The Space-Toddler Continuum

Let's get one thing straight: This post is not about science. I don't do science. Tried it once; didn't like it. So if you came here for science, please talk to my husband instead. That guy knows science.

If you came here for cute pictures of my kids, here you go:

Don't be ashamed if that's the only reason you're here. They are pretty adorable.

But if you did, indeed, come here for a blog post, please keep reading. However, I feel obligated to warn you that this isn't one of my funnier posts. I will post a funny one later to make up for it. Just for you. Kisses!

**Disclaimer: I am super proud of Joshua. Like, super proud. He does amazing things. He works harder than anyone I know. I know his delays are only temporary and that he will catch up. He has come a really long way in his short little life and I admire him for his tenacity. Even on days when he is giving me toddler 'tude, I am reminded that it was this same stubborn personality that got him through the toughest days at the NICU.**

I put that disclaimer up because this post is, more or less, a big, long whine and I just want people to know that I know those things.  So - on to the show.

I wrote before that recently I had found myself starting to resent Josh for all of his issues. I knew (and know) that none of this was his fault, that it wasn't anyone's fault, but I was angry and I wanted someone to blame. So I picked my toddler. Classy. But, honestly, I don't resent him anymore. Once I realized that was happening, I started to figure out why I was angry, why I was looking for something to blame, why our situation suddenly frustrated me when it's nothing we haven't dealt with for (almost) the last two years.

And as I've watched Jenna grow and change, I think I've solved the mystery: I am stuck. I am stuck in a time warp of sorts, where things and people and circumstances progress at a regular rate, all except for Joshua.

It's kind of like taking a trip to Narnia. You guys know I love me some Narnia and look for pretty much any excuse to work it into this blog, but in this case it really, actually applies. In case you haven't read the books/seen the movies/have done both and still think I'm reaching, let me explain: In the story, four kids travel to a magical land called Narnia by means of a closet in a stranger's house. Yet another reason you shouldn't go through strangers' closets, but anyway... The kids stay in the magical land for years and years. They start out very young when they arrive and by the end of the book, they are adults. When they decide to go back home, they are surprised to realize that almost no time has passed at all in the real world. Maybe a few minutes at the most. They have become children again and no one is the wiser.

That is what I think of when I think of our lives with Josh. Daniel and Jenna and me, we're all living in Narnia, living our lives and progressing at the "normal" pace. But Josh is still in the real world, and every time we go back to check on him, not much has changed.

If you have kids or nieces or nephews or ever saw a kid once at the mall, you're probably familiar with the most common piece of parenting wisdom in the entire world: "Enjoy it; it goes by fast." This makes mothers everywhere roll their eyes, even the ones who say it to others, because, really, is there any statement that's more obvious?

But lately I find myself discovering that it doesn't go by fast for everyone. With Josh, for instance, it hasn't gone by fast. I mean, yes, the days and weeks have passed so quickly it's hard to believe that he will be two soon. But looking at his development, where he is in therapy, well...it's hard to believe he will be two soon.

Recently Josh was evaluated by a team of therapists and tested at about a 12-month level for development and skills. This was progress from his last eval, which was great news! But I think my frustration comes from the fact that it took him nearly two years to get to this level. Two years of hard work for him to still be behind. And that is just difficult to deal with a lot of the time. Because it doesn't mean that in another month, he will test at a 13-month level. He just doesn't follow a timeline like that.

Does that make any sense at all? I don't want to sound like I'm disappointed in Josh or that he is doing something wrong. Neither of those things is true. But one of the perks of being a parent is the joy you get from your kids and the way they grow up. Joshua will be two in February. He doesn't walk yet, he doesn't really say much, and, honestly, I don't get as much interaction out of him as I would a "typical" two-year-old. Do I enjoy him and love and cherish the interaction we do have? Absolutely. I freakin' love that kid. But because of the way he progresses, it's like he's growing up at half the regular pace, and that gets hard sometimes.

For babies born prematurely, doctors and specialists and parents adjust their age for milestones and expectations. This means that since Josh was born a little over three months early, he isn't expected to meet the milestones of his actual age, but those of the age he would be if he had been born on his due date. So right now he is 21 months and gets evaluated as an 18-month-old. However, that all stops when he turns two. In theory, preemies catch up by then and there is no longer any need to adjust their age. Obviously, Josh won't be caught up, but they will still stop adjusting his age.

I have been looking forward to Josh's second birthday ever since they told us that he would probably catch up by then, way back when he was still in the NICU. I didn't wish my time away but I was excited about being able to give a simple answer for his age and to be able to pretend that he was just like every other kid. That won't happen, and while that isn't the end of the world, it still bums me out. His therapists say that when he turns three, he should be much closer to being caught up. So now I guess we wait for three. Unless it's four. Or five. Or never.

Toddlers are supposed to toddle. They are supposed to run around and climb up things and push over the baby gates and flush things down the toilet. Those things are frustrating and I don't think other parents have it easier, but I really want Josh to flush something down our toilet. Not because I relish the idea of either going after or missing whatever he flushes, but because it means he will have walked in there by himself. He will have figured out how the toilet works. He will have had the wherewithal to sneak around, find Daniel's watch (I'm just assuming...), and use his planning skills for evil to create a mini-disaster. All things that he should be able to do right now. It's weird to want that, but I do. I want him to yell "NO" at me and say "uh-oh" when he drops something. He has a few words but he rarely ever says Mama or Mommy. And I know he loves me, but I just wish he could tell me. He's almost two. That is how it should be.

