Grandma's Nativity

I inherited my grandma's nativity eleven years ago.

A wedding gift to her and Grandpa, it perched on top of their china cabinet every Christmas season, casting its gaze upon all who dined in the little red brick duplex on Huddleston Avenue.

As a child, it creeped me out.

Maybe it was the dour countenance of the angel, who rather ominously stole the show from the King of Kings by virtue of forced perspective.

Or perhaps it was the weary eyes of the crackled, bedraggled figurines as they trudged to the stable in a zombie trance.

Regardless, childhood Christmas dinners at Grandma's house commenced with eyes glued to china plate, wondering if Santa Claus might just be a healthier Christmas alternative after all.

Grandma's nativity--a little girl's nightmare since 1981.

And I inherited this heirloom.  And every Christmas of my married life, I've allowed it to haunt the mantle of my home.

I'm a big girl now.  I can handle it.

Like most antique enthusiasts, I love heirlooms because they whisper stories.  Though I am not in the habit of conversing with inanimate objects, save a few necessary swear words when my sewing machine jams, I have been thinking about my grandma a lot since I resurrected her old nativity from its seasonal cellar grave a few weeks ago.

Grandma was many things atypical of traditional grandmothers.

She loved her office job at Polysar Plastics.  Fiercely proud of her Scotch-Irish heritage, she could rock a plaid woolen Pendleton suit like nobody else who ever dared to wear shirt-to-skirt plaid.

She loved dogs.  Grandma was never one to gitchy-gitchy-goo peoples' babies, but she could carry on entire conversations with any random dog she met on our walks down Huddleston Avenue.

She hated to cook.

She got us all hooked on garage sales.  The Saturdays of my childhood summers were spent with the five of us and Grandma, crammed into our Chevy Malibu Classic, scrounging the yards, sidewalks, driveways, garages, and houses of the good residents of Summit County to unearth whatever sticker-priced bargains tickled our fancy.  "Treasures," Grandma would call them.

Grandma had a love and respect for the English language, and she was not shy about sharing her enthusiasm.  One of my favorite memories of Grandma at her finest is when she tersely informed our waitress at Jack Horner's restaurant that she would have liked to order the mozzarella sticks (my siblings' and my favorite) but that the menu had mistakenly spelled "mozzarella" with two R's.  Clearly, she could not order a misspelled appetizer.  When the waitress quipped they would taste just the same, Grandma gasped:  "They most certainly would not taste the same!  'Mozzarella' spelled with two R's would taste like mud!"

None of us kids got "mozzarrella" sticks that day.

She was never without a good book in the evenings, and she sure as heck never missed an episode of Jeopardy.  Grandma could spout correct answers to every single clue with a supernatural speed that would put Ken Jennings to shame.

She had a distinct human side, though.  Mom tells me Grandma was often short-tempered while trying to raise six kids on North Hill.  Even during their duplex years when it was just her, Grandpa, and my disabled uncle, Grandma would frequently retreat to the spare bedroom to type the family history or dye intricately beautiful Ukrainian Easter eggs while listening to Mitch Miller records on repeat.

Brief oases of individual expression to prevent the soul from drowning in the ordinary.

Sounds familiar.

As a child, I loved my grandma, but I never fully appreciated her.  Many times, like the time I fell off their exercise bike and she promptly informed my mom that it wasn't a toy for kids, I wondered why she couldn't be the milk and homemade cookies sort of character flaunted in story books as the grandmotherly ideal.

I am learning, though.  On these seemingly endless days when I'm nearly one lost binky shy of a mommy meltdown and motherly love and responsibility battles a need for retreat and individuality, I feel like I finally understand Grandma a little bit better.

This Christmas, the nativity and I have reconciled.  No longer do I drop my gaze in submission to the ominous angel.  Nor do I shudder at the zombie shepherds.  Maybe after thirty-three years, we finally understand each other.  An unlikely kinship among the crackled, bedraggled, and weary.  Haunting and misunderstood to the casual observer.  But beautiful in trudging forward.

Seeking a glimmer of peace.

Introverted Mom Goes to the Grocery Store

Today is Monday.  It is grocery store day.  Introverted Mom and her two sons are going to the grocery store.

No, they're not.

What was that?

No, they're not.

Why, it's Pre-Partum Baby--a tiny, intricately-formed hoodlum nestled safely inside the realms of Introverted Mom.

