If the moment was a photograph, it would be black and white. The black sky,  lit only by a handful of stars peeking through heavy clouds releasing soft snow into the sky. The highlights across the curve of his forehead and the bridge of his nose from the nightlight plugged safely into the corner of the room brightened his face enough for me to see his eyes were wide open, even though his body was still. The shadows danced as I rocked back and forth, back and forth interrupting the stream of light.

He’s so content to cuddle in these moments.  Why only in the dark of night, does he curl into my heart and sigh so softly?

If this moment was a photograph, it would be in color. Two little children, dressed in footed, flannel pajamas were standing at the window watching their father push snow around outside. The boy’s head barely peeks out over the bottom frame of the window, and I can’t be certain he sees anything. But when Chessa giggles and pounds on the window, he squeals and imitates his big sister.

From behind them, I wish so hard that I had my camera, so I could capture this memory. Instead, I clench my eyes and try to freeze the memory of their hair tousled by 12 hours of sleep, their tiny hands with the unmistakable roundness of baby and the gray sky, still releasing tiny snowflakes.

If the moment was a photograph, it would be worn and soft from many years of being held close and used as a bookmark. Pausing to take a breath and remember the time, the soft smiles, the light dancing in their eyes, the three of them with their heads close together.  Craig and Chessa are reading a book, using an overstuffed bear as a pillow, Cole weaves in and out of the story, crawling over his father and grabbing handfuls of his sister’s hair.  For just a moment, time freezes and finally, this time, I get the picture.

Cole had a hell of a time going to sleep last night. I don’t know if he was wound up from a late nap, teething, if the medicine I gave him for a cold was messing with him or if he just wanted to screw with me.  But 90 minutes after I laid him down for the first time, on bedtime attempt #3, I burst through his door, into his room and in a voice just shy of yelling, said, ‘Oh my God, Cole! What the hell?!”

And as I was almostbutnotquite yelling at my baby I realized how terrible it was that I was yelling and I calmed down enough to say ‘What the hell,’ not ‘What the fuck,’ like I was thinking coming up the stairs.

Yesterday was a bad day. I had the mother of all yeast infections, (sorry to any guys or other people who do not want to read about the state of my girly bits, but this is a baby blog, it’s what you get) I spent more than half the day with a migraine and Chessa pooped in the bathtub.

I wanted to be done. I wanted to be watching my sleeping children on the video monitor and sighing about how wonderful and perfect and magical this moment was. I did not actually want to be parenting them, I just wanted to love them from afar. 

I walked him around the room, shushing in his ear, whispering that mommy was here and I loved him and it was time to sleep. He calmed down and so did I. 

And this is where I should write that I realized in that moment that he was only going to be young once and only going to need me this much once and some other crap about it being amazing.

Only it wasn’t. It sucked. I finally sunk in the rocking chair and held him close while he allowed his eyes to close and drift off to sleep.  Then I played on my phone, checking Facebook and Twitter, waiting for him to be sound asleep.  And finally, when I thought I could lay him down without waking him up, I did. 

On the other side of the closed door, I thought “THANK GOD.”  

I know parenting is wonderful. And I know that I’m lucky to have two happy, healthy children (see I can’t even write a ranty post without slapping a disclaimer on it.) But parenting is hard, too. And we should be able to talk about the hard times, even when they are silly, without feeling like we need to weave in some silver lining or a glistening moment of puppies and sunshine revelation.  Sometimes your kid giggles and splashes in the bathtub. Sometimes she poops. 

And when she poops, it sucks. And that’s real.  And that’s life.  And we’re just damn lucky that we get a chance to do it all over the next day. 

Here, read this article that my friend Kristie shared today. It says it so much better than I could say! 

It’s been a year since the migraines started. Almost a year since we started talking about a c-section. Just over ten months since the surgery and Cole’s birth.

I never gave much thought to a c-section or paid attention to heated debates, snarky comments and even well meaning advice for people to become more educated and not “let doctors push unnecessary surgeries on them.” But you know how it goes; when something becomes personal you pay attention. When life hands you a circumstance and you find yourself part of statistic, you pay attention.

