It’s time for a baby . . .

but there isn’t one.  I’ll stick that right up front, lest anyone get excited.

But it’s time.  Ruth will be precisely 2 1/2 tomorrow.  Isaac was one week shy of 2 1/2 when Hannah was born.  Hannah was one month and one week shy of 2 1/2 when Ruth was born.  (Makes it look like we are such good planners.  We’re not.)  So.  Now Ruth is 2 1/2.  And I’m supposed to have a newborn.  I can feel it.  I can feel this empty space where a newborn would go.

It’s hard.  It’s hard to explain and it’s hard to come to terms with.  We made a very conscious, a very well-thought-out decision to stop at three children.  And on some level I know it was the right decision, but I’ve been sad about it.  And right now, when my pattern indicates it’s time to be adding someone new to the family, it’s particularly sad.

I think it’s a mixture of being robbed and of being a failure that haunts me.  This decision we made, this likely very wise decision we made, was built upon some circumstances that seem to be either totally beyond our control, or entirely in my control, depending on the day, depending on my mood.  Whichever it was, this decision was not made because I looked at my family with three children and said, “Yes.  That’s the right number.”  And I think I feel that.

Pregnancy was really not good for me.  And, therefore, really not good for my family.  Completely debilitated by morning sickness and depression, pregnancy means, for me, essentially a year of sitting on the couch (the “year” because it also includes the first three months with a newborn who eats near continuously).  For my children it means 9 months with a near useless, totally miserable mommy.  One who is able and willing to do little else but sit and snuggle.  For my husband it means having to be not only the sole monetary provider, but also the sole caretaker of his young family for the better part of a year.

When I was in late pregnancy with Ruth, we decided we couldn’t all do this again.  None of us.  Ry didn’t want to see me that miserable ever again.  I didn’t want to rob of their mother the three children in my arms for the sake of another in my womb.  And I didn’t ever again want to watch my beloved, generous, loving husband weighed down by the burdens of a congregation and the full responsibilities for our family.  I was still pregnant when we made the decision, and part of me thought maybe we should wait until we weren’t in the throes of pregnancy before we made our decision permanent, but I vividly recall the rest of me believing wholeheartedly that it was best that we make the decision while we were in the throes of pregnancy misery lest we forget just how bad it was.

And now.  Now I think I have forgotten just how bad it was.  But I don’t forget how amazing it is to have a whole new little person in my arms and at my breast and in our family.  And I also feel so better armed for the pregnancy journey now that I know going in that pregnancy creates depression in me.  Maybe I could take an antidepressant while I’m pregnant and actually have an enjoyable pregnancy experience.  And I now have all these crunchy resources for dealing with morning sickness, maybe I could even do pregnancy without feeling like vomiting all day every day from weeks 7 through 22.  All of these what if’s . . . But the decision’s been made and ratified, and I’m not sure any of us would really be willing to take the chance on the what if’s.

Yet still.  It makes me sad.  I watch births on TV, I read birth stories online, and I cry.  I cry that I will never do it again.  I mourn the baby that never will be.  I give myself a sound beating for not having been better at it.  For not having been better at accomplishing the biological task my body was designed to do.  And I beg God for a miracle.  There.  I admit it.  I beg God for a miracle baby.  We have, after all, one more empty chair at our table.  Of course, then I give myself a sound beating for being so greedy.  For not being simply grateful for and satisfied with the three wonderfully healthy babies we have, and the fact that I have held each and every one of my babies, when I know so many women who haven’t had that much, ones who never got to hold their breathing babies, ones who held them for far too short a time.  Then I try to remind myself of these thoughts.

Sigh.  Pity party.  And you know what?  That may be all I have here.  I’m still not ready to see the hope in it, to see the Good News of it.  I’m just not.  I’m having my pity party  today.  I wanted a fourth baby, and, because I can’t be pregnant without inflicting profound misery on my whole family, I can’t have one.  Or, maybe I didn’t want a fourth baby, maybe I just wanted the opportunity to think about having a fourth baby in terms of normal questions like, “Do we have enough room in our house?”  “Do we want to start all over again?”  “Is somebody still missing here?”   But because of my pregnancies, that really wasn’t an option.  And I’m mad.  And sad.  And not very glad at all.  I guess crummy pregnancy symptoms are part of the Fall.  And as such, they should piss me off.   And they do.