I've been getting along with my mommy for over fourteen weeks.  I'm going to surprise her with morning sickness.  It will be great fun!

Oh dear, Pre-Partum Baby.  Are you sure?

Mommy fed me soup from a can last night when I really wanted fried mozzarella sticks.  Believe me, I'm sure.

As you wish, Pre-Partum Baby.

Pre-Partum Baby works some baby magic on Introverted Mom.  Introverted Mom woozily ventures to the grocery store a few hours late.

I hate going to the grocery store late.  It is crowded and I am hungry.

They arrive at their first destination, Low-Budget Grocery Store of Sheer Madness.  The store buzzes with middle-of-the-aisle-clogging patrons.  Introverted Mom fearlessly weaves between them with equally courageous Introverted and Extroverted Sons, tossing items in the cart as pertaining to their list.

This isn't so bad.  If only I weren't so woozy.  I just need to relax.

Sounds like a plan, Introverted Mom.

Introverted Mom soon arrives at the check-out.  Plan thwarted.

Two open registers with equally long lines.

Do I pick Ring-an-Item, Bag-an-Item Cashier or Scary Hairy-Armed Man-ish Cashier with the bright blue eye shadow?

Looks like Ring-an-Item, Bag-an-Item Cashier is your best bet, Introverted Mom.

Introverted Mom joins the line.  She waits.  And waits.  And waits.  And waits...

Breathe in, and relax.

Ring...bag.  Ring...bag.  Ring.......

Breathe innn....and outtt......innnnn...and ouuuttt....innn.....

"WaaaAAAAAAAaaaaaAAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAAHHHHH!!!"

Introverted Mom's inner peace is jostled.

Why, it's Teeny-Bopper Mom, bouncing her squalling, not-quite-toddler on her hip as she places mountains of groceries on the check-out counter.

I know what that's like.

Introverted Mom sympathizes.

Teeny-Bopper Mom attempts to placate her wailing bundle of joy.

That's right, Teeny-Bopper Mom, an empty styrofoam coffee cup will do the trick.  Certainly your little blessing will not chomp it, choke, and die.

Introverted and Extroverted Sons are intrigued.  Introverted Son stares in disbelief, then states the obvious facts in a clear, projecting voice.

"That baby's eating that cup!  And it doesn't even have a lid on it!"

Extroverted Son chimes, "That's not safety smart!"

Introverted Mom feigns hearing loss and looks past Teeny-Bopper Mom in hopes of discovering what is holding up the line.

Why, it's Teeny-Bopper Mom's mother, Mama Bopper, loading a separate cart-full of groceries onto the check-out counter.

How on earth is Ring-an-Item, Bag-an-Item Cashier keeping these orders separate?

Good question, Introverted Mom.

Ring-an-Item, Bag an Item Cashier is equally confused.  Teeny-Bopper Mom and Mama Bopper rush forward to sort out the unchecked groceries.

Oh dear...

Introverted Mom scans the other check-outs but sees no glimmer of hope.

I knew I should've just gone to Upper Scale Grocery Store of Sanity.

Meanwhile, Bopper Baby drops said foam cup onto floor.  Teeny-Bopper Mom gasps.

Introverted Mom deftly returns her glance back to Teeny-Bopper Mom.

What happened?  Did the baby choke?  Did she drop the baby?!  Oh.  It's just the foam cup.  Not a huge deal.

Ah, but it is a huge deal, Introverted Mom.

Introverted Mom looks down.

COFFEE?!?!  She gave her small child a lid-less foam cup full of coffee?!?

Why yes, Introverted Mom, the coffee that is now all over the floor.

Heaven help us...

Heaven may not help us, but a few paper towels might do the trick.  Teeny-Bopper Mom wipes up the puddle...somewhat.

Is the other line open yet?  I'm not going to make it...

Good news!  Ring-an-Item, Bag-an-Item Cashier has now sorted out whose groceries belong to whom!

Hallelujah.

Bad news!  The total requires more cash than Mama Bopper has on hand.

How embarrassing.  I can see that happening to me.

Introverted Mom manages a sliver of sympathy.

Mama Bopper searches her cart.  Mama Bopper heaves a few unnecessary items over to the cashier.

Let's see....the bagels, lettuce, and bread go.  The potato chips, gallon of blue sugar punch, and pop stays.  Hmmm....

