Just Us

We have been blessed to have really happy and obedient kids, you know, the whopping three years total that we've been parents. But if you're one of those who may think transitioning from one to two kids has been simple for me, well it's honestly been nothing but a giant learning curve.

Pierson was our summer baby. The one we spent three months trying to get pregnant with, the babe we had an entire summer with, just the three of us and our pets, in our new-to-us home; relaxing, cuddling, napping, walking, and oohing and ahhing over single move he made. I documented every single stage, including the time he rolled off the changing pad and we made a trip to the ER (#firstimeparents).

He was sweet and simple; not a crier, an excellent sleeper and a very giggly, happy baby. When he was seven months old, my world was rocked when we found out I was again pregnant. I sobbed my eyes out, knowing that my then napping baby had no idea what his mother just found out and that he would have no idea that it ever used to be 'just us.' I know this has the potential to sound terrible to those reading, but I don't mean it that way. I don't hate our second child (duh, look at her!) and things turned around later in my pregnancy with her-- but there was heartache for me thinking that I wasn't given enough time. I was just figuring out this whole Motherhood thing, I was recovering from Thyroiditis and plain and simple; I felt guilty. "He didn't ask for this!" I cried to my own mom. "He didn't say he wanted a sibling!" The trivial nonsense I bothered myself with is surreal. (What child asks for a sibling? And what about the kids who are second and third and fourth children?)

My daughter Reese was born, almost fifteen months to the day that he was. I was released two days later and it's like when the nurses and doctors were discharging me, they were patting me on the back saying, "Here you go, Mama. Now you have two babies to raise. You have two tiny humans you're in charge of. You'll be fine." My role as Mom to Pierson changed drastically. Before she came, I was his everything. Not that my husband wasn't present (because he is, immensely); but that no other child relied on me. Now I had a tiny baby girl, who needed me for all of her meals, every three hours , no matter what we all may be doing. Pierson had to learn how to play independently, was shushed when I was scared he would wake her, or scolded if he tried to crawl into my lap while I re-learned how to breastfeed. Over time I got better and I learned how to live as a mom of two. But still he was immediately 'the older child' and was required to step it up a notch or two, or twenty by being so.

My husband would often play with him while I nursed or bathed her. It wasn't until she got to be quite a bit older that it became easier to parent together again, instead of mostly apart. Life started to slow down after her first birthday- well, slow isn't the right word. Nothing is slow with toddlers. But we have our routine and thanks to Babywise working for our kids, they love and thrive on them.  I can again intentionally focus on being Mom to Pierson. Some days we use the phrase "divide and conquer" and to us this means that we need to separate the kids. They are together all day, every day, and they literally do not know life apart from one another. To Pierson, Reese has been with him forever and for Reese, well, that's actually the case. She loves to grocery shop with her Dad and the photo above represents Pierson's most current mom and son hobby: baking.

I am learning so much about him and his three and a half-year-old self.  Cooking is my husband's thing and baking is mine, so when at ten o'clock in the morning this Saturday Pierson said, "Mommy, I want to make chocolate chip cookies with you," that's what we did. Reese went to the store and Pierson sat on our yellow step-stool, helping me measure brown sugar and flour and turning the standing mixer to the right speeds to mix. We scooped the dough on to the cookie sheets and set the timer; he sat on the kitchen floor for a few seconds and watched as their shape started to change. They began to warm and spread out, fall a little and then rise. I stopped rinsing the measuring cups and paused to take him in. The once newborn baby, my once only child. The big brother and the incredibly loving and gentle soul that started our family. I didn't know that he would become a big brother so soon and while I adore being Mom to both my children, my heart very much skips a beat when it's just us.

Thank you, Pierson, for helping me bake these cookies. Thank you for your grace, forgiveness and love. Three years sounds so short to many, but in Mom Time, it's much longer. They have been slow at times but fleeting overall; to think that in three more you will be six, well, I can't even imagine. Your helpful heart and eagerness to learn make me swell with pride. I am so thankful for every single ounce of you, even and especially when I am not strong enough to show it.

Through Their Eyes

As teachers, getting told we have a Snow Day is equally as exciting for us as it was when we were kids. So getting THREE this past week was well, like a little bit of Heaven to our hearts. We like our jobs just fine and I really do love teaching- but there is nothing like the time at home spent with our entire family. My husband and I are partial to our teaching careers and the fact that we have the same schedule, we have long breaks, we share the same kind of student work load having the same Master degrees and well, we get snow days together too! When our kids are in school (don't even go there) I imagine that perhaps I will appreciate them even more.

