me feeling more claustrophobic than lovey-dovey at times.

But I remain committed to my fan club.

My husband, on the other hand, loves his nighttime cuddling with his girls. In some ways, I think it’s a way for him to make up for lost time with his daughters since he works long and unpredictable hours. He’s also sensitive to the fact that I’m a light sleeper and that sometimes after a long day of being emotionally and physically present for our little ones, I need some space.

So my husband often volunteers to sleep with the older girls in order to give Star Mommy some time away from the limelight. We’ll have couple time together while all the girls are asleep, and sometimes he stays in bed with me until I fade away into that blissful thing moms spend more time dreaming about than actually doing called sleep.

In the middle of the night, I’ll stir and find an empty space beside me. Sometimes, after I’ve nursed the baby, I’ll peek into the girls’ room where I’ll find three of the people I love the most piled together like puppies. The girls’ legs and arms are jumbled together like challah bread and there’s my six-foot-plus husband wedged in that heap of all things girl. Whenever I see them like that, the same thoughts run through my head.

First, it’s so nice to have a co-star to occasionally take the spotlight off me.

Second, I know my husband isn’t only snuggling with our girls as a favor for me. The same as I know that when he “watches” the girls for an hour, so I can write or exercise, or pray, he’s not thinking of it as a babysitting gig but rather a chance to soak up some one-on-one time with his girls. He is a real partner in this parenting journey. He works long hours to support us and to allow me to be an at-home mom, but when he comes home, he doesn’t just want to be a father figure; he wants to be a hands-on dad. As soon as he walks in the door, he gives each of us a kiss and then he scoops the girls into his arms, tickles them, and asks about our day. He wants to hear all that he’s missed - the funny things they said, the genius I discovered in their crayon scribbles, the baby’s milestones, and how in the world did that orange-hued stain the shape of a Rorschach inkblot end up on our carpet?

He also recognizes that my being a mom is my primary job. In fact, he’s the one who is constantly reminding me to be less. “All you have to do is be a good mom,” he reminds me when I’m stressed about some other “obligation” I’ve forced on myself. “That’s all that really matters.”

He’s been a hands-on father from the moment I was pregnant - quite literally during labor with my first. I was experiencing deep, burning pain in my back, and he remembered what he’d learned in our Bradley classes and bore his fist down onto me to help relieve my labor pains for hours at end. And he never complained until many days after when we were home ooooing and ahhhhing over our baby girl. (He knew better than to mention that he was tired or sore to a laboring mom!)

When he was changing a diaper of our first newborn, I remember how big and capable his hands looked holding her tiny, bright pink feet in the air with one hand and grasping a wipe with the other. My reverie was interrupted when meconium started bubbling out like lava from a volcano.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed. But he didn’t panic. He took care of the mess and actually seemed proud to have witnessed this milestone. “Look at that,” he said, proudly as if to say, "She works! Our daughter works!"

I knew then that the husband I loved and admired had transformed into a father who would always take care of his girls. Even when life got messy, he’d keep his cool and would be here for us.

Once I was in the waiting room of a doctor’s office when a woman commented on the fact that I had three girls. “Well, I hope your husband at least has a boy dog or something.” I smiled politely, but comments about our surplus of X chromosomes annoy me, especially when people assume we want more babies simply because my husband is pining for a boy.

“I wonder if we’ll have a boy next,” I mused recently.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with a boy,” my husband said.

I’m sure we’d do just fine if God sees it fit to give us a boy someday, but it’s true that we have this whole girl thing down quite well. When I see my husband sleeping in a tangle of pink and purple blankets, blond hair and dolls and stuffed animals, I can’t help but think that he sure knows what to do with his girls: He takes care of them. Nothing less, but a whole lot more.


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Carnival of Natural Parenting -- Hobo Mama and Code Name: MamaVisit Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!



Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:



(This list will be updated Feb. 9 with all the carnival links, and all links should be active by noon EST. Go to Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama for the most recently updated list.)


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Unconditional Love

I'm the nursing the baby in the soft light of morning while my 5-year-old stands close by, watching the two of us.

She reaches over and gently touches the sucking cheeks of her little sister. "She's the most 'beautifulest,' cutest, most wonderful baby there ever was, isn't she?"