My c-section was unnecessary. I guess. In hindsight. But at the time we didn’t know. We didn’t know if the symptoms were migraine related and harmless or if I really had an aneurysm.

I had to think about things like, “what if I die?”, “what if I send Craig home, alone, to two children?”, “am I risking the life of my baby?” and “will she remember me?” Thoughts that no mother should ever have to think swirled in my head for weeks as we were in and out of doctor’s offices for second and third opinions.

Those thoughts made the decision, when push came to shove, easy. No, I’m sorry, not easy… obvious. I had to schedule the c-section. I missed the chance to go into labor on my own. I missed the chance have another vaginal delivery. I missed the chance to hold my son the moment he was born.

I am eternally grateful that the surgery was unnecessary and that my medical appointments ended a month later with a follow up test that couldn’t be done while I was pregnant. After the angiogram, I was sent home with a bruise the size of Texas on my groin and instructions to take whatever I needed for migraine pain. But I knew that my head was OK.

So this isn’t a post about the regrets of having a c-section. It’s not a post to rant about being forced into a surgery. It’s just a post to try to explain why it’s such a hot topic for those of us who have had c-sections when we feel as though we’re being judged by people who think natural birth is the best way for everyone.

And I’m trying to be careful here, because I don’t want to offend, I just want to try to explain.

It’s not you. It’s not that your message or your statistics are wrong. It’s not that your tone is condescending (OK, sometimes it is) or that your heart is in the wrong place. It’s just that it doesn’t help. Because no matter how broad or specific you try to be, you can’t possibly understand each and every case that ended up in a c-section. And if we already feel shitty about the c-section, either because it wasn’t what we dreamed or because of a painful recovery or it affects our future family planning decisions, you can’t make us feel better about it.

So I take it personally. I feel judged; even if the judgment is veiled. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I find myself wanting to shout, “yeah, well listen to my story and then tell me if more education would have kept me out of the operating room!”

Yes, I think pregnant women should know what they want to strive for in labor. Yes, I think they should have doctors, midwives and/or nurses who support their decisions. Yes, I think women should have a general understanding of how their bodies work and know what to expect in labor.

But we don’t all want the same things. And we don’t all get what we want. So whether we scheduled the c-section or whether we ended up there after labor started, you telling us what we should have done just doesn’t help. Using our birth stories as examples, doesn’t help.

By all means, be proud of your deliveries. Tell your birth stories. This isn’t to say we don’t want to hear about your experience. We’ll smile at your memories, tear up at the part where you look at your baby for the first time and be happy that you accomplished your goal of a delivery that was what you wanted. The sharing is what’s important, because more sharing leads to more conversation, more understanding and less judgment.

And isn’t that what we all want? A little less judgment?

Because this has been on my mind for months, I’m linking it up here.

I’m still in sweatpants and the t-shirt I slept in last night, trying to shake off the night of not so great sleep that followed the week of not so great sleep.  Cuddled in my arms is a sweet blond boy who just finished his morning bottle.  As I always do, I run my hand over his arm and his leg, feeling the soft flannel. 

The fireplace flickers as it throws off some heat to warm up the living room.  We don’t have anywhere to be and I’m so very grateful that it’s Saturday. 

On the chair, Chessa – still in her pajamas – is comfortable on Craig’s lap. His hair is still disheveled but he gave her donuts so the picture they create – him in shorts and a t-shirt, with sleep still in his eyes and her with wide eyes and powdered sugar framing her lips – both happy and loved, makes me grin. 

We’re watching Elf on a Shelf.  Yes, all four of us. Chessa is captivated, having started our own Elf on the Shelf tradition this year and the colors and the music have pulled my boy right in.

I know we need to start the day. Clothes need to be changed, proper breakfasts need to be eaten and I have a laundry list of projects to tackle (or rather, for Craig to tackle).  But then, on TV, the elf says something about the magic of Christmas living in your heart. 