This past week, my tired Mom blinders came off as I watched as my kids witness for the first time this year, a real snow. Wednesday morning, our three-year old Pierson was awake by 6:30a.m. and his reasoning was, "I want to see the snow!" I tried to get him to sleep a little longer but finally I realized, he has so much anticipation, genuine heart-felt excitement over the fact that our ground may be covered in even a dusting of snow. I gave him the green light to run downstairs and I swear it was like Christmas morning all over again. He screamed with delight! He oohed and aahhed and carried a step-stool to our kitchen window. He cracked up laughing when I let our cat outside, only to have him sprint immediately back in. When his little sister woke up, he couldn't get the words out fast enough that she would see snow covering our streets. Together they were so ecstatic, so sweet. Their little faces at the living room window, watching as our streets became more and more covered. I began to realize through their two and three year old eyes, this was the first time. They've seen snow before, heck Reese cried her eyes out when we bundled up and attempted to play in one of our 'big' snowfalls last year, but they don't really remember that. To them this was so new, so magical and it reminded me to slow down, that I too should breathe it all in. Pierson went sledding with his Daddy and Reese and I took a nice long walk. I watched as she trudged through the snow, I'm sure it felt miles high to her still growing legs. She stopped and just stood often, looking at the ground around her, watching our dogs roll and eat the snowy goodness. I saw her smile and she caught my eye; "Thank you, Jesus," I started. "...for snow," she sighed.

The most magical day was when the snow began at eight o'clock in the morning and it didn't STOP all day and most of the night long. It came down so big and fast. We decided to go to the quaint little bakery down the street with Asa's sister and her family and the roads were already a slushy, snowy mess. When we got there, the kids stood on the sidewalk outside the shop and just kept squealing with delight every time snow landed on their jackets. "Pierson, LOOK! A snowflake!" Reese exclaimed. "Reesie Cup, LOOK! There's some on your HAT!" Not only was my Michigan heart exploding with happiness over the beauty that surrounded me, but my Mama heart was too. Through their eyes, the streets looked like Narnia. They had entered another world and they were so happy to have each other in it. 

Most of our days were spent indoors, building houses with Legos and for me, baking. We of course watched Frozen, a lot, and it was necessary that we attempt our very own Olaf too. I told Asa there is something about this time of year, the snow and the cold, the warm food and lots of cuddling; that makes me fall in love with him even more. We were married in December and a huge blizzard actually happened on our wedding day. For me, the snow reminds me of the sweet love that we have and I spent my snow days not only falling more in love with my children, but with him. He is the man behind all of us, behind this. He gets on the floor with the kids, is the first to turn on dance music when we need to move and he was the one who made Olaf happen. The rest of these images are their attempt at making this season's first snowman and every ounce of it is pretty dang adorable. Reese licking the snow, Pierson making snowballs to eat like "ice cream" as he called it. Our dogs in complete Heaven (more so Elsa, I swear she lives to roll and lie down in snow) and me laughing and cheering them all on. I am so thankful for these last 5 days. The time off makes re-entering the real world so hard, but really and truly, I love watching life through our children's eyes!

Thunder Thighs or Skinny Mini: The Truths Behind Body Shaming

• body image. noun. "the subjective picture or mental image of one's own body."
  body shaming. noun. "shaming someone for their body type." (she hasn't lost her baby weight yet? she looks terrible!) or (did you SEE that girl?! she's too skinny!")

I have always been "the small girl." I reached my maximum height when I was in the fifth grade and from high school on, my weight remained a consistent 110#. Once I got to college and was no longer playing sports, fitness rarely crossed my mind. I continued however, to wear most of the same clothes that I wore in high school and I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that 'flat' was just my body type. I wasn't ever graced with good curves and many times I have been referred to as a 'rolling pin.' As I've gotten older, I've even had others refer to my 'chicken legs.' Society admits calling a woman 'thunder thighs' or 'chunky' is unacceptable. When is society then going to catch on to the same offense caused bylabels such as 'twig' and 'surf board?'

I met my husband when I was nineteen and we were married by twenty. My still-young body remained the same. Three years down the road, I happily got pregnant with our first baby, our son. When I read pregnant on the digital pregnancy test, I couldn't have been more thrilled. We had tried for several months and I was so ecstatic to rock a pregnant bod. I couldn't wait for the baby bump, and when it began to grow, my excitement never faltered.

He was eight pounds two ounces and I was so happy to have a healthy baby boy. Having no idea what a legit post-baby bod would look like, I was a bit traumatized that I had a miniature basketball belly still there, even after he came out. But I watched that little ball shrink more, and more, and more, day after day and within two weeks, it was completely gone. My belly flattened, and went back to almost 100% normal. My core was weak and I knew it would take some exercise to get those muscles back to my normal, but I was still thrilled. Pregnancy felt great and here I was, with a brand new baby, not feeling too shabby.