After a brief pause, my older daughter crinkles her nose and says, "Except when she poops. Then she's gross."

I'm pretty sure she's thinking of a recent diaper calamity that involved Mom busily writing Christmas thank you notes and being completely oblivious to a crawling, pooping baby, a leaky diaper, and stinky stains all over our living room carpet. It was the 5-year-old who discovered the crime scene and the guilty party happily clapping her poop-clad hands. And it was very gross.

"But," my daughter adds, touching her sister again, "We love her anyway."




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Plan B*

As my readers know, I was really looking forward to making it to confession today. I arrived early, so I'd be one of the first folks in line. Then I waited. And waited.

Just a few months earlier I'd driven one hour to my parents' house, so they could watch my girls while I went to confession. The priest never showed up. As I waited this morning, I kept telling myself that surely that wouldn't happen again. As the clock ticked and the line grew, I started getting annoyed. "God," I found myself saying. "It's not easy for me to make it to confession. Here I am. Help me out here."

After nearly 30 minutes of stewing in line, one of the Adoration guardians slipped out and came to inform all of us that the priests had all traveled downtown to the cathedral for a special ordination, and there would unfortunately be no confession today.

She smiled and then said, "But God knows your heart."

Then I saw her ask someone in line that she knew if he could go to the Adoration Chapel to wait for the next guardian to arrive. He gladly agreed. I followed him.

An ongoing struggle for me is to deal with thwarted plans. "Going with the flow" is not my strong suit. On Friday we were getting ready to leave for First Friday Mass and our homeschooling co-op when my 5-year-old spilled her entire bowl of Raisin Bran on our dining room carpet. (Parents: Whatever you do, do not buy a home with a carpeted dining area. Think of the children. And your lovely beige carpets. And your sanity.) I was on the verge of tears because I'd worked so hard to plan ahead so that we'd have plenty of time to spare and wouldn't be racing out the door, and now there was this big mess of mushy bran flakes to contend with along with a contrite, little girl and a fussy baby. We raced to Mass. I complained about the rain, and I was a general grouch, all because of a stupid spill on the carpet.

Later that same day while I nursed the baby to sleep, my 2-year-old took it upon herself to add some colorful chalk graffiti to our carpet. I came downstairs and saw her charming artwork and fumed. So much for a quiet, peaceful afternoon. Now I'd be scrubbing our carpets - again.

This morning, as I waited in line for confession, I felt myself becoming more and more anxious and frustrated. I kept hearing a hushed whisper suggesting I just use this time to pray in the Adoration Chapel, but I didn't listen until I saw someone else smile and accept that he wouldn't be making it to confession and would be spending time in Adoration instead.

Once I gave in and retreated to the quiet, all my frustrations faded away as I realized that this was exactly where I was supposed to be. God not only knows my heart; he knows what's best for it. Perhaps what I needed more than confession was the silence so that I could just have a chat with God.

When I returned home, I immediately wanted to share how God gave me a teaching moment by not allowing me to receive a sacrament I thought I so desperately needed in order to put some peace in my heart. As soon as I started writing, however, a toddler found me and asked if I'd read her a book. I hesitated. I so badly wanted to say, "In just a minute," but I heard that whisper again. "Spend time with your child. You can write later."

This time I didn't ignore it. So often I recognize God's will for me from moment to moment, but it takes a lot of discipline to bend to it, especially when I want so badly for my daily routine to be just so.

During Adoration I'd thought of my attitude toward all the unexpected twists and turns my life as a mom brings and how it's too often one of exasperation or despair. My days are unpredictable and often messy, too. Try as I might to map things out on my iCal, the reality of my life is usually very, very different from what I had in mind. It's easy for me to feel secure when things are going as planned, but when life throws me a curve ball (or a big stain on the carpet)? Not so much.

Yet, God has no obligation to make things turn out the way we want them to, but what he does promise to do is to bless me when I embrace every opportunity as a chance to hold onto him rather than becoming frustrated or angry. This morning he blessed me with time in Adoration. Later after some extra snuggling with my toddler, he blessed me with an unexpected chunk of writing time, thanks to an extra long nap from the baby.