So I smile at my husband, giving a knowing glance at our big girl.  I pull my boy closer to my heart and I decide the day can wait for just a few more minutes.

A Sunday afternoon earlier this month.  

Finding joy and happiness in the simplest of things.  Like a game of hopscotch. 

And learning to jump. 

When the weather was cool but not cold. When the leaves had fallen off the trees and the calendar said we should be pulling out mittens and heating chocolate, but the day was mild and almost warm. 

So we pulled on hats and sweatshirts and went outside, determined to get a little bit of fresh air and burn some toddler energy; thinking that maybe, just maybe. the baby will take a late afternoon nap that will make the evening hours a tad more pleasant.  And then, we peeked at him, tucked in under his cozy blanket. 

And we lauged and knew that there would be no napping.

Last night, I was trying to get Chessa to hold her head still while I brushed her hair.  “Sweetie, what color are your eyes?” I asked, in an attempt to distract her. Intently she looked in the mirror and studied her eyes. 

“Blue!” she answered. 

Her eyes are the exact hazel color of her father’s. 

When I was pregnant with her, I imagined a little girl with blonde curls like Craig had as child and eyes like mine – so dark brown that it’s hard to tell where the pupil ends and the color begins.  Instead she has his eyes – soft brown with flecks of gold and green – that sparkle when she gets excited, crinkle when she giggles and narrow when she’s getting mad. 

And they are perfect. 

—-

At eight and a half months old Cole is starting to look over his shoulder at babyhood.  His favorite game is to crawl over pillows and come dangerously close to falling off the bed or couch.  “Move the pillows to the floor and let him have at it,” you say? We tried that. Apparently it is less fun if you’re not giving your mother heart failure. 

But still. In soft footie pajamas, sitting on my lap as I rock and feed him, he is still my baby boy.  His eyes get heavy as he eats, listens to me sing and feels the stroke of my finger on his cheek, the press of my lips to temple and the squeeze to breathe him in.  When he’s decided he’s had enough, he pushes the bottle away and turns around to snuggle into my arms, lay his head on my shoulder and drift off to sleep. 

Toddlerhood will come when it wants and with it the walking and talking that he’s flirting with now, but these moments where he is mine and I am his, I will hang onto them with every fiber of my heart. 

—-

There are big moments and little moments that make my heart hurt with love and my eyes sting with tears knowing that they will so quickly be behind us.  The moments when both kids are reaching for Craig and are snuggled in his lap in the morning; Cole giggling when he falls and I yell, “Oh! Cole went OOF!”; Chessa greeting us at the door when we came home after a weekend away; the moments when the house is a mess, dinner plates are still on the table and they both have dirty clothes but we’re all on the floor together laughing and loving and I lock eyes with Craig and think to myself, “This. This moment right here is everything I ever wanted.”

And thankful doesn’t even seem like big enough a word to describe what I feel.

disclosure: I’m not the first person to write about this.  In fact, Law-Momma wrote two posts that do way more service to it than I could.  Grab your tissues then read this and this. 

Sometimes I think the worst part of being a parent is not the sleepless nights spent walking a teething baby. Nor is it the tantrums in the middle of dinner, in a busy restaurant. Nor is it teaching a teenager to drive.

No, sometimes I think the worst part of being a parent is hearing stories about tragedy striking another family. Maybe someone I know, maybe not. It’s irrelevant.  As a mother, as soon as I hear a story of a lost child my mind immediately goes to my children. I can’t help it.  It’s instinctual and guttural.  And it takes everything I have to stay where I am and not go pick them up and hold them until they are old enough to get married and have their own children – and maybe not even then. 

Because it’s not supposed to happen like that. Children are not supposed to go first. 

I read this week about a baby in Georgia who died after falling in his car seat from the top of a grocery cart.  It was an accident. It was a horrible, terrible accident that is leaving a mother with arms absent of her three-month old son.

And, I can’t shake this story. 