Ring-an-Item, Bag-an-Item Cashier announces a new total.  It is still more than Mama Bopper had planned.  Mama Bopper scans her cart and fishes through bags.

Introverted Mom is riveted.

What will they choose next...the Easy Mac or the frozen entrees?

An item emerges.

Why, it's a pre-made, refrigerated, foot-long sub!

"No!  Not my pre-made, refrigerated, foot-long sub!"

Mama Bopper has developed an unhealthy attachment to her cellophane-wrapped sandwich.

Teeny-Bopper Mom attempts to negotiate whether or not she will help her mother purchase said sub.

They deal back and forth.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.

Introverted Mom is woozy.  Introverted Mom is unnerved.  Introverted Mom has surpassed her Low-Budget Grocery Store of Sheer Madness quota for the morning.

Aaaaaaahhh!!!  Get me out of here!!!

"Mommy!"

A crystal-clear voice echos off the registers.

Why it's Introverted Son.  Introverted Son has reached his limit, too.

"Mommy!  Let's go to Upper Scale Grocery Store of Sanity!  People are NICE there!  People aren't CRAZY there!"

Introverted Mom squelches a snicker.  Introverted Mom cannot bring herself to chastise Introverted Son's lack of manner.  Introverted Mom spots an open register and dashes towards greener pastures.

Scary Hairy-Armed Man-ish Cashier with the bright blue eye shadow rings out Introverted Family's groceries in record time.  Finally, they leave the confines of Low-Budget Grocery Store of Sheer Madness.

"Everyone buckle up, and we'll put on some hand sanitizer!"  Introverted Mom doles out her traditional instructions when leaving the Low-Budget Grocery Store of Sheer Madness.

After cleansed hands and a quick jaunt around Upper Scale Grocery Store of Sanity, Introverted Family loads into their van and drives towards freedom.

Hey Mommy!  Don't forget about me!

Who could forget about you, Pre-Partum Baby?  You've been making your presence known all morning.

I am hungry!  I need fried mozzarella sticks!  

Are you sure you don't want canned soup?

Moommmmmmyyyyy.....

As long as you don't make me purchase a refrigerated, pre-made foot-long sub, I will give you whatever you want, my precious Pre-Partum Baby.

How about a styrofoam cup?

How about I buy lunch for your daddy and brothers, pound down an order of mozzarella sticks, and then you give me a comfy belly and we'll call it truce?

Deal.

Way to salvage a Monday, Introverted Mom.

A Crabby Customer's Top 10 Guidelines for Hosting a Garage Sale

1.  If you advertise it, host it.

Your loaded newspaper ad attracts me.  Your failure to conduct the sale at said date and time annoys me.  Please don't tempt me to forget I'm a Christian woman and mentally shout curses at your empty driveway and closed garage door when you should be fulfilling your advertised promises.

2.  List your address, not your neighborhood.

A cleverly-named cult of matching mailboxes and overgrown bungalows may swell you with pride and satisfy the worth of those exorbitant HOA fees, but your cookie-cutter neighborhood is not the center of the universe.  I want to come to your garage sale, not Parade of Homes.  If google can't find it, neither can I. 

3.  Place enough signs to adequately direct me to your sale.

Advertisement along the main road is great, but don't send me on a wild goose chase only to leave me stranded in your neighborhood.  It wastes my time, my gas, and makes my kids cranky.  Until you can install a yellow brick road, I need a little guidance at the fork in the road.  Pound in a sign, and make sure the arrows are pointing in the proper direction.

4.  Make merchandise clearly visible to the street.

A large portion of your clientele is young mothers like me who must determine if the items are worth parking, air-conditioner turn-offing, unbuckling, and herding for.  Boxes or large, brightly-colored objects offer potential promises of reward for this effort.  And if your garage does not face the road, please place enough objects in the driveway to entice me.  I grew up hearing a true story of a woman who was murdered while hosting a sale in her backyard-facing garage.  I wish to shop, not be murdered.  Interesting items help ensure the risk will be worth my while.

5.  Ease up on the lemonade pressure.

I do not buy things I don't want or need.  My polite "No" means no.  Any children further proselytizing over-priced punch cease to be cute and officially join the ranks of telemarketers, mall kiosk representatives, infomercials, and street evangelists.  And mom, please don't glare at me...in the long run, I am encouraging your little entrepreneurs to strive for excellence in something other than promoting the sale of flimsy, mass-marketed products from China.  Call me this winter--they can shovel my driveway or some other useful business endeavor.