While I'm not suggesting my day was full of divine prompts or that I should take a priest not showing up this morning as a sign that I don't need the graces of Reconciliation, what became clear to me with the multiple detours I've faced lately is that giving up my own plans in favor of God's Plan B is often exactly just what I need to grow in holiness.

So today I am blessed. I just didn't arrive there using my own map.

*UPDATE: It just occurred to me that "Plan B" probably isn't the best title for a post about following God's plans. Then again, maybe someone will Google "Plan B" and end up here.
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Blessed

I'm realizing that having blessings doesn't always mean you're living a blessed life or vice versa.

Allow me to explain. Frequently, we see blessings as gifts, good fortune, or perhaps the fruit of hard work. By this definition, I am richly blessed. However, God's definition of blessed is a little different, I think. A blessed person in His eyes is someone who allows Him to bless her with peace and contentment no matter what gifts she may have been given or have earned. This explains why there are people who have been given everything in life who end up trying to drink away their despair or work harder and longer thinking that greater wealth will lead to greater happiness. They have blessings, but they are not blessed.

Then there are those who have very little or who have lost much and yet, they have peace in their hearts. This isn't to say they don't hurt, but they're able to find consolation in the mercy and love of God. They may sometimes complain about the mountains they must climb, but they recognize that their mountains are God's mountains, too, and that they are never alone. Those who allow God to bless them are able to look beyond themselves and make the best of the cards they've been dealt. They handle sorrow with grace, and they don't take even the smallest glimpses of joy for granted.

I'm grateful for all of my blessings; yet, lately I've been struggling with finding peace. I haven't been allowing God to bless me with His graces, His goodness, His mercy. God is knocking on my heart, but I'm afraid to let Him in and to surrender myself to Him. It's not even as if I'm seeking and not finding (something I have struggled with in the past); I'm just plain not seeking.

In the car this morning, I heard an old Indigo Girls' song I used to love way back when, and these lyrics screamed out at me: "Darkness has a hunger that's insatiable, but lightness has a call that's hard to hear."

Isn't that the truth?

Sometimes, despite all the goodness in my life, the darkness swallows me up whole. Then I project. I blame the rain. I blame the lousy traffic, the Raisin Bran spilled all over my carpet, a communication mix-up among homeschooling friends, or missing my husband. I blame things that really aren't at the core of my longing or anxiety. Sure, these sliver-like crosses might add to my internal struggles, but often I refuse to consider the possibility that I'm huddled in the darkness because I've been too stubborn to let any light in. Then, when the slightest rays begin to shine through, I turn away thinking I don't deserve the goodness because of the way I've behaved. I want to be loved; yet, I can act so unlovable.

And so I stumble in the darkness. I grope around trying to find something to hold onto to steady me. In the past, it was often my weight. I could always find temporary relief and an escape when my clothes started to feel loose. The thinner I forced myself to become, the more powerful I felt. Even now I frequently seek false confidence and affirmation in all the wrong places.

Yet, when I put God first and when I love and my family and serve them well, I feel affirmed. I feel happy and satisfied. So why do I keep looking outside my heart where God's love dwells and outside of my home where my family's love is to feel good and worthy?

Tomorrow I'm going to confession. I haven't been since Advent, and I'm hungry for God's mercy and forgiveness. I want my penance to be more than a rote rosary. I want it to be a new start. So tomorrow I will kneel and humble myself. I won't let the darkness consume me. Instead, I'll search for the light. I'll reacquaint myself with God's blessing. And I will be blessed.

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Please pray for Colleen Mitchell and her family. May they flee to God in their heartache and sorrow and find healing and peace.
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Girls & Curls

We had our first experience with foam curlers. I'd recently told Madeline how I used to occasionally sleep in curlers, and she immediately wanted me to try it with her tresses. And of course, Baby Rae didn't want to be left out.

The before photos...







The after photos (which include curls and a bonus raspberry manicure)...















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A Choice Worth Making

Today I'm over at Faith & Family LIVE! explaining why my belief in God remains in me even during the most difficult times. Please read A Choice Worth Making. Comments are open over there, and I'd love to hear what helps keep you faithful in the wake of disaster, suffering, or heartache as well as during spiritual dry spells. Have a great week.