I have done that so many times.  I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to put the car seat there. I thought that because it seemed to fit into place that it was designed to be safe.  Thinking about it now, I guess it makes sense.  There’s nothing holding that seat in if the cart hits a bump or take a sharp turn.  Nothing to protect the baby.  It makes the cart heavy and unstable. 

I get it. Now. 

I’m sure the instructions that come with the seat clearly state that this shouldn’t be done. But I didn’t read them.  I read about how to install the base into my car so that it would be safe, but once I had that figured out, I put the book away. 

Please don’t use your car seat this way anymore. Please. 

I know it’s inconvenient.  I know you may think there’s no other way. But, please, please try to find one.  Wear the baby in an Ergo, Baby Bjorn or some kind of infant carrier strapped to your chest.  Put the whole seat in the big part of the cart and get less stuff.  Send someone else to the grocery store. Go by yourself.

And Target, WalMart, Giant Eagle, whoever, if you’re reading this; please put a warning up for parents. 

I didn’t know that you shouldn’t do this.  I didn’t know that I was putting my child at risk for injury… or worse. 

If you did know, that’s great. This is not the time to make an example of a mother who lost a child or judge those of us who didn’t read the fine print in our car seat safety booklet.   

I’m writing this because I didn’t know.  And maybe you don’t either.

In an attempt to celebrate turning 31 today I tried to put together a list of 31 random things about me.  I got to #6 before I got bored. 

Let’s just say it’s been…  a WEEK.  You know the kind that deserves use of ALL CAPS EMPHASIS.  It starts with a pinched nerve in your shoulder and kids battling colds and ends with a major organizational shift at work and kids with full -on COLDS! and TEETHING! and POTTY TRAINING! and OVERTIRED BABIES who won’t sleep! and… well, let’s just say there’s not enough wine IN THE  STATE. 

So, no list. 

And also, I’m done with all caps now. You’re welcome.

Instead I’m talking about how a year ago there was this: 

 And now this: 

There was grad school started and then put on hold to birth a baby and chase a toddler.  There was a job description that changed. And changed. And changed.  There have been questions and lists and brainstorming about what I want to be when I grow up. 

But, a year ago there was this:  

 And now this: 

 I looked like this along the way. 

Very pregnant with crazy symptoms that sent me to doctors for tests and tests and more tests. There was a c-section. Then more tests which resulted in a clean bill of health. And a ridiculously large deductible that I’ll be paying longer than I’m paying for my car.

But that all led me to this: 

There was a flooded basement, a torn up backyard and a patio that had to be re-paved and re-landscaped. 

There were weddings and family reunions, graduation parties and holidays – all spent with family, good food and not enough sleep.  

There was a  rock-star football season last year and a not so rock-star football season this year. 

There were smiles and tears. There were hugs and fights.  There were kisses and timeouts for hitting. 

There were colds and doctor visists. There were cuddles and breaking out old blankets. 

There were walks around the neighborhood as a family of three and, now, a family of four.  There was me attempting to run. Once.

There was a vacation. A visit to the local fair. A visit to the zoo. 

There were sleepless nights walking the floors with a newborn. There were sleepless nights trying to understand why a toddler wasn’t sleeping.

A year ago, we were a family of three with another on the way.  And I had a hard time imagining how it could get any better. 

I was wrong. 

Because now, there’s this:      

 Happy Birthday to me!  Now, who has the cake?

Both times I was pregnant we had thousands, no really, thousands, of conversations about names.  While driving, while shopping, while eating dinner, while getting dressed in the morning, while watching TV… you get the idea.

The conversations went something like this…

Him:  How about …

Me:  I don’t hate it.

Me:  Oh, I like …

Him:  EEEEHHHHHHH

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I am shocked we managed to agree on two names.  Chessa (Francesca) Rae is named after Craig’s grandmother and shares a middle name with my mom.  Cole Michael got his middle name from Craig’s brother who passed away when he was only a few months old.

I love family names.

I love my children’s name.

That being said, most often these are the names you hear in my house:

Peanut.

Munchkin.

Lovebug.

Babycakes.

Sweetheart.

Silly girl.

