Perfectly Imperfect

The smell of warm bread drifted through our cozy hundred year old home the entire day. Kentucky finally had its' first snow, at least in our region, and the snowflakes softly fell. We were all staying warm, wearing comfy clothes and me in my fuzzy socks. All Sunday afternoon, I read the recipe 100 times, watched the yeast rise and fall, molded the dough into a ball and finally- finally, it was done. 

Doesn't it look beautiful? Like it would taste delicious, fresh and hot from the oven?

It wasn't. At all. It was a baking project that took me several long hours, one that required so much patience, and it had our taste buds anticipating the first bite ALL day long. I grabbed a large chunk with my eager fingers and as soon as it was in my mouth I exclaimed, "Oh NO! Yuck, no, NO!" My husband tried to be sweet about it- "Oh let's wait a while longer and see what happens (as if it would change). Maybe it'll become more dense and taste more like.... bread." It didn't.

Isn't this kind of like life? We plan for things and wish for certain events to happen. We work hard and pray for a beautiful result and then--it's nothing at all like we hoped for. My husband and I plan rigorously to provide healthy, well rounded meals for our family. Sitting around the table with one another to talk about our day is something that of course, is ideal. But after long work days, it is more of a reality that Frozen is playing for the umpteenth time and chicken nuggets is the glorious meal being served.

Perfectly imperfect. When I think that painting with two toddlers is a good idea and five seconds later am pulling my hair out at the red and blue sloshing all over the table. But they made their own masterpiece and cheered each other on the entire time.

Or the suggestion for them to get creative using Play-doh and moments later I am scraping the bits and pieces out of the cracks in our ancient floors. But their little fingers worked so hard and I watched their glowing faces each time they made another snake, or horse or human.

 I can even relate this to my current teaching career: I plan what I expect to be a freeking awesome lesson; surely the boys (I have eight), will all be engaged and thrilled to discuss the inspiring explorers Lewis and Clark. Right?! OR they'll instead get caught up on the fact that Sacajawea had a baby at seventeen ("It's not even possible to have a baby at seventeen, that's way too young," says one. "Well that was back in the day, like a LONG time ago, so it used to happen but it can't anymore," another replies). Okay sooooooooo not what I thought would be ten minutes spent in Social Studies. BUT, it did lead us to an awesome conversation about how brave and strong the female Native American was who helped Lewis and Clark reach the Pacific Ocean. The boys were awed by her courage and strength as she braved mountains and crossed waterways, all with a baby on her back. Not how I expected the lesson to go, but it turned out better.

God gifted me with the art of photography and I was blessed to discover it several years ago. But just because I am talented at snapping a good quality photo, does not mean that our life is all sunshine and roses. From the moment our kids were born, I made a very conscious decision to post what I post. I personally don't think crying photos of them are cute, that's a preference. There are a lot of other things that I would rather document. And when I spent all day making my first attempt at homemade bread, I took a lot of time and effort to take the photos that I did. When we took our first bite out of this very pretty loaf, I felt myself frown, my chest tighten up and for a second I thought, "What a waste."

The truth is, it wasn't a waste at all. Pies may be more up my alley but I've always wanted to try baking bread. Everyone says it is such hard work (PREACH!), like an art in itself; and although I longed for it to be a delicious masterpiece, the end result was a big loaf of perfect imperfections. The old floors in our house creak, 90% of the time there are toddlers running, screaming, arguing and laughing. Favorite movies are played on repeat, the corners are crowded with an abundance of toys and some days, despite how hard you try, how well you plan, you have to accept that your life is a masterpiece.

Mommy Put Me Down

"Mommy put me down!!!" are the four words we hear in our household every.single.night. 

Our two and three year old have gotten accustomed to asking for me, each and every night. "I want MOMMY!" Reese will say. "It's Daddy's turn, Reesie," I gently respond. Her arms shoot up, giant tears well in her eyes as she reaches for me. Sometimes it's a little more smooth sailing and she is okay to give me a giant kiss with some crocodile tears. But lately, no.