6.  Arrange your tables like a U, not a W.

Inner garage traffic jams prompt my fight-or-flight response, not my shop-til-you-drop one.  I will not enter your garage if I clearly assess I will become trapped in your garage.  Make the center table an island, not a peninsula.

7.  If you don't have more than one table, don't bother.

Seriously.  Drop it off at Goodwill, people.

8.  Clearly price your items.

If you will not put forth the effort to price your items, I will not put forth the effort to purchase them.  Pricing in general gives me a good idea if you are a fair, decent person looking to get rid of clutter and give someone a deal while making a few bucks, or if you are a greedy scab sitting in your garage all day trying to make a living off your basement full of glass mugs, dusty VHS cassettes, and Beanie Babies.  I will negotiate with you only if I know I will not offend you.

9.  Remember you are hosting a garage sale, not opening a branch of Gymboree.

Children's clothes are a temporary necessity, not an eternal investment.  Just because you paid full price for that precious, owl-embroidered romper your blessing only wore for two weeks doesn't mean I want to.  I do not know if your child spit-up, pooped, or peed in their attire, but I bet they did and I know mine will.  I refuse to pay more than $1 for their clothing items.  So if you price your clothes $1, I may purchase a garment or two.  But if you can hook me at $.50-cents or less, I may just walk my bag-laden self down your driveway having made you $10-$20 richer.  Price to sell, not to profit.

10.  When the sale is over, take down your signs.

Every. Single. One.

Hosting a garage sale is a lot of work but can be fun and even profitable.  Following these ten easy guidelines will help you conduct a successful sale and make good customers like me a lot less crabby.  And you know what they say...if this particular life experience happens to give you lemons--make lemonade.

Just don't try to sell it to me.

Sick and Tired

“The challenge of ministry in our home is that we do not always feel very “spiritual” when we wash our dishes. It hardly feels significant to scrub our toilet.  And we can feel that we are truly ministering when the Lord uses us to communicate a word of wisdom to someone, or He provides an opportunity to share the gospel with our neighbor. That seems like real ministry. And that is real ministry to be sure! But no more so than when we are wiping runny noses or cleaning the bathroom.”

― Carolyn Mahaney, Feminine Appeal

A friend recently posted this quote on facebook, and I've been pondering it for awhile.  This week was rough.  Sickness struck our house during a crunch to complete a major upholstery project, and no sooner had the kids recovered from hacking up a storm and sending me running for the barf basin at least a dozen times, that I could no longer fight off the impending muscle aches and serious woozies that finally crashed me to the couch for two days.

The thing about being sick as a mom is that you just can't enjoy it.  I never knew what a luxury it was to be sick until I became a mother.  Gone are the days of being nursed back to health.  Those blissful days when you learn the healing powers of a day off school, endless 7-Up (in the special smiley face cup with the straw), the tv remote all to your couch potato self, and the parental-reinforced feeling that the mere act of aiming your upchuck into the barf bucket makes you a brave little trooper.  I have to say, most of my memories of childhood illnesses are fond ones.

Now that I'm a mom, however, I croak my sore throat to a different tune.  It's a warbling combination of "I need to suck it up and be stronger.  People need me," and, "I WANT MY MOMMY!!!!"  Usually, this plays out looking like the boys getting to watch far too many episodes of Thomas & Friends until the obnoxious, singing British children make tearing up the entire house seem a more viable activity, and my grand accomplishment for the day is pulling out whatever frost-covered dinner happens to be stored in the front of our freezer and throwing it in the oven.  It's safe to say the days of luxurious illness have been trumped by survival of the sickest.

And I can tell you, it certainly does not feel like ministry.

As a mother, I often feel pulled in countless directions.  If it's not, "Mommmmyyyy!!!  He hit me!", it's usually, "I'm hungry!  I want a snack!"  Generally, this is when I've just sat down to accomplish a task.  And the forever stinky diaper on two chubby legs speaks non-verbal volumes.  Even the simplest chore can take hours when one's train of thought is consistently derailed.  Sometimes a good day at our house is a day that, quite frankly, ends.