And please hear me - er, read me - when I say that Joshua "should" be doing something, I don't think he's doing anything wrong. I know he is really trying hard to learn and grow. I know that all kids develop at different rates and that Jenna could struggle just as much in spite of being born on time. I know that this will pass, and it won't be our lives forever. I know that I will look back on this post and laugh about how dramatic I am and how much of a Debbie Downer I can be. But right now, I am here, stuck in some kind of space-time continuum where everything changes but it doesn't change. And the more I see other kids his age or younger progress and then pass him up, the harder it is to keep up with our little time warp.

I almost didn't write this post. I didn't want to bum people out, I didn't want people to think I am super depressed or upset, and I didn't want to have to justify my feelings to anyone. But one of my greatest comforts since Joshua was born has been reading blogs or articles by people in the same situation and knowing that I'm not the worst mom in the world for feeling like this. So I am going to post it, and tell people about it, and hope that maybe it will help someone else who is dealing with this. Maybe not exactly this, but something close enough that you can relate and know you're not the only one.

And since this was a bummer post, I'll end with something hilarious: A joke!

- Knock, knock!
- Who's there?
- Interrupting cow!
- Interrupting cow wh--
- MOOOOOOOOO.

Huh. I guess that one doesn't really translate in print. Oh, well.

MOPS

This weekend, I had the honor of speaking at a meeting for MOPS, an organization for moms with kids ages birth to kindergarten. It was such an amazing experience! I had a great time there and everyone was so welcoming. Special thanks to Hannah for asking me to come! A few people asked me to share what I spoke about here, so this is me, doing what you want. Enjoy.

And if you thought this post was going to be about cleaning...No. I don't clean.

Let me ask you a question: What do a dictionary, my favorite pair of boots, and a box of baby wipes have in common? They are all heavier than my son was when he was born.

On February 22, 2013, I woke up to what I expected to be an ordinary day. The first thing I did was shower and shave my legs, which should have been a sign that this day was going to be a weird one, but I didn't think much of it at the time. I was 26 weeks pregnant with my first child and was heading to my monthly check-up at the OB's office. We knew were having a boy, and we knew we were naming him Joshua Michael. Michael, after both our dads and my husband, and Joshua, because that is one Biblical dude you don't want to mess with.

I drove to my appointment, hoping it wouldn't take too long so I wouldn't miss too much work. I was saving up my vacation days for maternity leave that I was supposed to start in June and didn't want to waste any time. Plus I had leftover chicken fingers in the car that I was planning to eat on the way to work because that's how I roll. However, Joshua had other plans. After I arrived at my appointment and had been examined, the nurse realized that I was developing pre-eclampsia, a condition that is dangerous for both pregnant mothers and unborn babies. She sent me to the local hospital. I called my husband on the way there, trying to act like it was no big deal and that he should only come if he reeeaaally wanted to. He really did, so he and my mom met me there.

When I got there I was more annoyed than anything. I knew everything would be fine and I just wanted to get to work. And my chicken fingers. But everything wasn't fine. They checked on Josh and realized he was barely moving, he was too small, and he wouldn't respond to anything. So I was sent to another hospital, one that specialized in helping premature babies. At this hospital, they found that not only was Josh small and unresponsive, he was rapidly growing worse. A doctor came in and did an ultrasound and explained to us that it seemed like the umbilical cord was not giving Josh the nutrition he needed - basically, it was only working about half the time. They said I would have to stay in the hospital and they would need to check on him every day for a while. I didn't understand part of the scan and asked the doctor to show me again. And while he was explaining it to me, he noticed that now the umbilical cord had stopped working altogether. Unless Josh was born that night, he would not survive more than a few hours.

Have you ever gone down the steps and missed the very last stair? It's so surprising, so unpredictable, and a jolt of fear goes through you that is so deep and sudden that it takes you a minute to recover, even though you are okay. That's what I felt like. When they told me Joshua would be born that night, it felt like I was missing stair after stair and no one could catch me.

I was rushed to the operating room for an emergency c-section. It was so surreal. I felt like I was watching my life on a movie screen, like I wasn't really even part of it. At 7:08 in the evening, my son Joshua was born. He weighed one pound, seven ounces, and was 12.5 inches long. He was smaller than this Beanie Baby. I could have fit him in my shoe. But the doctors advised against that. The doctor brought him to me, told me I could give him a kiss, and then took him away to the NICU, where they would work for hours to save him.

My son was in the hospital for 115 days. He had dozens of blood transfusions, was on a ventilator for several weeks, and had a level two brain bleed. During his time in the NICU, he developed a blood infection, had both of his lungs collapse multiple times, and stopped breathing on several occasions. I didn’t get to hold him until he was two weeks old. It was a terrible, difficult time in our lives. But God is good, and on June 17, when he was four months old, we finally brought our boy home. Today he weighs eighteen pounds, is trying to walk, and has the biggest ears I have ever seen.