Maybe as Ruth rounds the corner away from 2 1/2, away from the age at which kids become big brothers and sisters around here, maybe it will become less painful.  Maybe as she gets older and easier and we start spending all night every night with just the two of us in our own bed and everyone is using the toilet independently and everyone can put on their own shoes and socks and so on, and so forth . . . maybe it will grow less painful and I will grow more content with our family of five.  I hope (and pray) that I don’t endlessly continue to look at that sixth chair at the dining room table longing to fill it with another offspring.  I hope and pray I can sincerely look at it and desire to fill it with a stranger in need of a place to sit and eat.

So maybe I do have some hope here after all.  A little bit.

Big Enough God, And How!

So as briefly alluded to in my last desperate post, my husband was out of town this past week. He left around two on Sunday afternoon and returned at nine o’clock last night. The anticipation of this trip was part of what sent me off the deep end on Sunday. I am so not that mother.  You know, the one who does everything around the house, all the cooking, everything to take care of the kids, is the only one whose sleep is disturbed by children that go bump in the night.  I am so not that mother.

I am the mother whose husband picks up food from the grocery store on his way home from work, walks in the door and gets to cooking.  Except on the evenings I throw the children to him and take on the task of cooking the food before I cook the children.  And except for the evenings I throw the children and the dinner prep at him and hide away somewhere.  I’m that mother.

So, when the Daddy leaves town, things change around here.  The whole system changes.  And it scares me.

But you know what?  This week was amazing.  Starting with the eye-opening encounter with God on a beautiful country road on Sunday and continuing on through to Thursday:  miraculous intervention.  Miraculous patience, miraculous drive.  All week long I kept my eyes on the two feet right in front of me, paying no attention to the days-without-husband that stretched before me.  In fact, the hardest day was yesterday when I knew it was almost over and I kept looking past the task at hand and toward the top of the knoll.  It was then that I began tripping, losing momentum.

Until that point, I simply did what was right before me.  Change this diaper, not “Urgh, all these diapers!!!“  Toddler decides to awaken 3 1/2 hours before I go to sleep?  OK.  Get up and love on sleepless toddler.  Don’t think about how tired you’re going to feel all day long.

Maybe some of you are saying, “Well, of course!”  But this is not my way.  This is one of my biggest struggles, to get so lost in the scope of the entire task (whatever it is) that I’m left paralyzed and unable to take a single step toward accomplishing it.  Not so this week.  This week I took things one thing, one moment at a time.  I did set some longterm goals, however.  1.  My husband will come home to a house neater and cleaner than the one he left and 2.  I will get all of these clean clothes folded and put away.  And I surpassed these goals by a mile.  One pile of toys at a time.  One basket of clothes at a time.  When I looked in my room full of clean clothes yesterday (and I do mean full) I didn’t succumb to paralysis, I picked one pile and got to work.

I can’t count the number of times this week I raised words of gratitude to the One I know was responsible for this transformation.  I really had been in a dark spot these last few weeks, going through a cycle of questioning all of my faith.  The whole thing, the whole God story, seemed so distant, so unreal to me.  And then I yelled at God on Sunday.  I did.  I yelled and argued and essentially told him I wasn’t buying what he was selling.

And how did he respond?  With a swift smite?  No.  With grace.  With grace sufficient and abundant.  With more grace than I knew I needed or could imagine available.  Without a doubt I know that God met me this week.  Met me on the pretty road to nowhere, with windmills off in the distance and brown hay on either side.  Met me in each gross never-ending-this-kid-eats-entirely-too-much-fiber diaper.  In every solo bedtime with crazed toddler and tired olders.  In every minute of each and every day.  His grace was sufficient.