Why? Is it because I am a really fun Mom and they think I just put them down better? Nope. Dad is the giant toy here. It is with him they crack up laughing as they Hulk smash each other, as soon as he walks in the door. It is Dad who makes us smile and helps us get out of our afternoon funks. Is it because I am super patient and selfless? I'm sorry to admit that it would be for this reason even less...I think I was a semi patient kid, but it started dwindling in my adolescent years and by the time I was an adult, it's like something snapped. Noise, chaos, incessant tapping, whistling...oh boy. I better stop admitting all this. But toddlers fighting? Shoving each other? Demanding which toys are whose and stomping their feet through it all? What patience? Another high five for Dad on this front. And if there is anything motherhood has taught me, it is how quickly I crave selfishness. I don't remember what it's like to pee alone. When I come home from work, my husband still has another two before he joins us. I get the kids a snack, a drink and I allow for a few minutes of TV or i-Pads so that I can change clothes and clean up. It takes all of three minutes for me to do this and the entire time I literally pray, "Please don't kill each other." Some days I can count down-- "5, 4, 3, 2...."

"MOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!" Pierson screams at an ungodly pitch. Reese screams back. Something knocks over. Feet scuffling on the hardwood floors. Silence. "Oh, CRAP, one of them is dead."

So it's not my selflessness they're attracted to. But it never fails. This phase of life is all about Mommy. Mommy put me down for nap, bedtime; Mommy to hold me when I'm upset, Mommy I run to for tattling. That doesn't mean they each get me every night. My husband and I are great about taking turns and Pierson may soon be on the verge of being completely okay with this. When I put down Reese, he does Pierson, and vice versa. But there's still the asking, on repeat. Usually before dinner starts, a few times during the meal, in the bath, and then the battle begins. All day long I've spent seven hours pouring into other children- attempting to teach them all the core subjects in school as well as how to love and respect one another. I get a mere four hours with my own and I will be 100% honest; when I walk in the door, my heart is often heavy, my feet are tired, my bra comes off and the last thing I feel prepared for is motherhood. But this hat comes first: Mommy. I may be exhausted, my brain might be a little (okay, a lot) frazzled, and some nights I have actually cringed at the high pitch cries of "Mommy put me down!"

But it's all becoming so real- the fact that they won't be toddlers forever. I know they will be able to do their bedtime routines themselves and after they do, they will be perfectly okay with a simple hug and kiss for the night. Their little bodies won't fit so perfectly nestled against mine, Reese won't beg for me to rock her a little longer, and Pierson won't need me to sit in his chair to sing "just ONE more song."

Most days I don't feel worthy. I'm insecure and I often doubt who I am, what I was created for. But then I hear their voice and Mommy Put Me Down assures me that I am doing the right thing.

Bittersweet Trail of Motherhood

Reese is wearing Cruz & Q's 'Oh Happy Day' long sleeve tee. 

The house is dark and quiet, my desk lamp is the only subtle glow and the only sounds audible are the heater blowing and my fat, black cat purring beside me as I type. To my left is the kids' play place. Reese's new play bassinet and high chair that she got for Christmas. Her new Bitty Baby 'Lizzie' is lying next to her as she now sleeps. Pierson's giant Batman Lego toy and remote control race cars, his Avenger toys scattered around.

Asa and I are both school teachers full time; Monday through Friday is spent loving other parents' children. Seven hours away from home, for myself, teaching eight boys how to respect and trust the world around them. There are all the main subjects of course; language arts, social studies, science and math. But I stand firm on my theory that if they don't know to love each other and treat each other with kindness, how to exist and thrive inside our school walls, then what will life look outside of them? During the work week, we are with other kids more than we are with our own. On an average work day I get to spend 4-4.5 hours with Pierson and Reese, total. I don't see them before I get to school and they go to bed at 7:30 or 8pm every night. Structure and routine has been very vital to managing a healthy, happy family so don't get me wrong, I love that part. But I miss my kids. 