The first few months with Joshua at home are still sort of a blur. He needed to see a pulmonologist, a cardiologist, a physical therapist, an audiologist, an optometrist, and basically any other doctor that ends in “ist.” He was on oxygen at all times and we had to cart his tank and monitors with us wherever we went. And let me tell you, there is no graceful way to unload an oxygen tank from a minivan. None. Don’t even try it. Just accept that you will look ridiculous and move on.

At night, Josh had to be hooked up to a machine that monitored his heart rate and oxygen levels. My husband and I were regularly heard asking each other if we had remembered to plug the baby in. It was stressful, but we didn’t know any other way. We just did what we needed to so Josh would be happy and healthy. And after a while we fell into a routine that, while not exactly easy, was at least doable.

When Josh first came home, my husband and I decided we would wait for several years before discussing any more children, if we even decided to have another one at all. That was the plan that we thought we best for our family. But have you ever heard the saying "We plan and God laughs"? Well, God is still laughing over what happened next. When Joshua was barely seven months old, we found out that we were expecting our second child. We were floored. I took about twenty tests just to make sure I hadn't gotten it wrong. It turns out it's pretty difficult to mess up peeing on a stick and we determined I was indeed pregnant.

I was not excited. This was not our plan. At this point, Josh was still on supplemental oxygen and monitors and saw a specialist of some kind about once a week. I had been laid off from my job just before Josh came home and we had moved in with my parents. We were barely keeping our heads above water. Long story short, another child was not ideal for us at the time.

I know I sound cold. I promise I'm nicer to my kids when I talk to them. Most of the time. But I was panicked. With Joshua, everything had gone wrong. What if the same thing happened again? What if this baby was born even earlier? What if she needed oxygen and specialists and was sick? I didn't think I had it in me to do all of that again. Everyone around me told me God had it under control, and I knew that He did, but I still worried about what that meant for my family.

We found out we were having a girl this time. After a fairly uneventful pregnancy, our daughter Jenna was born on May 29 of this year. She was perfectly healthy and we were able to come home after only a few days in the hospital. Just like with Joshua, I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.

But Jenna also kind of scared me. Not like she was scary-looking or hid in my closet at night with a Freddie Kruger mask; just that she was so totally, completely…normal. There was no monitor attached to her so I could check her heart rate. She didn't need to see any specialists and had no breathing problems. My entire experience with babies until Jenna was born had consisted of hospitals and cardiologists and oxygen tanks and physical therapists. To be able to take her with me to the grocery store, to not have to worry if someone got too close to her at church, to put her to bed without taping a little monitor to her foot - this was all brand new territory for us.

And then the comparisons began. I want to state first that I love my kids equally. I am so proud of both of them. Josh has a pretty significant developmental delay but he works really hard to catch up. And Jenna smells like strawberries, which I appreciate. But it was hard not to separate my children into a "failure" and "success" category. I never realized how behind Joshua was until I saw what Jenna could do. When she grabbed for a toy at two months - something Josh hadn't done until he was almost a year old - I called my husband and told him our daughter was a genius. I tried not to compare, but with every milestone that Jenna met, I would mentally put her in the "success" column and then wait for Josh to do something so I could put him the success column, too.

And after a while, I started to resent Joshua. I know. I am the mother of the year. I was just so tired of dealing with everything. I was tired of explaining our lives to people. I was tired of smiling politely while people informed me that my son was a little small for his age, and they wondered if I was concerned about it. I was tired of working so hard for the tiniest victories that other people got to take for granted.

Are you familiar with Debbie Downer from Saturday Night Live? She was a character that always brought down the mood of whatever room she was in. Any time someone would say something happy or encouraging, Debbie would counter it with something incredibly depressing and ridiculous. Her statements were accompanied by a sound effect that went something like wahhhh, wahhhhhhhh.

I always loved the Debbie Downer skits. But even though the skits were funny and not meant to be taken seriously, it felt like Debbie Downer was following my family, waiting for something good to happen so she could bring us all down again. With every issue Joshua faced, I heard the wahhhh, wahhhh in the back of my mind. He finally started babbling! Yay! Except he should be saying at least ten words by now so we should focus on that. Wahhh, wahhh. He finally learned to hold his own bottle! Wow! Except by now he is supposed to be using sippy cups and we need to take the bottles away. Wahhhh, wahhh. You get the picture. I was so frustrated that he was still behind after all of his hard work, and I started to be angry with him for not catching up faster. And then I compared him and Jenna more and more, to the point where I would write down when Jenna reached milestones just so I could compare to when Josh met the same milestones. It was like a I was keeping a scorecard of my children’s accomplishments.

It took me a while to realize that I was even doing it. And then it took me even longer to realize why I was doing it. Why did I feel the need to compare my children? They are so different in so many ways it would be like comparing an ostrich to an alligator.  I knew that comparing was pointless and would ultimately only hurt me and my kids, but I still felt the need to keep score. I think a lot of us are familiar with that feeling. As moms, we are constantly surrounded by people who are judging our choices and making us feel like we can't even blink without causing permanent damage to our child's psyche. Just look at the arguments between mothers, more fondly known as the mommy wars. We argue about eeeeeeverything. Whether it's where our babies sleep or what kind of surface they will poop on, we find a way to make sure that everyone knows how wrong their choices are. And when we run out of things to argue about, we rehash the original arguments over and over again.