His grace is sufficient.  For yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  Praise be to God!

Cup of Coffee, Computer, and Screaming Kids . . .

That’s my morning in a nutshell. Really not nearly as nice as a quiet house, a laptop, and a glass of wine.

Well. The coffee is nice. As I was sitting here, once again the thought ran through my head: What in the world did I do before I started drinking coffee? And why did it take so long to start? What about all those lost years? The coffee is very nice indeed.

The computer . . . see how I just called it Computer? So impersonal, so utilitarian. No “purple lap-dwelling companion.” Because it’s not my pretty purple lap-dwelling companion. It’s my husband’s big and black and clunky and not-the-least-bit-shiny computer. It’s essentially his right hand. His cell phone is his left. (He is left handed, so consider that when assigning value.) He never leaves home without his cell phone. Except the day before yesterday. When that anomaly, combined with the neat-and-tidy condition of not one, but two of my downstairs rooms and the complicated, from-scratch dinner concoction I made and had bubbling on the stove, left me concerned that I had three of the four horses of the apocalypse covered right in my very own house. But I digress . . .

Point is, Ry rarely leaves home without his computer. He uses it to work at work, he uses it to work at home, he uses it to work while parked out in front of the library to use their wireless internet, he uses it while he waits for his car to get serviced. It’s his. I don’t feel like I’m violating it or anything, he has no relationship with the thing. It’s just a box. A way for him to work. Consequently it has no personality for me either.

And using it reminds me what a colossal disappointment my own, pretty-in-purple companion has been. I’ve had it 14 months. And I think it has spent 4 (possibly more) of those months completely inoperable. Not 4 months in a row; four months distributed over three episodes. Which makes me think it really has been more than 4 months of failure. My friend arrived so pretty, so pristine. She (yes, apparently, she is a she. Who knew?) represented independence and industry. Finally I could write or do internet stuff whenever I wanted, on my schedule, not Ry’s. I had big dreams.

Alas. They’ve been dashed. Possibly because I’m not as industrious as I’d hoped. But mostly–I’m sure–because even if I were industrious, my purple friend would fail me. Just seize up and turn black. Or cut off her own life support system, refusing to speak to the little square portals of electricity scattered about my house. And she calls herself a friend!!!

Alas alack and woe is I, why’d my purple lap-dwelling companion have to die?

Ha. I’m not sure she’s actually dead. I think she just needs a new life-support cord. And definitely a battery. But at this point I just want to give her the help she apparently is crying out for and just throw her out the window myself. It seems more merciful at this point.

Never buy a computer make a friend based on how pretty she is. Words to live by, my friends. Words to live by. Also I don’t recommend making friends based solely on your husband’s three-minute analysis and no research whatever. Again, I’m just abounding in wisdom this morning. It must be the coffee.

Or. The fact that I’m no longer listening to screaming kids. I’ve banished them to the attic. Cruel, cruel mommy. Oh. Did I not mention the attic is also their bedroom? Possibly not so mean. Well. I guess it depends on how you define banishment and what parenting books you’ve been reading lately. So many parenting philosophies floating through my brain . . .

Don’t even give your kid that inch, lest he take the mile. Don’t ever let your kid out of your sight for one millisecond. Kids’ brains are turning to mush from too much TV, too much direction, too much supervision, not enough free time. You are in control! You are in charge! You are NOT in control! You are NOT in charge! You are in a relationship, you are listening, you are responding. Don’t shame. Do shame so they know what kind of icky creepy worm they are. Beat the spit will out of them on a regular basis so they know they need a Savior and turn to him despite the fact that you’ve demonstrated to them that people with authority over you will only beat the spit will right out of you and don’t even try to reconcile the fact that this wonderful God made you but you’re essentially a stinky heap of dung that needs to be completely overhauled and reshaped entirely to fit one standard mold that all of God’s myriad humans need to be broken shaped into and OH whatever you do, don’t ask me who’s going around whapping me with a stick for my every infraction. Gentle gentle gentle Grace grace grace. Go to work, have your own life. Stay home for a time. Stay home for good. Public school. Private school. Home school. Un-school. . . .