Silly boy.

Silly monkey.

Honey bunny.

Buddy.

Champ.

Baby girl.

Baby boy.

Buttercup.

Princess.

Handsome boy.

Beautiful girl.

Punkin.

Pumpkin.

Sweet cheeks.

Blue eyes.

Blondie.

So? What nicknames do you call your children? 

 from left to right as of this morning:
Hon, Babycakes & Sweet Pea

When Chessa was two days old, we slipped her specially purchased coming home outfit over her head.  She was swimming in the soft white jacket and matching pants, sized 0-3 months, because I didn’t know enough to purchase newborn-sized clothes for the first few weeks. 

Craig carried her in the infant car seat and I gingerly stood up after signing all the hospital paperwork. 

“OK. Here we go.”

A nurse walked us to the car, made sure we buckled her into the car safely and sent us on our way. 

From the back seat, I said to him, like I’m sure so many other fresh new parents do, “Can you believe they just let us leave with her?”

He laughed, “yeah, you’d think you’d have to make parents take a couple classes or a test to prove they know what they’re doing.”

- – - -

I’ve made that joke a couple (hundred) of times since that day.

“No one taught me this in Parenting 101!”

“I can’t find my Parenting manual again.”

“Goodness! Shouldn’t people have to take a class in parenting to be allowed to raise a child?” 

But what if parenting WAS a class? Or a major like in college?  What if there was a report card at the end of it?  What would the subjects be?  And would grade would I get? 

Sleep:  A solid “A”
I take sleep sort of seriously.  I’d probably be docked a point or two given that Chessa hangs out in her crib and talks to herself for an hour before she finally sleeps at night, but having two kids who both slept through the night by 3 months old makes up for my chatterbox toddler.  I firmly believe that luck plus my genetics win this one for me. 

Nutrition: A “C” on a good day.
I start out really well, tracking feedings, introducing solids at the right time, offering lots of fruits and vegetables. But then…  My kid learned to talk. And learned to ask for things like goldfish and ice cream and tells me every night that hotdogs are one of her favorite things (second only to bananas).  And after the occasional hunger strike, I cave and give her whatever she wants because girlfriend HAS to eat something. We’re trying, we really are. Truth be told, I don’t set a great example. But I’m working on it. 

Social Studies: “B”
It’s too early to tell yet with Cole, but Chessa is a social butterfly. She can charm the pants off anyone when she chooses to. Sometimes, she just doesn’t want to… 

Arts & Crafts: “D”
I did an art project with Chessa once. I took her outside, stripped her to her diaper and one of my old t-shirts and let her go to town.  She painted canvases and handprints for Craig for Father’s Day. Her artwork is still in a closet waiting to be hung up. 

- – - -

Is that what a parenting report card would look like?  Or would it judge things like love and attention? Would extra time pushing my child on the swing make up for the time I snapped at her for throwing food on the floor? 

Would the songs I make up about going to Grammy’s house and peeing on the potty be evaluated against sweet lullabies? Would turning my living room floor into beds for every single stuffed animal she owns earn me points for imagination or dock me points for poor housekeeping?   

The best part about these parenting classes is that they are graded by my own children. And there’s no curve. They’re not comparing me against anyone. 

It doesn’t matter if the mom next door cooks from scratch every night and only buys organic. It doesn’t matter that another set of parents have daily painting sessions with their kids and save every single piece.  It doesn’t matter that another breastfed and I didn’t. 

What matters is that for my children, I’m doing the best I can. I’m giving them my whole heart every single day. My goals are to keep them safe, keep them healthy, keep them happy and keep them loved.  If, when they lay their heads on the pillow at night, they are all of those things, I won’t be afraid to look at my report card. 

Because I will know, that I am enough. 

this post is part of a link up with Just.Be.Enough in support of their fantastic campaign to provide support to those fighting cancer. Cancer sucks and a post isn’t enough to show my support, but it’s what I can do in the face of something that makes me feel so helpless. Please visit them to learn more and to read other posts that are supporting this cause.