Isn’t that crazy? Just look at how angry we get with people we barely know. Half the time it’s people we have only talked to on the internet. And I am as guilty as the next person of getting sucked into a good cloth versus disposable diaper debate. It’s funny because before I became a mother, I swore to myself I wouldn’t get worked up about stuff like this. I only had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. But I was sure I could rise above such petty and insignificant arguments.

And then I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory. And the next thing you know, you’re typing in all capital letters on Facebook to some idiot who thinks that people who use strollers are turning their kids into serial killers while your husband begs you to just walk away from the computer because you’re starting to turn red and the children are scared.

Don’t pretend it hasn’t happened to you. None of us are immune to the mommy wars. It sneaks up on you suddenly, usually over something you didn’t even realize you cared that much about. I remember one time I was in a debate on Facebook over the cry it out method of sleep training. I was halfway through typing a really long paragraph when I suddenly wondered why in the world I gave two flips about which sleep training method a stranger from Canada was using. I couldn’t think of a good answer, and it dawned on me that maybe I was arguing just for the heck it.

Which brings me back to my original question: Why? Why do we do this? Why do I compare myself to other mothers? Why do I worry about what my friends think of the way I raise my children? Why am I online at three in the morning making some poor girl cry because we disagree on which brand of formula is best?

I thought about this for a long time. I felt like the answer was right under my nose but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And then it came to me: Guilt.

I don’t know about you, but I have never been less confident in any decision I’ve made than I am in the decisions I make as a parent. Every little choice causes me to worry. For example, my son has recently gotten into the charming habit of throwing his sippy cup off his tray, a past time I’m sure many of you are familiar with. Every time he does this, I wonder what I should do next. It’s like my brain suddenly kicks into overdrive with all the possible responses I can give and the possible consequences they can have. If I get angry at him for throwing his cup, he’ll know it’s bad and he will stop. And then he will resent me for yelling at him and never be able to make friends and he won’t do well in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could ignore him when he throws his cup and he will see that misbehaving does not get him attention. And then he might try even harder to get my attention because he feels so ignored and he will start lighting dog poo on fire and leaving it on people’s doorsteps and then he will vandalize the school gym and won’t get into a good college and have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could pick the cup up and give it back to him, showing him that he has a second chance to do the right thing. And then he will probably learn that none of his actions have consequences and he will never learn manners and will disrespect his teachers in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

See what I mean? I know this struggle is something we all deal with. It’s silly but it’s also serious. My kids are so young that right now I have ultimate control over their lives. I decide what they wear, what they eat, where they go, who they see. And while the control freak part of me likes having that security, the worrying part of me finds it overwhelming and terrifying. I am far from perfect. And honestly I find myself wondering why in the world God would give me two children, one of whom requires a lot of special attention.

And because I feel so unworthy and unable to make these decisions, I look to other mothers to see how they are handling it. That’s how the comparisons begin. I see that Sally Smith is using cloth diapers and I read about how they’re better for the environment and better for babies’ skin and I start to feel really guilty because my own poor kids are in disposable diapers and if I am going to use those I may as well just dress my kids in garbage bags because it’s basically the same thing. And then I start to resent Sally because who is she to tell me how to diaper my kids? My kids are very happy in their disposable diapers and they have pictures of Mickey Mouse and Big Bird on them and those guys have educational shows so I am educating my kids by putting them in disposable diapers. And before I know it I hate Sally Smith for her judgmental ways and for making me doubt myself and for her stupid opinions on her stupid diapers.

That might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said. In the scenario I just described, no one judged me. No one tried to make me feel guilty. It was my own guilt, my own insecurity, that turned a simple observation into an argument.

And please hear me - I am not trying to shame you or blame you for feeling bad when someone judges you. I know that some people are just itching for a fight and go to great lengths to make others feel bad. I know there are bullies in the world who just want to hurt other people and more likely than not, we’ve all run across at least one.

I just think that mothers are easy targets because we are already constantly second-guessing ourselves. And that’s truly where I think the mommy wars come from. The worry that we are not enough for our children, and the guilt over not giving them our best. Even the bullies that have hurt you or told you you’re a terrible mother because of a choice you made - I would bet that they are feeling pretty lost and insecure themselves and just want reassurance that they are doing okay with their own kids.

But I’ve got some good news. It won’t sound like good news at first, but trust me; it’s good news.

We are not enough. And sometimes we won’t be our best. But we serve someone who is always enough and who only gives His best. It isn’t up to us to be perfect. God has promised us that though we will mess up, He will be there to guide us back on the right path.

That can be a scary thought. But it can also be a relieving one. It isn’t up to me to be the best mom on the planet. I don’t have to worry that because I made the wrong decision my child will be permanently unhappy. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it so amazing to know that the very creator of the universe is investing His time into our children, and that he is allowing us to be part of that?

Don’t get me wrong - I am not giving you permission to stop raising your kids. When little Timmy asks you for some breakfast, I am not suggesting that you stay in bed and tell him that God will be along to butter his toast in a few minutes. God has placed with us the task of raising our children and teaching them and loving them. But he didn’t just drop these kids off on our porches and run away. He is there with us, protecting us, redirecting us, showing us that though we are still sinners He still desires us.