To add to the mix, I often feel an unspoken expectation that getting through the day in one piece is simply not enough.  Never mind that a mom's role is completely sacrificial--my fighting farewell to a physical and mental capacity I never realized I needed until constant invasion pounded me so much that I find myself pinning straight-jacket tutorials to my "Sewing Inspiration" Pinterest board.  Don't get me wrong, I love being a mom to my two boys, and I know it will be the greatest role I will ever fulfill in my life.  But there's always a nagging feeling that serving our family is just what we SAHMs are supposed to do--what we chose to do.  It's our job and, therefore, does not count as actual "ministry."  If we are not attending every church meeting, serving on some children's ministry, studying the Bible every spare minute (whenever that is), and visibly helping the poor, needy, orphans, and widows, nor visiting the elderly on a regular basis, then by golly, we must not be good Christians.

It's not that serving those outside the home isn't an important facet of Christian life, it's just that in this particular period in our lives, outside dictations combined with the current flurry of demanding home life can stretch this fragile rubber band to the point of snapping.  Or, in my most recent case, crashing with illness.

As I was laying on the couch this week, feeling somewhat like a useless inconvenience only good for drooling on a pillowcase, I thought about the quote introducing this post.  I reminded myself that the majority of my ministry in this home is unseen and will probably be misunderstood by many.  That does not mean I'm not ministering.  I recalled a few moms of grown children who reassured me that raising any child under 5 is the most difficult job in the world that really does tie one to the home.  But it's only for a season.  People will never see the whole picture of self-employment combined with our home life, and may question my routine need to wind down a busy day in the quiet hours of my home instead of performing acts of Christian service to be seen by others.  But I know at this particularly exhausting period of life, taking proper care of myself is the foundation for taking care of my family--my ultimate God-given priority.

So while laying on the couch, planting my children in front of a stack of dvds, and tossing some frozen taco soup into a pot on the stove definitely did not feel like ministry, my children were supervised, clothed, and fed.  At the end of two days, we had survived.

And for this season of life, I know that was enough.

Pin It ! : Motherhood

Dear Random Pinner I am Following,

I couldn't help but notice your interest in following my boards and repinning nearly every photo I've collected.  I figured you must have good taste, and therefore, I chose to follow your boards as well.

It is obvious to me that you are a new-mom-to-be.  Congratulations!  From the endless boards of baby portrait ideas, sewing inspiration, homemade nursery decor, etc., I can tell you're a thoughtful, thrifty woman who is excitedly anticipating and preparing for the arrival of your new bundle of joy.  For that, I applaud you and wish you well.

I do have some concerns, however, at the one-dimensional nature of these glowing photos.  I would simply hate for you to limit your scope of motherhood by not embracing all the future has in store for you.  Based on your Inspirational Quotes board of trite expressions, I assessed your keen desire to live out the framed, scrapbook-paper-mounted motto "Knowledge is Power."  Therefore, I am taking the liberty to provide a few additional, pin-worthy items you might strongly consider to embellish your collections and broaden your mothering horizons.

Let's start pinning, shall we?

At the hospital, you may be overwhelmed with an influx of well-wishing friends, relatives, and/or nurses living vicariously through your life-changing experience.  As these surrogates of resources tend to gush endless questions, compliments, and advice for the new mom, you will be drop-dead-tired and not exactly the makeup-enhanced, radiant woman-with-new-baby hospital pic typically posted on the facebook newsfeed.  Therefore, it would be wise to prepare a script of handy replies to the onslaught of questions, which may be condensed into four simple categories.

I love your taste in nursery decor, from the cheery turquoise walls to the trendy decals you plan to make with your Cricut.  Way to save a buck.  The diaper changing table makes me giggle, as I imagine you will soon discover just how quickly you will go through that tidy stack of 5 or 6 diapers nestled so prettily in the color-coordinating Pottery Barn canvas baskets.  Rest assured there is no shame in redesigning your changing station to suit your needs.

And though your nursery pins feature sunshine streaming through sheer curtain-swagged windows to illuminate a glorious aura, baby might squint at this feature.  Therefore, a few adjustments to the window treatments may be necessary. 

Speaking of sleeping habits, I understand this is of great concern, as it is a challenge every exhausted mother must endure.  Judging from the 46 pins of guaranteed baby sleep solutions, I would say you've got a handle on things...except for one tiny footnote:

Oh, don't let me discourage you.  Babies are great.  But as you industriously follow those clever tutorials for cupcake-printed Boppy slipcovers, please consider a few useful grown-up prints to rest your unshowered-for-three-days head upon after you've finally nursed baby to sleep.