I’m tapped out. I think that about covers it for now.

So I banished the screaming children to the attic. They were screaming and whining and crying happily, all part of their game. I just couldn’t listen to it anymore. It could be the coffee has me edgy, but I’m not willing to explore that right now. It could just be the screaming. And coming off of an inside-all-pouring-rainy-day yesterday. But I told them to take their screaming game upstairs and they happily went. They even asked if the toddler could come. Sure. Take the two year old up two flights of steps to engage in your throwing-each-other-around game two floors above my head where I can’t hear her, let alone see her in case she slams her head and needs a return trip to the ER. I just read this article yesterday about how I shouldn’t be so overprotective of my kids. . . .

Convenient. Maybe it does pay to have a wide variety of perspectives at my disposal after all.

My Girl. Mommy-in-Training.

Lovey dovey Hannah Girlie. She adores her baby sister, has from day one. She has yet to stop her obsessive loving on her, despite Ruth’s tendency to rip Hannah’s hair out by the handful and . . . er . . . ruthlessly** destroy anything Hannah tells her she can’t have. “Well. If I can’t have it, no one can!” Still, Hannah loves on her. Grabbing her around the neck to bring her cheek close so she can kiss it. Pulling Ruth over as she embraces her. Still, after two years, sitting right next to me as I nurse Ruth, rubbing her head, kissing her cheek. Swweeet.

I expend a great deal of each day’s breaths reminding Hannah, “Hannah, you are not Ruth’s mommy. That is not your job. It’s mommy’s job to take care of Ruth like that. It’s your job to enjoy her and play with her and have fun with her.” (Yes, it is on some level her job to take care of her sister; she is her sister’s keeper. But that’s not what needs to be emphasized right now.) Still, Hannah tries to redirect Ruth, tries to “help” her up or down the steps, tries to keep her out of trouble. And my “You are not the Mommy” reminders continue to go unheeded.

But the other day I heard Hannah mothering Ruth in a way that I found beautiful; in a way gave me a glimpse of Hannah as a mother.  It was lunch time and I was working at a feverish pace to make sandwiches for Ruth and Hannah.  I was trying to make them simultaneously so that they’d be finished at the same time and could be presented together so no one was left waiting for hers.  Meanwhile, Ruth is behind me whining and crying and yelling and trying to grab the plate off the counter.  “Dat mine?  Ee want turkey cheese!  Ee ‘ant turkey cheese!!!  Ee hung’y!  Eat!  Turkey cheese!  Turkey cheese!  Dat mine turkey cheese?!”

Holy smokes!  I’m starving to death my own self, blood sugar non-existent, coffee running on empty making me tremble with edginess.  “Ruth! I’m getting it!  Yes, it’s yours, but Mommy has to make it for you! Yes, Ruth! I know you’re hungry!”

Finally, the voice of reason and calm pops up behind me in the form of a sweet four-year-old girl voice:  “Roofie, I know it’s hard to wait.  It’s hard to be patient.  When I was a little girl I had to be patient when I waited and it was hard.  But it’s rude to yell, so you need to be patient and wait.  Mommy will get your sandwich for you.  It’s hard to wait.”

I just stood there smiling.  There’s my girl, reflecting her sister’s big feelings.  It’s hard to wait.  Mommy is making you wait and it’s hard.  Sure Ruth doesn’t necessarily need the lecture on rudeness at the moment, but the mommy-in-training is, after all, only four.  She was just so calm and quiet and still for Ruth.  Both identifying and validating Ruth’s struggle, offering words of encouragement.  Ruth zeroed in on Hannah’s calmness and she herself calmed down and waited a little more patiently.  And patience doesn’t come easily to Ruth.

Sweet sweet Hannah Girlie.  Trying out her grace-filled mommy skills on her sister.  Someday she’s going to be a great mom to her fifteen kids.

**I might petition the greater English speaking community to change the word to “ruthful“. . . .

My Boy. Husband-in-training.