When Hannah asked me to speak today, at first I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I had much of a story to tell. But over the last few weeks God has shown me so much truth that has set me free. I still struggle. I am still tempted to keep a scorecard for my kids. But now that I know the reasons behind it, it’s not so scary to deal with. I am able to enjoy my family more and rest in God’s promise of redemption for me as a mother, daughter, sister, and so much more.

And now I can compare my kids in a much more wonderful way: I can look at their different personalities and gifts, not as a way to decide who is doing better, but as a way to celebrate their unique identities. My son Josh is a thinker, like his father. He never does anything without deliberate consideration and planning. But he likes to giggle. And he loves people. He would sell me online in a heartbeat if someone gave him a hug and a pop tart. He likes to pretend but he is too excited to keep it up for very long so any games of pretend usually dissolve into giggles pretty fast. He is my strong boy, a living example of the way God works all things together for good. My daughter Jenna, though only five months old, is already much more of a drama queen. She feels every emotion with all of the power her little body can muster. She is impulsive and moves from toy to toy, trying to gather all of them in her hand at once. She is slower to give a smile but once she does, it’s always worth the wait. She is my passionate girl, a living example of God’s faithfulness to His people.

Those are the comparisons I want to focus on. Those are the things I want to remember in twenty years when my kids are in school (or living in a refrigerator box) and I am reflecting on their lives. Those are the things I want them to remember when they have their own kids and struggle with wondering if they are doing a good job raising them.

I will make mistakes. You will make mistakes. It’s inevitable. But I can sleep easier tonight knowing that our Heavenly Father makes no mistakes, and that He loves my kids even more than I do.

The Five Stages of Parenting Grief

Parenting. It's fun, right? It's okay; you don't have to answer that. We all know your answer is no. Or it might be yes. It probably depends on the day, the ages of your children, and how much you've had to drink. It's different for everyone. But in my extensive parenting travels (that's right - I said extensive), I have noticed that while raising kids looks different for everyone, there is one thing that all parents have in common: The five stages of parenting grief.

You have probably heard of the five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. This is generally a process associated with mourning the loss of a loved one, like your grandma or dog or favorite pet rock. People go through each stage in different ways and times and don't always go in the traditional order.  If you're a parent, you are probably familiar with these stages, and if not, you will be. Not sure if you've dealt with each stage yet? See if any of these look familiar...

Denial:

Ah, denial. A personal favorite of mine. This stage is when you still have faith that all of your pre-parenthood dreams can come true. You think adorable thoughts like, "My child will never watch TV." "I am going to make all of my own baby food." "All I have to do is put my baby on a schedule and then I can work around their schedule and live life like I always have." You might dream of a clean living room without a bunch of Little People scattered all over it and have visions of doing bath time with your children every night. You vow to never let relationships with any of your friends change, and you know babies are a lot of work but your baby won't have blow-outs or spit up on you moments before you leave for church. It's a sweet and precious stage, the denial stage. Remember these feelings of hope and confidence as you continue on your parenting journey.

Anger:

This one is probably visited most often in my house. You start to question your newborn baby about her motives - "Why did you spit up on me when you knew I was going out to dinner?! Why? ANSWER ME." You become irrationally bitter toward cartoon characters because they somehow tricked you into breaking your no television vow, and they are also extremely annoying. Can you really not find which shape goes in the hole, Mickey Mouse? Or are you just being lazy and trying to get my kid to do all of your work? Considering you are licensed to operate a hot air balloon, I think we all know the answer to that one.
During this stage you will also start to talk to yourself. A lot. You might say you're talking to your baby but he's only six months old and you both know he can't understand you. You hold those rassafrassin' Little People in the highest contempt, furious at them for being, so, well, little, and purposely hiding themselves under your couch without the slightest regard for your plans to keep the living room tidy.

Bargaining:

Also known as the stage where you start making secret deals with infants, the bargaining stage is where the TV starts to come on a little more and the educational sign language books start to come out a little less. You haven't given up hope for educating your children; you've just started to realize that the public school system is perfectly capable of doing so and in a few years your kid will be their problem. But you're still determined to retain a little of your pre-parent life. So you promise your toddler that he can have a little extra ice cream if he agrees to eat it quietly so you and your BFF can talk about grown up things like how tired you are and if they know of a good under-eye cream. Sure, you swore that all desserts in your house would either be fruit or sugar-free, but this is a special occasion and you haven't seen another adult in three weeks so everyone wins. What's really important is that most of your goals have stayed intact and you can lie about the ones that haven't.

Depression: 

Most parents reach this stage sometime between one and five in the morning as they sit on the couch with a child who is somehow both starving to death and too sleepy to eat. It hits you like a ton of poopy diapers - things are different now. Sure, your oldest child has had some fruit today, but you're pretty sure the "real" fruit inside the snack pack with candy that's shaped like a Flinstones character doesn't exactly hold the same nutritional value as an apple. You did get to see a good friend for lunch last week, but your visit was full of trips to the changing table, removing the same dangerous item from your toddler's hands fourteen times in a row, and several mutterings of "Just WAIT till we get home" as your precious angel flips a spoonful of yogurt at the server. You had a good time, but just the idea of venturing out to another restaurant before your kids are old enough to vote is exhausting. The Little People have now taken over your living room and demand that you bring them food and apple juice or suffer the consequences. You meant to give your kids a bath every day, but you might have skipped a day or two. Or three. Hey, as long as they don't smell, it's all copacetic, right? But they do smell. And people are starting to notice. At least you make your own baby food! And when you don't forget about it and leave it in the freezer for six months, it's a really cheap way to feed your child!