And then it happened. My hair began to fall out in clumps. Not the normal shedding while shampooing or brushing after a shower, but my hair, in piles. "This is normal after a baby!" everyone told me. Then my heart rate sped into high gear. It felt like my chest would burst at times from its' speed. I started to get sad, a lot. I cried over really silly things, like my son growing bigger. I worried over the most trivial nonsense. I walked down the hall at my school and my co-workers began to ask, "Are you sure you're eating enough?" I could hear the uncertainty in their voices; the caution and worry. "You're breastfeeding though, right? So it's normal to lose weight quickly for some women!" they would say. My pants began to fall off of me; my regular pre-maternity pants that I've worn forever. I stepped on a scale. 105#.

I yelled for my husband to come in and look at the number. "Well, you are nursing," he said. "I've heard it's normal for some women to lose weight quicker while nursing." I stepped on the scale the next afternoon, 104#. And the next, 103#. "Are you sure you're eating enough?!" he gently checked as he too, was starting to worry. We began to track my calories, and I indulged myself in huge amounts of Nutella, carbs and cheese. "If I get below 100# I have to see a doctor," I told him. I was worried, I honest to God felt like I was wasting away, I felt judged and like all eyes were on me, but there was nothing I could do about it. Rumors spread at work that I was anorexic; co-workers monitored my lunch eating habits. I started to hear comments about how 'sickly' I looked and how I needed to put on weight. Several days later the scale read 97#. I immediately went to see my doctor and after doing a heart test and going through all of my symptoms, she nonchalantly said, "You have hyperthyroid! It's no big deal. I'll get you referred to a specialist and you'll be perfectly fine." I was able to breathe a little bit better, knowing that I at least had a diagnosis, one that didn't sound too scary. On to the specialist I went.

Worse news there: she called it Postpartum Thyroiditis and said because it 'was temporary,' there was absolutely nothing she could do except prescribe a pill to regulate my heart rate. My body continued to work on overload and I had gone from a healthy pregnancy weight to a mere 97# within five months. My milk supply dried up because my body was in a starvation mode. Go figure, just a couple months after being diagnosed with Thyroiditis, did I learned that I was pregnant with our daughter. No period, no indication of a period; I had been nursing as often as I could, though I clearly wasn't producing much, and I was on a birth control pill safe for breastfeeding moms (that was obviously pointless and didn't work since I didn't have much milk).

Before my pregnancy with my daughter, my stomach was flat, there wasn't a single stretch mark and even my belly button that once held a ring (sixteen year old me was awesome, duh), was normal. And then the weeks turned to months, the lines appeared on my midsection and my body had a much harder time handling being pregnant. My legs felt like heavy cement slabs, my back throbbed 24/7 and I began to worry how I would feel after her birth. Three days before her due date, she arrived, another eight pound two ounce, healthy baby. And while I had the hardest time initially accepting my pregnancy with her, it felt like she had always been here. I held her in my arms, she latched on to my breast and she was soon sound asleep after nursing like a champ.

Postpartum Thyroiditis hit again, two for two. Luckily I never dropped under 100 and for two years actually, I've maintained the same exact weight. Except it's different. I may be the skinniest I have ever been but I have to admit that when I look in the mirror, I do it so quickly that I dodge certain parts of my stomach. That stomach- the one that carried two strong, healthy, gorgeous babies. The stomach that kept them safe, that was their home, for nine sweet, but difficult months. I never rocked that six-pack and I've always worn a small pants size, but until two years ago, I never had loose skin that drooped when taking off my socks, or pulling up a pair of jeans. There's a part of me who sees that skin and is reminded of the beauty that is my daughter. How I was terrified to have a second child so soon, how I was bitter to give up my body when I had forgotten what it felt like to be mine; but how I also have witnessed grace with her completing our family. Then there is also the other part of me-- the human part-the woman part. My husband could care less about the skin on my stomach. He would tell you he doesn't even see it. And maybe he doesn't. But I do. And the fact of the matter is that this is me.

This is the woman underneath the size 0 pants. The one who is told she has bird legs. The woman who is referred to as "a skinny little thing." Prior to babies, I guess I just had good genes (look at my Mama). Then Postpartum Thyroiditis caused me two years of an emotional roller coaster. And back-to-back pregnancies caused me saggy skin; skin that is difficult for me to wear. As I write, I am wondering when it became okay for others to body shame each other. If a woman is too heavy she is called 'fat,' and if you're in between, maybe you've been called, 'average' and if you're skinny, people tell you "eat a sandwich." No matter what size you are, how your skin looks or doesn't look, isn't this you? And shouldn't we put our arms around the women in our lives and tell them that they are freaking rock stars, child bearing or not?