And when s/he wakes up forty-three minutes later, you might wish to select tips from your 23 pins on How To Soothe A Colicky Child.  In fact, kudos to you for organizing a warehouse of the latest baby swings, BPA-free binkies, bouncers, white noise machines, baby slings, etc.  Any of these is a worthy choice.  But if it comes to a matter of sanity, you might wish to pin this to your board "Good Idea."

From the wide variety of topics you cover, I can tell you are an unselfish, giving person who always thinks of those around you.  This includes a board devoted entirely to your husband.  Nine items, to be exact. Not quite the 100+ average on your 53 other boards, but a sincere acknowledgement nonetheless.   I thought I could save you some time, however, when I noticed you pinning thoughtful, homemade trinkets to leave where you hope he'll find them, as well as your latest pin:  a book about 21 ways to please your husband.  Honey, let me remind you of the fact that you are pregnant...do you really need a book?

I am delighted, however, that you are indeed an avid reader and have lofty aspirations to read to your child.  Good for you!  I myself enjoy filling our home with books for story times.  Nevertheless, I have to admit that you rather startled me the other evening when it was apparent we were simultaneously pinning items to our various boards, and suddenly, book after book after book after book after book after book kept popping up on my "new pin" notification.  Why, everything from individual stories to daunting lists like 100 Books Every Child Should Read Before Kindergarten (and heaven forbid they don't!).  It's safe to say you've got about 525 books to complete before junior/ette turns one.  Now, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but somewhere between #36. Goodnight, Moon and #87. The Very Hungry Caterpillar you'll need a breather.  This might be a good time to try one of those handy household tips such as protecting your ice cream from freezer burn.

While we are on the topic of reading, I would like to thank you for indirectly enlightening me.  I couldn't help but notice all the wonderful instructional blogs and tips you've pinned regarding how to get the most out of story time with your child.  From props to puppets to DIY crafts, I am now aware that simply sitting down and reading a book to my child does not suffice.  Moreover, I realize I have deprived my children immensely by not specifically seeking out relevant topics such as recycling, racial harmony, and multicultural customs.  I don't suppose Artie Bennett's The Butt Book is on your list.  Perhaps Pin it #526 for a rainy day when you cannot attend to that neglected list of gardening ideas.

(For a brief explication of library culture, please read my post here).

Speaking of customs, I see that you already have baby's first (and second!) birthday party all planned out.  My, you certainly are on top of things, aren't you?  Monkeys, Dr. Seuss, and Harry Potter (3rd birthday...really?!) are all lovely themes.  Invitations, decorations, and crafty little favors will definitely make baby's party worth remembering.  Nevertheless, you might prepare for the fact that there is one aspect of the party beyond your control:  baby's reaction to the traditional birthday serenade.

In truth, get used to the fact that there is a lot about raising a baby that is beyond your control.  This includes the child's grandparents.  I am in no way suggesting your family is one to cause strife, but when I saw your gallery of adorable portrait ideas specifically honoring the grandparents, I couldn't help but add one that will be of great practical value:

Feeding in general seems to be on your mind lately, and I'm not merely referring to the explosion of ingredient-categorized recipe boards every time you have a new craving.  I am just a little disturbed by your fondness for photographed breastfeeding sessions.  God bless you for desiring to sacrificially nourish your baby how nature intended, but let's remember to balance the obvious artistic license with a healthy dose of reality.

In conclusion, dear Random Pinner, when it comes to being a new mom, there are definitely a lot of wake-up calls.  Not only quite literally throughout the night, but also in matters of expectations.  Please don't let reality rob your joy, but ground yourself in the sense to know that on the days when you forget to thaw one of those 101 Budget-Friendly Freezer Meals, it really is ok to order carryout.  When your baby kicks and fusses through the first page of I Love You Through and Through, every. single. time., when you're too exhausted from zero sleep to even think about stimulating his ever-expanding sensory skills, or when you realize that shabby chic little sign that says, "Good Moms have sticky floors, messy kitchens, laundry piles, dirty ovens, and happy kids" actually makes you want to jam a screwdriver in your temple because the overwhelming sea of clutter caused by those "happy" kids is enough to drive a person mad, please allow yourself the honesty to admit that motherhood isn't exactly what you thought it would be.