Acceptance:

Goodbye, other adults. Goodbye, balanced diet for children. Goodbye, carefully crafted infant schedule.

Hello, Dora the Explorer. What can we help you find today?

The Mommy Wars

Before I became a mother, I had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. It was one of those subjects that I was woefully but blissfully ignorant of - I really didn't have much use for information like which brand of diapers was best or how you need to move like a frickin ninja to escape infant projectile vomit.

I am still far from an expert, but after I had kids, I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys (seriously, do they even work in the plastic cars? Then WHAT IS THE POINT) and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory.

The parent side has lots of surprises. You learn words like "Wubanub" and "cluster feeding" and, in our case, "hyerbilirubenimia." But one of the most unexpected surprises I encountered was the Mommy Wars. If you're not familiar, the Mommy Wars is an ongoing battle between mothers (and occasionally fathers) over various methods of parenting. For example: formula feeding vs. breastfeeding, strollers vs. babywearing, cloth diapers vs. disposables, velociraptor vs. t-rex, etc etc. I tend to bop through life in a cloud of glitter and Skittles and assume everyone does the same, so I was really surprised to see how often these issues popped up, not to mention the intensity of the arguments they caused. Articles are flung left and right; everyone from psychologists to school teachers to children's birthday clowns seems to have a scientific opinion on whether letting your baby sleep in your bed will scar him for life. Sometimes people start snapping their fingers and singing and that's when you know that it just got real.

As much as I love a good argument, I found myself avoiding these particular fights as I delved into research of my own (fine, as I copied every single thing my sister did). Not because I was offended. Not because I wanted to interview those birthday clowns for myself to see if their science was accurate. No, my avoidance was due to something much simpler. Something that I think has the potential to end these Mommy Wars forever. Are you ready for this incredible secret? Here you go:

Apathy.

Yes. Apathy. I do. not. care. I do not care if you feed your child formula. I do not care if you breastfeed your child. I do not care if your child only eats hot sauce. Not because I am a serene, peace-loving person who can rise above such petty conflicts as I practice yoga in my meditation garden. I am just too lazy to care. I am tired. I am busy. I am constantly losing one of my children. So at the end of the day, whether you strap your baby to your back in a pretty wrap or with several socks tied together, I'm cool with it. Just don't drop the kid because that's not cool. I mean, I probably wouldn't turn you in or anything. Actually, just writing about it has pretty much sapped my energy so go ahead and drop little Timmy; I won't tell.

This isn't a humble brag where I toot my own lazy horn and show you how I win all the Mommy Wars due to my lack of judging others and indifference to others' judgment of me. Despite the awkward, chaotic mess that is my daily interaction with people, I do care what other people think of me. I'm only human. But I am a lazy human, and while I have tried hard to get worked up over the fact that Sally Smith doesn't believe in disposable diapers...eh. What do I care? Is Sally at my house, throwing away my diapers and forcing me to use cloth ones? Has she hired Tonya Harding to bash me in the knee so I can say a lot of embarrassing things on national television that will follow me forever? No? Then...eh. Sally can have her cloth diapers and I can have my disposable ones and somehow I think the world will keep turning.

So, parents and people everywhere - join me on the Other Other Side. The side where you always feel accomplished because your kids are alive at the end of the day and that's really all you were going for. The side where all your decisions are right because no one was paying attention to them anyway. You don't even have to put on real pants. Take the plunge. Cross over. Drop your cares and worries at the gate - your toddler or dog will probably eat them and then you won't even have to step over them.

Apathy: The real future of parenting. I'd put that on a t-shirt, but...eh.

Clearly my parenting is superior to yours.

It's Totally Different

I recently acquired a second child. I know. I also questioned the wisdom of letting me raise a second child but it's too late now. Plus she is really cute and smells like strawberries so I want to keep her. And sniff her. All the time.

What were we talking about? Oh, right. Children.

In a true representation of my attitude about parenting, I was not that excited to find out I was having a second child. I wasn't sad or mad. Mostly surprised. And panicked. So, so panicked. The kind of panic you feel when you realize you have to make a sacrifice to the porcelain throne while you're in the middle of the check-out lane at the grocery store with a week's worth of food and a child who is trying to eat the handle of the buggy.

But I had a good reason. Most people who read my posts know that my first child (the afore-mentioned buggy-eater) was born very early at 26 weeks and spent a long time in the hospital fighting for his life. My husband and I had decided to wait for several years to even discuss a second child. Except then God was all "LOL you guys are totes hilarious" and we found out we were going to be parents for the second time in as many years. Cue the panic.

Everyone said the same thing: "It will be totally different." The odds of the same thing happening with this pregnancy that had happened the first time were probably pretty low. The doctors, friends, family members - they all repeated that to me over and over. It will be totally different. And as things progressed and continued to go well, I believed it. This time would be totally different. None of the fear, no NICU stay, no wondering when my baby would be home, no driving back and forth to the hospital every day. This time, I promised myself, would be great.