If you think the answer is the number on a scale, I am telling you it is not. If you think it is in a pant size, well I've found no comfort there. If you are wondering if a skinny girl appearance on the outside has helped me sleep better at night, that's a no. But my so-called 'flat' hips have still served my children well. They have bounced them during long nights; they have been home to their tiny legs wrapped around me. When there's a "hold you" or "up, up, up" request, my 'skinny' arms don't complain. I have a hard time seeing myself without a shirt, I have to tuck in my pooch when I sit down and while I am blessed to be Mom, there is freedom in admitting that I am learning to love her. I don't strive for perfection; I could care less about a number. I want to be healthy and happy, I want my daughter especially to see a strong woman who is comfortable in her skin; a mother who can be open and honest about the trials that have existed on this journey of bringing her children earth side. And I want to be a woman who loves you no matter how you look. While I myself struggle to accept it, we are given these bodies one time. Of course they are going to change as we age; they will tighten and droop and re-tighten. And the bodies we had two years ago won't be the bodies we have tomorrow. We will all strive for different things, but can't we all work our asses off for one thing: to avoid the universally accepted process of body shaming and instead challenge our hearts to seek good in each other?

These are the Days

Three years of changing diapers. That's 1,095 very long, very messy days. Our son decidedbefore he was twenty-three months old that M&M's were enough motivation to pee on a potty and he hasn't looked back since. He's only been wearing a diaper for his nap and nighttime sleep and he has been a bathroom champ.

Her on the other hand- well at eighteen months she looked me square in the face and said, "Uhoh... poop! and by golly she actually went on the toilet! We all cheered and screamed and shouted loud HOORAY's but, that was the last time. Reese is now two and we have been telling her for so long, "Just tell us when you have to use it. You can do it!" She has been the toddler who stands in a corner quietly and when I look over to say, "REESE, what are you doing....??" she sheepishly rolls her eyes and says, "I poooopin." Noooooooooo!

One cold afternoon this week I had the privilege of staying home with the kids since our poor sitter was sick with the flu. It was in the single digits outside and I thought, "What a great day to just stay inside!" Reese woke and there was something different about her; it was like she had slept and gone through a major milestone. She was rambling and spitting out words faster than I could understand and somewhere in one of them I heard, "I go potty..." I decided to take her pants and diaper completely off, just to see, and sure enough she ran to the bathroom on our second floor. She sat on the toilet like she had been doing it her whole life and after she successfully went, she shouted for her big brother. Pierson exclaimed, "REESIE CUP! You PEED! You DID IT! You get a sticker on your sticker chart!" and Reese sat there, clapping her hands as she yelled, "YAY!!!!!"  After that, she went on the potty ALL day. SO much that she completed her entire sticker chart.

The next day our sitter was still sick, so my husband stayed home. I told myself not to get too excited as I know many kids will use the potty a few times but then quit again. A couple hours into the work day I received a text message: "Reese just took herself to the potty and peed!" And then again, and then a third time. And all of a sudden it dawned on me- this is the last baby we will ever be potty training. I thought back to the countless diapers our Diaper Genies have held and I realized, soon we get to throw those nasty garbage pails away! And just like that, this chapter to baby raising is closing. No, I don't expect to be rid of diapers entirely anytime soon, but I do know we'll need to buy less and less. And after this milestone, another one will begin and end. And sooner than my heart wants to admit, these 'baby' years will be over. 

Suddenly it is sinking in. The hundreds of time a stranger at the Grocery has told me, "Embrace it. Cherish these moments. These are the days." There has been many times I have almost laughed in their face. As my two toddlers have exploded into simultaneous fits while riding in those god awful Cars carts, I have almost said aloud, "Really?! THESE are the days? THIS moment I am supposed to cherish?!" But it goes beyond than that; than the public tantrums or the loud chaos that makes up our home. And it goes deeper than the many poopy diapers I have changed- even at one point when I had two babes, 15 months apart from each other, needing them changed what seemed constantly. 

These memories are fleeting. 'The days are long but the years short,' said by author Gretchen Rubin, rings so true for me. I remember bringing Reese home like it was yesterday. The doctor placing her in my arms, the span of time she refused to nap longer than 45 minutes straight, when I questioned if I was doing anything right, and now I am taking her to the toy store to pick something for this huge accomplishment. I am so proud and my heart is so full. And as long as the days are, as messy as they may be, I believe so sincerely that these really are the days.