Sometimes.

And when you experience those moments when you realize it is everything you dreamed it would be, pin them to your memory because every day, you will need them to remind yourself:

 

Best wishes for a smooth, safe labor and delivery...and a healthy outlook on motherhood.

Sincerely,

A Random Follower 

Introverted Mom Gives Birth

(In honor of Extroverted Son's 2nd Birthday)

Today is labor day.  Introverted Mom is in labor.

I don't think I'm in labor.

Introverted Mom's contractions are mild.  Introverted Mom's contractions are irregular.  Introverted Mom wants a Valentine's baby.  Introverted Mom kicks back, pops peanut m&m's, and watches the Winter Olympics.

 This is the life.

The afternoon breezes on.  Introverted Mom charts her contractions.

If I just take it easy, Baby Valentine will live up to his name.  I will go to the hospital, be dilated 5 centimeters, get my epidural, kick back and watch ice skating until Baby Valentine is born precisely on February 14th.  A mini-vacation!

Sounds like a plan, Introverted Mom.

Another contraction, stronger than the last.

Breathe through and relax.

The afternoon vanishes.  Time for Introverted Son's bath and bedtime.  Introverted Mom calls Introverted Grandma.

"I'm having more contractions, but they're still scattered apart.  I've had a few strong ones, but it hasn't been too bad.  I think we'll just keep Introverted Son here for the night.  I'll probably go to the hospital tomorrow."

Really, Introverted Mom?

Another contraction.  This one is strong.

A bigger contraction.  Introverted Mom leans over the couch for support.  Introverted Mom calls Introverted Dad into the house.  Introverted Mom telephones Introverted Grandma.

"I was wrong.  We're bringing Introverted Son over.  Right now.  Bye!"

Introverted Dad grabs Introverted Mom's hospital bag.  He rushes over to Introverted Mom who has dropped to the floor on all four, breathing hard.

"Get Introverted Son in the car, Introverted Dad.  Don't worry about me.  I'll meet you out there."

I can't have this baby in the living room!

Introverted Family speeds to Introverted Grandparents' house and drops off Introverted Son.  Introverted Mom fears she may give birth in Introverted Grandparents' driveway.

Maybe if I cross my legs....

Introverted Dad races them onward to the hospital.  It is dark.  It is snowing.  There is a slowpoke nitwit obstructing Introverted Dad's heroic dash to medical assistance.

"C'mon, you #$%&$@ !!!!" yells the Christian, generally mild-mannered Introverted Dad.

"Go Introverted Dad!" cheers Introverted Mom.

This is going to make the best story ever.

A red light.  Foiled again!

*pant pant pant*

"Don't worry.  I'm just panting to help with the pain.  I'm perfectly ok," reassures Introverted Mom.

Tomorrow I will confess what I liar I am.

"You say the word, and I'll go," proposes Introverted Dad.

Introverted Mom looks both ways.

"Ok, GO!!!!!!!!" commands Introverted Mom.

The hospital glows on the horizon.  What a glorious sight!

I think I can, I think I can.....

Introverted Dad parks in the front circle.  He whisks Introverted Mom up to the motherhood wing.

After a series of mundane hospital paperwork procedure, Introverted Mom finally checks into a room.

"Take this gown into the bathroom and change so we can check how far along you are," advises nonchalant Monotone Nurse.  Introverted Mom reluctantly obeys.

Another contraction.  The urge to push.  Super strong.

I am NOT going to give birth in the bathroom! 

Breathe, Introverted Mom!  Breathe!

Introverted Mom makes it back out to the bed.   Another contraction.  The urge to push.  Introverted Mom pants.

"Just try to relax and take deep breaths" coos Monotone Nurse.

I am trying not to deliver this baby right now, Monotone Nurse!

"I can't tell how far along you are.  I'm going to go get another nurse for a second opinion" declares Monotone Nurse, as she scuffles out of the room.

You're going to what?!  Why are you leaving me?  How long will you take?  Why are you walking?!  Run, lady, RUN!.....owwwwwwwwww!!!!

Introverted Mom grabs the bed rail for dear life.  After a full 60 seconds, she sheepishly turns to Introverted Dad.

"Are you doing ok?" squeaks Introverted Mom.

Introverted Dad blinks.

Another contraction.