I don’t know how much I’ve thought about this before, but we had an incident here this morning that got me thinking about how my son’s life with two little sisters will affect him long-term.  And I like what I’m thinking.

Lately I’ve been very excited to see how well Hannah and Isaac hve been getting along.  For the most part, they really have found a rhythm where they enjoy one another’s company.  Hannah is happy to see Isaac home at the end of the day; Isaac is wondering where Hannah is if she’s not right there.  Off they go, playing their imaginary roles–the latest come from 3-2-1 Penguins and I generally have no idea what they’re talking about.  So engrossed with one another do they become that I am often driven to madness (you decide which kind) trying to break into whatever little game/story they’ve got going on in order to tell them it’s time to do something else–like get ready for bed or have dinner.  The other day at the grocery store I was ready to leave them there at the dairy case to live happily-ever-after as I had hit the wall from their giggling their way through the store with pushing and shoving as they were playing out some sort of story that involved captures and the defeat of enemies.

I’m half elated and half enraged at their new-found fun.  Mostly I’m elated.  Only sometimes do I wish they would never speak to one another again.  I know a great deal of this development in their relationship stems from Hannah’s recent jump in maturity, but I still hold their room-sharing to be a vital part of the revolution.  Whatever the reason, I truly, truly am thrilled to see it.

This morning I started contemplating a different facet to this relationship.  What prompted my new musings?  Overhearing this:

Thud! Thud! Thud!  (someone with inner rage coming down from the attic/bedroom Isaac and Hannah share)

Thudthudthudthudthud!  (someone coming quickly after the enraged)

“Hannah?  What did I do wrong?  I don’t understand!  What did I do?  I didn’t do anything!!!”

More and various thud-thud-thudding down to the first floor.

I have no idea what happened.  I’m as clueless as Isaac, apparently.  But I know I’ve had this conversation before.  Well, there was no real conversation, simply befuddlement prompted and responded by furious thudding.  The girl is mad.  The boy has no idea why or what he did or what he could do to change it.  Maybe it’s just me, but this scenario sounds ever-so familiar to me.  And I’m not talking about a couple of kids here.

While I was completely, utterly amused, I also found myself grateful.  Grateful that my boy can encounter such perplexity while he’s young, in the safety of his own home, where the stakes are low and his expectations are lower.  That way when he grows up and he encounters the same bafflement:  “What did I do wrong?  I don’t understand.  I didn’t do anything!” followed by thud thud thud, he will have learned it’s not the end of the world, that there may not actually be an answer to the question, and to wait for it if there is.  He will have learned to work through the thudding, knowing that it’s worth wading through in order to continue playing your fun game.

My boy, big brother to two little sisters, is learning the ways of women before he even knows it.  I think he’ll be blessed because of it.  Moreso, I think his wife will.

The continuing saaaaga of a mom who has gone to the dogs . . .

File this in the same category as my two girls with their apples and Sesame Street. Did I create a category for that yet? What to call it . . . Dreams Disintegrated . . . Good Intentions v. Brick Wall of Reality . . . Wonder-Mom, the Later Years . . .

Today’s installment?  What, exactly, constitutes a healthy lunch?

With Isaac, I thought out every morsel.  Processed white flour would never cross his lips.   Not on my watch, anyway.  (Well, except for the occasional sweet treat.  Mostly in the form of Krispy Kremes kindly brought by Auntie Marilyn.)  Each meal, planned.  All day, circling the food groups, round and round we’d go, accentuating the proteins, being selective with the carbs.

Do you know what Hannah had for lunch today?  Her favorite.  (Which, of course, indicates this is not a one-time thing.)  A ketchup sandwich with a pickle on the side.  Nice.  This is what it’s come down to, ladies and gentlemen:  counting ketchup as a fruit and pickles as a vegetable.  At least the bread is a grainy whole wheat.  But now I just let her wash the whole thing down with some old-fashioned salt-and-mush-in-a-can, reconstituted condensed chicken noodle soup.  I’m making no effort to get anything else into her.  I think I’m losing my steam.