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Thanks, Moms!

It's foggy and rainy. The girls enjoyed their Saturday morning movie privilege while my husband studied for his upcoming boards, and I wrote some and pondered mentor moms. I thought about how blessed I am to have my own mom as a mentor. My mother-in-law, too, has been a gift in my mothering life.

Then there are some of my childhood friends. We have grown up together, and now we're growing into the kinds of moms we feel called to become.

There are my church friends and the moms in my homeschool co-op who inspire me nearly every day to keep in better touch with my faith and with God. They answer my homeschooling questions and give me pep talks when I feel like I'm the only one swimming against a strong current.

There's my 88-year-old nana who imparts bits and pieces of wisdom every time she speaks.

There are the mom friends I met during the different phases of my husband's medical training (med school wife friends, friends I met during his transitional year, resident wife friends). Although I haven't known some of these friends for long, the Internet makes it so much easier to keep in touch with people you meet during quick pit stops in life.

Speaking of which, there's my online community - all of you who inspire and encourage me daily with your comments, your own blogs, your prayers, and with the grace-filled lives you lead.

Then there's the Mother of All Mothers. What a gift that I have Mary to turn to when I'm in need of a good dose of maternal empathy or when I just need to quiet my heart. Last night I prayed a rosary while I nursed Mary Elizabeth in the darkness of night. As I was nourishing my baby, I thought of the times when I've been pierced by hunger or fear and a real life mom mentor hasn't been on call to comfort me; yet, Mary was waiting, waiting to help me see that she was there, longing to remind me that when I cry out in my emptiness, she will not forsake me.

I'm tired of the rain and the fact that the call for a wintry mix in Georgia thwarted our plans to go house hunting (we're taking a rain check, and we hope we'll be headed out tomorrow). Yet, I'm thankful I had the moment to consider all the moms who have supported me in my mothering journey. Thank you. You are in my prayers.
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Lessons from a Third Child

I remember how much I looked forward to my firstborn's well-child visits at the pediatrician. I could easily recount every milestone. Her entire first year of life was documented in a scrapbook with artsy layouts as well as in a journal that read like Proust.

Fast forward five years and three babies later, and this is what happens at your youngest child's appointment:

Nurse: Is she crawling?

Me: Yes.

Nurse: Is she pulling up?

Me: Yes.

Nurse: How often is she nursing and for how long on each side?

Me: Ummmm... I'm not sure, but enough.

Nurse: Is she babbling?

Me: Yes.

Nurse: Does she play Peek-A-Boo?

Me: Ummmm... Peek-A-Boo? I don't think I've ever played Peek-A-Boo with her. I mean, I read to her and count her toes and...

Nurse: It's okay. You've got your hands full.

While I did feel a tad guilty my third baby has been deprived of engrossing games of Peek-A-Boo (and you better believe I went home and played some Peek-A-Boo with her), I'm growing into my mothering shoes and realizing that you can’t do it all or be everything to every child, and that’s okay. I may not gaze for hours at end into the sleepy eyes of my nursing cherub, and my 2-year-old doesn’t have a built-in playmate (AKA Mommy) at hand all daylong like her big sister did, but here’s a little secret to all the newbie moms out there: Children - especially older children like my 5-year-old whose needs and wants are no longer one in the same - don't need instant gratification or never-ending ministration to be happy. (Don’t worry. I played Peek-A-Boo all the time with my first, too.) I'd actually argue that never teaching your child to wait or to share Mom's TLC is going to lead to disappointment later in life when the cruel, hard world doesn't hand you your dreams on a plate and your boss says you have to more than just show up at work to be considered special.

Still, when I was pregnant with my second child, I kept wondering how I could possibly love her as much as her big sister. My worrying was wasteful because as soon as I held my Baby Rae in my arms, I knew that there was and always will be plenty of love to go around. Whoever says you can’t love a second or fifth or ninth child as much as your first never had a second or fifth or ninth child.