And then I realized that I didn't like that attitude very much. Not that I wanted this baby to stay in the NICU or have any problems, but I was starting to look at my experience with Josh as a bad thing. Slowly but surely I had separated the birth experiences of my children into Things You Never Ever Want To Happen and The Super Best Thing Ever Yay For My Baby. You can guess which one goes in which category. And I really started to hate that distinction.

I get asked all the time if I would change Josh's circumstances at the time of his birth and during his hospital stay. I always answer no, and that is the honest truth. But over the last few months I began to realize that not only would I not change it; I want to celebrate it. I want to shout from the rooftops that while it didn't go the way I had planned, I still got to meet my beautiful baby boy and fell in love with him from the get-go. I want to be just as thrilled over his birthday as I am with Jenna's. When people ask me his age, I want to give his real one, the one that goes with the birthday we will celebrate for years to come as we remember what a blessing he is. I want him to know that even though it was hard, the day he was born was one of the best of my life, right up there with my wedding day and the day Gilmore Girls premiered.

It doesn't bother me that people remind me how different the experience with each of my children was. It was my own attitude about the situation that bothered me the most. Was it different this time? Yes, so incredibly different. Was it better this time? Not even a little. It was just as exciting, just as amazing, and just as incredible the second time around. Because the thing about having kids is that there are ups and downs and everything in between, and you never really know what lies ahead of you. And at the end of the day none of that matters anyway. All that matters is that on your child's birthday, whether he celebrates it in the NICU or asleep in your arms, you have something so fantastic that the rest just kind of fades away. That's is what I want to remember about both of my children. I never want to forget the rest because it's important, too. But the most important thing I can ever take away from both of my experiences is how amazing it was to see them with my own eyes for the first time and feel a love so deep and immeasurable that I knew I was a goner from the very first seconds of their lives.

So, yes. This time around it has been totally different. I wouldn't have it any other way...except for how it was the first time.

The Five Types of Facebookers

I spend a lot of time on Facebook. Like, a lot. I imagine my kids' first sentences will be something like, "Are you going to update your status soon, Empress of the Universe?" Also I will be teaching my kids to address me as Empress of the Universe. And since I not only spend a lot of time on Facebook but also have a degree in public relations, which means I am basically a Facebook expert, I have noticed a trend. The majority of Facebookers I see fall into at least one category, sometimes two. Sometimes three. I fear those people the most. And, lucky you, I have decided to share these categories for your benefit and enjoyment. Which one are you? Are you more than one? Tell me all.

The Liker:

This person may or may not comment, but as soon as your status goes up, you can count on them to click the "like" button to show their approval of your latest update. This person moves like a silent ninja, liking things all over the place, even if what they like makes no sense. Sometimes this person likes other peoples' comments - people they don't even know. The most terrifying power this person wields is the notifications. Oh, the notifications. There is nothing like opening up Facebook, clicking on your notifications, and seeing the same profile picture eighteen times in a row because The Liker has struck once again to express their approval for everything you have written in the last three hours. Well played, Liker. Well played.

The InstaCommenter:

I don't know how this person moves so quickly, but within five seconds of you pressing "post," this person has already commented on your status/picture/link. This truly baffles me. I am not judging how much time The InstaCommenter spends on Facebook, because people in social media houses shouldn't throw virtual stones. But how does this person react so fast? HOW? What's even more impressive/confusing is that this person, much like The Liker, moves swiftly and silently. They may not have had any activity on Facebook for six hours. But the moment you respond to their comment, there they are, ready with an InstaFollowUp. I can only imagine they have some kind of pager attached to their wrist at all times that alerts them to the exciting news that they can once again comment on a Facebook status. Or maybe they're psychic.


The Drama Llama:

My goodness, this person has a rough life. Or so they would lead you to believe. I am not the Facebook police. You can write what you want on your Facebook page. But there are some days where I see a Drama Llama and have to resist the urge to find a way to cut off their Internet access. You will recognize the Drama Llama because while their crisis will seem urgent and/or terrible, further inspection will show you that what they are experiencing is not, in fact, that big of a freakin' deal. The Drama Llama is crafty, and toys with your emotions using lots... of.... ellipses... to build up... ... ... suspense... before doing... a... big reveal IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. An experienced Drama Llama could make buying new shampoo a nail-biter of an event. It's hard to tell whether the Drama Llama is really this upset about a non-issue, or if they just really like typing sad faces. This is one of the mysteries of life that may never fully be solved.

The Nostalgic Stalker:

Have you ever gotten a notification that someone has liked or commented on a post, clicked to see the post, and been really confused for about thirty seconds before realizing said post is from 2009 and you barely remember writing it? That confusion is brought to you courtesy of the Nostalgic Stalker. Part of the blame has to lie with the silly Facebook newsfeed that shows you posts from two days ago and pretends they are new. But most of the blame lies with the Nostalgic Stalker as they scroll through your profile and acknowledge every post you have made in the last six months. Unlike The Liker and InstaCommenter, subtlety is not this person's strength. Oftentimes they refuse to acknowledge that any other events have passed since you posted whatever they are commenting on, resulting in gems like, "Hope your wedding is full of blessings!" three years after you get married. Have they not been on Facebook for several months? Do they think you might like to be reminded of the day you graduated college? It's hard to say why the Nostalgic Stalker does what they do. But one thing is certain - they will do it to you.