I truly, from the bottom of my heart, do not think this has to happen to every mom.  I resented the people who told me when I was obsessing over Isaac’s diet that this is how things would go.  I still kind of resent it, because I didn’t ask, and I really don’t think it was inevitable.  I think it speaks more to me and the stage of life I’m hitting than moms in general.  And really, calorie for calorie, my kids still do really well.  But today?  In my current dissatisfied-with-life-in-general mood?  Yeah.  Hannah had a lunch of champions.  And I think I’m OK with that.

At least she used a spoon to eat her soup. 

Sooo . . . What silliness to talk about today?

Because silliness seems to be all I’m capable of today.

Well . . . there’s the fact that my dear husband made coffee again today.  While I was sleeping an extra 45 minutes, making up for the time I spent up with Ruth last night.  He also made hot cereal and straightened the kitchen some.  After thanking him, I said, “So should I blog about this, too?”  “It wouldn’t hurt.”    So here it is.  He’s the bestest man ever.  Really.  I got it good.

And . . . there’s the fact that as I write this my two girls are locked in the living room–one on the couch, one wandering around aimlessly–eating whole apples and watching Sesame Street.  Yep.  Exactly how I pictured my mornings as a progressive stay-at-home mom back when I had only one wee one to care for.  We used to have snack times.  We used to only eat at the table.  A toddler, especially, would never be out and about, wandering with food at random times.  And eating while watching TV?  Scandalous!  Certainly not!

Well.  There they are.  Munch.  Crunch.  Slurp.  Drip.  And here I sit.  Writing and drinking coffee I didn’t even have to make.  Barefoot, make-up free, dirty dishes scattered about me.  Nice.  I am Super Mom.  Hear me . . . yawn.

Ruth has been wandering around eating all morning.  I’m hoping the fact that it’s all healthy food will make up for the steady stream of calories entering her little body.  She already had breakfast with Ry before I got up.  A banana was involved, I’m not sure what else.  But then she starts helping herself to stuff.  Like we have a freezer-on-the-bottom refrigerator/freezer.  So she just opens that door right up.  Grabbing a bag off the door, she lifts it up, looks at it:  frozen blueberries.  “NnnoooooO.”  Sets it back down.  Next bag:  frozen raspberries.  “Rapbeyies,” as she lifts the bag up to me.  Sure, why not?  I grab the bag, she grabs the bowl.  Today I insist on the table because for the last week and a half she’s been eating her frozen raspberries while sitting on the little stool on the floor.  But we’re civilized people, so I insist on the table.  And she even insists on the spoon.  Nice.  I don’t know how she eats raspberries frozen.  I get brain freeze just looking at her.

Now . . . couple of minutes later . . . Ruth wanders back out to the kitchen.  Opens up the pantry cabinet next to the fridge.  Pulls out the bottom drawer full of cans.  “Hmm.  NoooO.  NoooO.  Oo.  Deans.”  Picks up the can of kidney beans, hands it to me.  I grab the can, she grabs the bowl.  Again I insist on the table.  Again she insists on the spoon.  See?  We are civilized.

Hannah, of course, didn’t partake in all this snacking.  So, when 10:15 rolls around, she is ready for a snack.  She’d like an apple.  Well, then.  Full-of-berries-and-beans Ruth sees the apple.  She too would like an apple.  So there they are:  apples and Elmo.  I didn’t insist on the table.  And you don’t need a spoon for an apple.  And civilization is highly overrated.

Now, back to my coffee.  And my mess.  And tomorrow I’ll be a better mom and homemaker.  For afterall . . . tomorrow is another day.

And for today’s visual:  Ruth in the Living Room of the Perpetual Mess.

For the record, she has lovely silver and pink with bangles dress-up shoes under that blankie dress.

Please stand by . . .

I am experiencing life. Life with three small children, a beautiful husband with a demanding job I often share, and another little side project I’m working on, as well as a trip involving over a thousand miles of driving with three little kids, two of whom were sick, and visiting with a wonderful step-mother-in-law and an ailing father-in-law. phew!