Off the top of my head, here are just a few other lessons I've learned since welcoming our third child into our family:

  • Your life will revolve around bowel movements, nursing, and naps (or pining for them) if it doesn't already, but you won't be so anal about keeping track of everything. (I look at my first baby's nursing logs and the scraps of paper where I counted and described the characteristics of her poop and chuckle.) You see your baby's eyes flutter and her body and babbling quiets down, and you know it's time for a nap. You don't have to look at the clock. Your body responds when she cries or squirms; you give what she needs because you pick up on her cues, and you no longer second guess yourself (much).

  • A mobile 9-month-old is a worthy opponent even for a 5-year-old and will try to get that miniature teacup in her mouth or spur what could be viewed as a sibling brawl (baby squeals and flaps her arms in frustration, inadvertently slapping big sister on the face), so don't always blame the older children when tears are shed.

  • Second children grow up even more quickly than first children, and third children grow up the most quickly of all.

  • Even though you no longer play Peek-A-Boo much, your third baby is the best entertained little one yet because the beauty of a bigger family is that Mom no longer has to be a solo act. My baby would much rather watch her silly sisters run around and sing and dance anyway.

  • Going from two to three kids, at least for me, was the toughest transition so far. I am completely outnumbered. Someone always needs me for something and yet, somehow I keep on giving and giving even when I'm tempted to bail. (I do sometimes sneak into the bathroom for a Mom time-out as a matter of survival.)

  • Finally, as evidenced by the growing stash of happy baby pictures, my Peek-A-Boo-deprived third child seems to be coping just fine.



    What lessons in motherhood has your third or fourth or ???th child taught you?
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    Moms: Read This Now

    Moms, I know you're busy and crazy-tired, but please make time to read this.

    Then go and be a wife to your husband and a mother to your children. Feel good about your industriousness in your home. Love God and your family first, and know you're being a good steward of your time. You are doing enough. (Note to self: So are you, Katie! )

    Let us all learn to say, "I'm sorry, but I can't do that," and to be content in being "just" a mom.

    I'd like to write more, but you guessed it: "I'm sorry; I can't do that." Not now when a child is cuddled close to me and deserves her mom's full attention. A child whom I should always see, not as a disruption, but as a reminder that I have been called to dedicate my life and my love to God and the family He has given me.

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    When Necessary Use Words

    "Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary use words."

    -St. Francis of Assisi


    This morning I woke up with one thought: "Lord, give me the wisdom and words to defend my beliefs."

    Last night I was engaged in a spiritual debate with a friend of mine who is an atheist. We were discussing the doctrine of original sin. My friend remained calm and rational while I felt my blood pressure rising. As I defended God and my beliefs, I remember thinking, "Why are you putting on me on my trial?"

    This morning I realized I was putting myself on trial.

    I picked up my Living Faith and turned to the page with today's meditation, and I read: "God does not need to be defended, he needs to be embraced."

    It's essential for me to understand theology and to back it up with reasoning - but only to a point. Even as a mom, I sometimes find myself teaching my children about God with words instead of showing them about him. Do they see me on my knees praying enough? Do they see me make him a priority, not just on Sundays during Mass but all day, every day? Do they see me doing little things, making small sacrifices all with great love? Do they see me embracing God by living a life of goodness?

    Does everyone see me doing that?

    A tired toddler saw quite the opposite this morning, I'm afraid. I was still considering my argument from last night and was trying to frame my logic and to tap into the limited store of wisdom I have these days operating on little sleep when she came to me. She was fussing about her lost lovey. I asked her to just wait a minute. She threw a fit. She cried. I put her in another room, shut her out, and closed myself away. (There's my first stumble with my "use love" parenting resolution. Thank goodness for second and fourth and 392nd chances.) My husband knocked. Exasperated, I said, "I just want a moment to myself."

    Ironic, isn't it?

    What will mean more to my children: the fact that I was able to defend the faith with my written words or the fact that wherever they needed me, whenever they needed me, I was there?

    God was never won over with an argument. Dying on the cross - the ultimate sign of sacrificial love - was much more powerful than any parable or impassioned oratory. We don't bring others to God with our long-winded speeches, our flushed faces, pumping fists, and certainly not with our raised voices. A dying to self, loving beyond what is considered fair or logical, and embracing God in all that we do and say - these are the marks of the most persuasive evangelists.





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