The Killjoy:

Oh, man. This person. This person bums me out just to write about, so you can imagine what running into one of them on Facebook is like. The Killjoy's main goal is to suck the life and fun out of every hilarious or uplifting thing you post. Writing out your favorite Bible verse and posting it as your status? The Killjoy will comment with a fun fact on how that verse is actually severely mistranslated and really does not mean anything close to what you thought. Want to post some lyrics of your favorite inspirational song? The Killjoy will link an article that explains the artist is now on meth and hates kittens. And heaven forbid you post something a little tongue-in-cheek as your status. The Killjoy does not do sarcasm. Any statuses about how you want to sell your baby online will result in lectures on how children are a precious gift, why DFACS does not want you to sell your children, and articles from parenting magazines about loving the moment. Don't be that person. No one likes that person. At all.

And there you go - the Five Types of Facebookers. They are real. They are out there. I have been all of these at one point or another, and - admit it - so have you. It's okay. We're here for you. But seriously, don't link parenting articles to my status. I will not have that nonsense. I will. not. have it.

The App of Shame

Do you drink a lot of water? I find that when I ask this question (yes, I do ask this question a lot), people fall into one of two camps: Either water is omg the best thing ever and you should love water and do you have any water and is that water I see can I please have some, or water is the single worst thing to ever exist and when Jesus returns to this earth the first thing he will do is get rid of that foul liquid so we can finally be happy. 

I was more in the second camp until recently. I like water but I looooove so many other things. But being pregnant means you have to stay hydrated and something about health and other stuff, too, so back to water I went. I drink a lot of water. A. Lot. Exactly how much, you wonder? Thanks for asking; it's hard to segue into this next part unless someone asks. I drink about 100 ounces a day. I know this because I have an app on my phone that tells me how much I have had (after I tell it) and tells me how much I need to be hydrated according to my height and weight and hair color. Easy peasy, right? 

Wrong. 

See, as I have stated previously, I am not the kind of person who is motivated by goals. Or by anything, really. I need to lose 20 pounds by my birthday? Okay! Or not! Either one is okay with me! But I always start out motivated. Sometimes I'm even really motivated. As was the case when I originally started using my hydration app. But now, several weeks later, I find myself falling off the wagon, as they say, and while I want to get back on... meh. I still drink a lot of water. But the thrill of adding it to my phone has faded somewhat. And I have realized this is true of so many apps I have used in the past... running, couponing, even Pinterest. Looking back over my lack of motivation I have noticed a pattern, which I will now present to you chronologically. Why? Because I can. 

Day 1: 

New app! It was free! Yay!!! I will now spend the next hour filling out every single question and meticulously typing in my info so I can get started! Weeeeeeeeeeee! Now to choose a username! Oh, if I do a good job I get either a bronze, silver, or gold medal! I bet I can make it to gold every day! 

Day 2: 

Boy, this new app sure is fun! And my user name is awesome: TheHydrator1986. I am a genius. Now to add all of my water so I can get a medal! Wow, up to bronze already? I am so awesome. And it makes a happy sound when I reach a new medal!!!!!11111!!!

Day 3: 

Oops! Almost made it all the way to lunch without putting in my water intake! Silly. There we go. No medal yet? Hmm... I will chug some water right now... type it in... MEDAL, SCORE. 

Days 4-6:

Oh, shoot - I haven't added any water since yesterday. But I know I drank a lot. Probably at least as much as the day before. I'll just say that; it's not like the app knows (or does it?). Okay, silver medal. Not as good as gold but still respectable, right? 

Days 7-9:

Argh. I have absolutely no idea how much water I have had. It felt like a lot. Should I also count the Diet Coke I had? I mean, it hydrated me, right? Sure. That's science. Okay, show me the gold, show me the gold... huh. Bronze. Well, that's okay. It's ridiculous to expect someone to get gold every day. Even Gabby Douglas went home with a few silvers, amirite? 

Day 10: 

Okay, I have to stop lying to the app. The point is to drink a lot of water and lying isn't helping. No more lying. 

Day 11: 

Maybe just a little more lying.

Days 12-14: 

Seriously, I don't see why this is such a big deal. It's just water. I drink plenty. This app doesn't know my life. Maybe if the APP had a baby who needs a lot of attention and a sink full of dirty dishes it wouldn't be so quick to judge my lack of water intake. Get off your high horse, hydration app. 

Day 15:

I will just move the app to the last section on my phone. That way I don't have to see its angry, condescending glare every time I unlock my phone. 

Day 16: 

I can still sense the app...waiting for me, asking me why I give up so easily. Be quiet, you stupid app. You don't know me. You don't know ANYTHING. I GOT SIX GOLD MEDALS. SIX. 

Fine, it was five. 

Day 17:

Delete app. Eat brownie. 

So there you have it: The quick descent from motivation into apathy. I'm actually really impressed that it only takes me a couple of weeks to make such a drastic change. Maybe I am more motivated than I thought. Maybe I am THE most motivated quitter that ever was. That can be my thing. That will earn me a real gold medal!!! 

I'm thirsty.