Man oh manohmanohman. This whole “Thinking about death” thing is dragging on and on and on. I’ve started the next installment, but it’s stalled out on the part where I need some genuine time to gather my theological wits about me, to ground my musings in some genuine scholarship. I want to do it all justice. But I don’t want everyone (all seven of you!) to forget where I’ve been or what I’m doing. So I’m poking my head up out of my hole to say “Hold on! More is on the way! I had no intention of dragging this out for three years, or how ever long it’s been. It makes it seem much more important than it is. Much more self-important than I really am.

I’ll be back. Hopefully today or tomorrow. I miss using my brain.

Never mind. I’m too old for this . . . um . . . stuff!

So I wrote the whole nicey nicey “Love my kids” post wherein I claim God gave me my kids in just the right order.

I’ve changed my mind.  Cuz I’m getting old.  And this littlest one is going to be the death of me.  I’m too tired for this nonsense.  (I know you will hear this in the tongue-in-cheek manner in which it is written.)

First off, let me start with the “How I Started my Day” story.  After being up with Ruth for about 45 minutes beginning at 4AM, Ry was kind and generous enough to let me sleep some more when he got up with Isaac at 7:00.  I woke up at 8:00 and when I went into the bathroom I found Ruth there.  Standing at the sink, trying desperately to reach the Dixie “dups” to get a “dink”.  So, I ask myself, “How did Ruth get here?  Where is Ry?  Why is she alone in the bathroom with Ry nowhere in sight?”  I asked myself these questions, but deep down inside, in those secret places you don’t want to go, I knew the answer.  I did.  She got herself out of her crib and I have to start thinking about a sleeping arrangement that allows her to roam free at will.  At two days shy of 22 months. . . . I can’t think about that now.  I’ll think about it tomorrow.  For after all . . .

I’ll just move right on to Ruthie’s other latest trick.  Taking off her diaper and pooping on the floor and demanding a “Tub!”  Nice.  Really really nice.  I’m afraid, much against my pottying philosophy, I’m going to have to get proactive on the potty-training-teaching-learning-who-cares-it’s-all-a-mess-anyway front.  Under advisement of my dear old curmudgeonly friend, I have generally put off potty-training till the kid was all but begging to do it.  I didn’t go quite as far as she went with her older two, where they were, literally, begging to use the potty and get big-girl gotchies.  My kids hadn’t quite reached begging, but Isaac was nearly 3 1/2 before I put any real, concerted effort into the process and Hannah was completely self-motivated when she decided it was time to use the toilet at 2 years and 7 months.  (I know the exact age because I vividly remember Ruth was only two months and I would never in a zillion and a half years have suggested pottying to Hannah at that point.)

The benefit of waiting so long?  It was really simple.  Both times.  Isaac more so than Hannah, with no . . . um . . . solid accidents.  Some bizzarro issues to overcome, but no horrific messes.

Now.  Ruthie.  Keeps taking her diaper off.  Sometimes right after she poops, sometimes right before.  Generally we’re not around when it happens, she’s with a sibling or two in the gated-off living room, so I’m not sure if she’s like, “Hey!  I need to poop!  I don’t want to mess up this here diaper!”  Or, if she takes her diaper off (“Because I can.”) and then just happens to poop.  But, the frequency of the pattern is beginning to make me wonder if it is indeed the former.  I have even found her in the process of stripping a diaper that has (obviously) just recently been made wet.

The third option, though, is that the few times she did it, before this past week when it’s become a habit, she went right from the poopy mess to the bathtub.  So part of me is wondering if she thinks she’s found the ticket to the joyous slice of heaven known as the “DUB!”  As in “If I take off this poopy diaper or take off this diaper and poop on the floor, then I get a DUUUUHB!!!”  I wouldn’t put this last one past her.  Which is why she now gets cleaned up in the living room with the help of some antibacterials.  Just in case.  Lest you scoff, let me tell you the tale of her older sister who, around 18 months, would literally force herself to poop every time she sat on the potty.  Every time.  Several times a day.  She watched Prudence do it and she figured that’s how you use the potty:  poo-poo and wee-wee every time.  Can I just say, “Ick!“?