To anyone that asks me about being a teacher, I happily tell them it is the very best career I could image as a mother. I get paid holidays, winter breaks, summer break and don't forget those awesome and unexpected snow days. My kids aren't yet in school, thank God, but I imagine when they are I would love the career even more. I would have the same exact schedule as they will! The thing is, the more time I get with my children, the more I want. At two and three, their imaginations are exploding with crazy, cool new thoughts and questions. Their vocabulary is increasing and they say the funniest things. For instance Pierson's comment when he wanted to shower with me:

"Reese, you want to shower with Mom too?"

"Nope!"

"Okay, Reese, no shower for you then. YOUR LOSS."

[When did he start saying YOUR LOSS?] I couldn't stop laughing. And her new thing is, "I think so!" when you ask her a question or she finishes talking about any topic. Tonight before bed we played quietly in her room where she has a toy kitchen (also a Christmas present). She made Asa and I cookies and hot chocolate and ABC's (spaghettios) and came over to kiss us in between. Pierson wanted to play a few minutes in his room with Avenger action figures so I set a timer, like we always do. When it went off, he said, "Okay, Mom. Time to get in bed." He picked a book, grabbed his cup of water, the tape player we listen to Lullabies on, and crawled under the covers. All of it was sweet. Just absolutely, positively, mom tears flowing, sweet. We go back to work after tomorrow. I'm excited to see my students and my awesome co-workers... And now is the time of year where we look forward to those said snow snows. Spring break will be here before we know it and then soon after, summer. 

But tonight as I sit, trying to get comfortable under the fat cat who has moved himself to my lap, I feel many mixed emotions. I feel excitement for my kids' growing minds. For the fact that they are healthy and so happy, that they are obedient and learning to love Jesus. But with the excitement, I can't help but feel there is a part of my heart that keeps chipping. Someone else will create new memories with them five days a week. Someone else will make them lunch, sing them songs and put them down for naps. That someone won't be me, and therefore I will continue to play these memories on repeat, of the two weeks around the clock that we had together. I will hug them even tighter tomorrow and I will pray for the strength and dignity to walk this bittersweet trail of Motherhood.

The Missing Piece

Photo by: Aubrey Renee

He is strong and so handsome, just like his Daddy. He is laughter and pure joy. He is the best hug and the sweet little voice that I remember as I drift off to sleep. He is medicine when my heart is sad and he is my pick me up when I fall. He was just six months old when I got pregnant unknowingly with his sister, seven months old when I found out. He was my baby. My Pierson Clive. The baby I tried several exciting months to get pregnant with. He was just learning how to sit up unassisted. I in turn, was just getting over my postpartum-thyroditis. (Yes, that's a thing. 10% of women get this quirky little disorder that is quote on quote 'temporary.' ) He was my boy. The one I thought I would have several years with, just us; him, me and his amazing Dad. A happy little family of three. I wasn't counting on that time being interrupted. I wasn't ready for my body to no longer be my own, especially when it had spent a year and a half NOT being its' own. Nine months of pregnancy, six of thyroiditis, six of breast-feeding (around the 7th month I dried up completely, thanks to my body starving itself from a hyperthyroid and a new pregnancy). I was angry and I was upset. I was hurt and scared; questioning myself and who I was.

It was Martin Luther King Junior day and the only reason I remember the significance in that, is because we as school teachers, had the day off. I woke up feeling funny, weird, exhausted and not myself. (By the way...I had never started a cycle after my son was born, in between the time of having him and getting pregnant with her. I was on the pill safe for nursing moms and I was breastfeeding. Maybe that helps drive home the point that I was drastically not feeling ready for another quite yet?)

“Go get a cheap pregnancy test, please.” I told my husband. And we both thought, “Yeah right.”

I remember that moment so vividly. I took a selfie, with my son and myself and the pregnancy stick box; and I texted it to my mom who lives out of state. We put our son down for his long afternoon nap, my husband began cooking lunch and I peed... I sat there and watched in the circle ,the blue line turn from a minus, into a faint plus. I felt like fainting. My heart started racing a hundred miles an hour. I yelled, “WHAT THE [insert inappropriate word here] ARE WE GOING TO DO!?!?!?” and my husband ran in. I really should instead say, “and my Saint ran in.” He kissed my head. “We're going to have a baby.” He responded. And I cried. I cried long and hard. As soon as my mom picked up the phone she said, “Oh, Ashley,” and I could feel the love in her voice. I sat on the couch for a very long time. I didn't eat lunch. And when my son woke from his nap, I cried big fat tears all over his head.