Where's that blasted Monotone Nurse?!?  Does she want Introverted Dad to deliver me or what?!

"I need you to get a nurse in here!" wails Introverted Mom to Introverted Dad.

Finally, Monotone Nurse returns with her superior, Slightly More Competent Nurse.

Another contraction.

*pant pant pant pant pant pant*

"Just relax and take deep breaths.  Breathe innnnn........breathe outttttt...." drones Monotone Nurse.

I am not hyperventilating, you wannabe lamaze lady!  I am trying to keep this baby inside!!!

"She's at 10," mumbles Slightly More Competent Nurse to Monotone Nurse.

10?  That means I can push, right?

"Can't I have my epidural now?" wails Introverted Mom.

"Sorry, you're at 10.  It's too late," replies Monotone Nurse.

Oh. Crap.

Introverted Mom wants the baby out.  Introverted Mom wants the baby out now.

"NO, don't push yet!" panics Monotone Nurse, marginally changed in pitch.  "We need to wait for your doctor to come!  She'll be here any minute!"

Wait for my doctor?! The one who's currently driving here in this blizzard?!

Nurses swarm the delivery room.  Introverted Mom continues to cling to the bed rail for dear life.

Guess I don't get to watch ice skating tonight.

Another strong contraction.  An excruciating urge to push.

They said I'm at 10.  I know I'm allowed to push.  I know they're fully capable of delivering a baby.  They just don't want to do the dirty work.  Well guess what, ladies.......

Introverted Mom has had enough.

The next contraction hits.  Introverted Mom feels the power.  Introverted Mom goes for the gold.

"The head's crowning!" gasp the nurses to one another.

You bet the head's crowning!!!

The nurses scramble to find the nearest doctor on the floor.  Finally, a doctor arrives, grabbing his gloves and announcing his name.

What did he say his name was?

He could be the maintenance man for all you care, Introverted Mom.

"There goes my water!" growls Introverted Mom, defiantly pushing away.

"Stop pushing!" order the nurses, stricken with a deer-in-the-headlights look.  "We need to wait for the doctor to get his gloves on!"

Catch it bare-handed, buddy.  That's why I'm paying you the big bucks.

Introverted Mom assumes the proper delivery position.  The contractions intensify.  Introverted Mom needs to bite something.  Bad.  Introverted Mom instinctively raises the first thing her hand clutches to her mouth and opens wide.

What is this?

Why, it's Introverted Dad's hand.  Strong and sure.

Introverted Mom connects wide eyes with Introverted Dad.

Oops...

"It's ok...you can bite my hand if you need to," reassures Introverted Dad.

Awww....

Another contraction.

Owwwwwwww!!!!

Ah, the proverbial "ring of fire."

The books really weren't kidding!

 No, they weren't kidding, Introverted Mom.

"Head's out!" cheer the nurses.  

Almost done!

One final push, Introverted Mom!  You can do it!

"The baby's out!" announce the nurses.

"Praise. The. Lord!" heaves Introverted Mom, falling back into the bed.

"It's a boy!" state the nurses, displaying him to the delighted Introverted Parents.

A boy!  I'm so happy!  That wasn't so bad after all.

You are awesome, Introverted Mom.

A cry fills the room.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

Whoah, that's no little baby cry.

"What is THAT?!" a bewildered Introverted Mom asks Introverted Dad.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

"He's got some healthy lungs" declares Introverted Dad.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

No kidding.  That's quite the warrior's cry.  We may very well have a little extrovert on our hands.  Our little Extroverted Son.

The nurses clean, weigh, and wrap the wailing wonderchild, start Brahm's Lullaby on the hospital loud speaker, and soon return Extroverted Son to Introverted Mom.

"This is what we call a 'Stop-and-Drop' baby," laughs Monotone Nurse, slightly musical after all.

Extroverted Son chews his hands and raises his wide eyes to Introverted Mom.

This is what I call perfection.

Extroverted Son captivates Introverted Mom and Introverted Dad.  The baby who would be born on Valentine's Day entered the world on his own terms, chose his own date, and created an entire scenario worthy of a good laugh.  Extroverted Son has a lot to teach his Introverted Parents.

I will recount this gold-medal story some day, so we will never forget.  Until then, I'm going to bask in the glow of this sweet little boy who has changed our lives forever.

Sounds like a plan, Introverted Mom.  Sounds like a plan.