Anyway, I’m too squeamish for all this.  I’m not a body person.  I mean sure, sure, I know, I know, mind-body-spirit, all one, holistic, yada yada.  I know this.  But I’d rather live in my brain and never have to deal with body stuff.  And potty-learning just gets downright icky.  But right now the alternative is turning my living room into one big litter box and that’s not so appealing either.  So.  Here we go.  One last time. . . .

My apologies for the quality of the pic.  She hopped right off the potty as soon as she saw me coming with the camera, but I couldn’t resist providing you with a glimpse of Ruth as she looked this morning watching her potty show.

I love my kids . . .

and the God who gave them to me.

God knows what he’s doing and he gave me these three crazy, silly, completely unique kids . . . he gave me these kids.  Not the lady down the street.  He gave Ry and me these three kids, and for that I am so very grateful.  I love these kids.  The Boy and his intensity and non-stop verbiage and big schemes and dreams and passion for food and life and breath and the universe.  The Girl with her inborn empathy and compassion and soft and tender heart who will love anyone into submission and peace and who will lull people into complacency but with her sharp mind and wit take them completely off guard.  And that Other Girl with her spunk and her fire and her tenacity and her temper and her humor and her stubbornness and her own non-stop verbiage.  All three of them.  So very different, such wonderful gifts.

We’ve spent some time reflecting on their birth order, how they came in such a good order. Having our Boy first was perfect.  He’s just so very intense, he requires so very much energy, perseverance, and patience.  But because he was our first, we just figured that was the way our babies were made. We simply met him where he was and went from there; there was no point of comparison.  Then Hannah came along and I still remember vividly Ry and myself looking at her, wondering what was wrong with her because she just sat there.  In one place.  With one toy.  And she was so, so, very quiet and required next to nothing.  As long as she had her mommy and her milk, she was AOK.  I can’t imagine if Isaac had to follow her, if we were asking ourselves, “What is wrong with him?“  I’m afraid we would have pushed until we did find something “wrong” with him and then we never would have grown to have this great appreciation for who he is, for his qualities that will lead him to take over the world.

And then came Ruth.  Who is so interesting.  She split the difference between Isaac and Hannah as we all predicted, because, really, there was nowhere else to go:  Isaac and Hannah are so very different.  What she required of us that her birth order provided is our mellowed attitude.  We’ve been around the block a few times.  Go ahead, throw your head back into the oak molding, you still have to come with us.  Sure! fling yourself to the ground kicking and screaming, you just let me know when you’re done and we’ll carry on with our day.  Oh dear, you seem to have flung yourself into a support beam and split your face in two, I think we need to go the emergency room now.  She needed to be third.  We needed her to be third.

Sometimes I worry about Hannah in the middle.  Worry that she’ll disappear in her quiet, subdued way in the middle of these two loud, boisterous lunatics.  But then I think, No.  She’s so completely connected to the ones on either side of her; she looks out for them, she seeks them out to hug and kiss (or poke or jump on).  She worries about them when they’re sick, she lifts their needs before us, urging us to care for them.  Above all else, she hates to be alone, always has.  So I’m happy for her that with an older brother and a younger sister, she likely won’t be left alone.  When we’ve suggested time out with just her and her two parents, she’s disturbed at the thought:  what about Isaac?  What about Roofie?  And when she’s sick of her brother or sister, when she just needs someone to love on her and take care of her, she just climbs right up on our lap, or into our bed, or between our hug.  She’s not only aware of the love and care others need, she’s aware of her own need for love and affection.  We call it her “snuggle tank” and she lets us know when it’s empty.

I love these kids.  I love the God who gave them to us.  He gave them to us, created them individually, in just the right way, in just the right time, in just the right family.  I pray he gives me the grace and the love and the fortitude and perseverance to do right by them.  God’s beautiful children.