I stayed angry for quite a while. I really loved pregnancy with my son. I had planned for it and was ecstatic when we found out. I was excited to watch my belly grow and I didn't really care about the weight gain or the maternity clothes. But after he was born, my body went through so many drastic changes; rapid weight loss, an abnormally fast heart rate, hair falling out in massive chunks, crazy amounts of anxiety and sadness, and then the loss of my breast milk. Because it is temporary, meaning it can last anywhere from 3-7 months, the Thyroid Specialist wouldn't prescribe me anything except for my heart rate. And we never discovered that I even had crazy postpartum thyroiditis until my son was almost four months old. So I went through four months of just 'stuff.' Not fun, emotional, exhausting stuff. And two months later, I was pregnant? Oh boy...here we go...again?!?

The months passed and I discovered I was having a girl. I predicted she was a girl, very early in the pregnancy, as I craved completely opposite things, my face was breaking out like I was a pre-teen and my hormones were off the chart. Around twenty weeks, we had a gender reveal party and when I bit into that cupcake, I saw the pink filling and the ice on my heart slowly began to melt and fade away. I could feel sunshine making its' way inside and as usual in this pregnancy, I wanted to cry. My Pierson was going to have a baby sister. I was going to have a little girl. My very own little girl. And just like that, I believed that this all made sense. I was terrified to have two children who would be 15 months apart. I am a school teacher, traveling photographer, active church goer, wife and mom. I already felt tired all the time and I experienced a lot of self-doubt, my ability to raise two children. Time continued to pass and when we put a name to her, Reese Elisabeth-Morgan; named after my mom and grandmother, I began to instead trust that this was the plan all along. I didn't expect her, I didn't plan for her, and it took me a while to fall in love with her while she was in my belly; but she is the puzzle piece I never knew I was missing. She was born and she instantly completed our family. She had a speedy delivery, five hours total from start to finish, and I knew her the second she was placed in my arms.

Here she is, two-years old and not a day goes by that I don't thank God for choosing me to be her mom. Her brother Pierson, 3, doesn't remember a day without her. I was foolish to think that I had somehow jeopardized his childhood by bringing him a sibling so soon when the reality is, she was the miracle he also needed all along. Am I tired? Yes. Immensely. It feels like we are raising twins most days... A three year old and a two-year old...both able to run and walk, express their needs and wants, but both still needing us oh so much. Recently when they were both down for the night, I took a deep breath while I sat still for a moment, and this thought came into my mind:

You want the house to be spotless. The crumbs to disappear from the couch cushions and the endless missing toys shoved behind it, to only be put in their proper places. The dog hair never to be seen, the laundry washed and folded and the dishes to never be there in the sink. You want your mind to forget some of its' painful and hurtful past, for the anxieties of yesterday to not still be the anxieties of tomorrow. You want the energy of a child, the happiness and innocence. The dust to vanish and the hardwoods to shine. Or do you?... No. Not really! I want to embrace the moments and memories that surround me. To pick up the play doh bits happily off the floor and to smile when he's in bed and I find yet another Hot Wheel. To sigh when I find one of her princess's or the sippy cup she hid in the toy chest. I want to embrace it all, the laughter and joy, the pain and the regrets.

Sometimes we don't feel qualified. We are scared of the unknown and of the changes of the unpredictable future. But I don't for a second now doubt that my story was carefully woven by a beautiful plan. In those panic stricken moments, I wish I had just trusted. In the fear of my abilities, or the lack thereof, I wish I had believed in myself more. She is my calm and my fierce, my quiet soul and tiny dancer. She is my happiness and my chaos. My breath of fresh air and my safe haven. Put them together, and my children complete me. They have given me purpose and reason to truly believe, motherhood is a title I am so blessed to have been given.