There is something supremely hilarious (when you’re as tired as I am) about having torture tactics (that the United Nations won’t even allow in interrogations) inflicted upon you by your own sweet, adorable baby .

But tired doesn’t even begin to describe it, does it? Having a baby under one year old is a whole new level of exhaustion – and this is coming from a doula who used to make a living getting woken up in the middle of the night.

Your brain begins to grow mold. You can’t drive very well or remember what word you wanted to use or not burn the beans. Your mouth always tastes bad and all of a sudden it’s unusually difficult to regulate your body temperature.

You think about a lot of crazy things when you’re this tired. You think that being dead would be sort of great because it would be a long, deep sleep. You think about returning your child (whom you love ferociously, unendingly) for a new one. A sleepier one. You worry that something is terribly wrong with them. You seriously consider drugging them. Or drugging yourself.

You get really superstitious. If they slept well one night, you MUST put them in the exact same sleep sack, have the temperature exactly the same, eat the same dinner, same lullaby, etc. Even though none of that stuff matters. Cause this shit is out. of. your. control.

I have this lovely bonus tick that I get when I am really tired – I curse. All the time. I host a play date and literally every third word is a dirty one, right in front of all the babies. I’m pretty sure a four letter word will be among my daughter’s first.

4 words. Amazon app sleep books. You buy ‘em. Sears. Weissbluth. Ferber. It doesn’t matter that they all have conflicting advice and that you will never have time to read them (because you will be napping). You buy them. You feel better for like 3 minutes after buying them just knowing they will be in the mail soon. But then you’re too tired to remember what just happened. You are surprised when they show up on your front porch. “Did I order these?…”

Lately, we have had the fucked up sleep trifecta in effect at our house.

1. Nursing all night. This one is my preferred method of up all night because I get to lay down the whole time. Nursing releases some sleep hormones for me. It doesn’t disturb Sean so he is better rested and more patient/available/helpful during the day. And, Hazel seems to be fine in the morning.
2. Screaming. This is usually a teething/ear infection thing but sometimes it just gets thrown into the mix for giggles! It’s usually just on waking and sometimes requires walking/rocking but usually settles down in to nursing and then back to sleep soon enough. But sometimes its inconsolable and that’s pretty bad.
3. Awake like an insane vampire who is physically incapable of sleeping. This is my least favorite. This method involves a perfectly happy baby (as long as she is right next to me) babbling, playing, practicing standing up on the windowsill next to the bed, pinching my skin, laughing, talking to her stuffed animals and generally carrying on. One night, for example, we tried FOR FOUR HOURS (11pm-3am) to try to get her back to sleep. Walking, rocking, singing, nursing, TV (horrors!), sleep sheep, standing, sitting, whatever. DRIVING!  For hours. And she wouldn’t go to sleep. Sometimes it goes on every night for a week.

Sometimes there are streaks – only 1′s or only 3′s for several nights in a row. Other nights contain all three and you never know what’s coming at you! Like a fun surprise! That makes you want to die!

And not sleeping as a new parent is so cliche and totally boring and no one wants to hear it. I’m 27 and zero percent of my friends my age have kids and I swear to G-d they are all going to stop taking my calls because who wants to hear it? Again? About the not sleeping? We get together for brunch (because dinner is impossible – brunch is the new happy hour) and I bask in their multi-faceted lives – what exciting, non-baby related things they are doing this week?! And then, politely, they ask how I have been and I could just play a tape recorder. “No sleep. So tired. Babies. WTF. So tired. Did I already say that?” Back to you!

Other ladies who have babies don’t want to hear it, either. If they are not sleeping, they don’t care who else is not sleeping, because major sleep deprivation is majorly selfish. And if they are sleeping, they want to forget the times they weren’t. And you sure don’t want to hear them tell you how they finally got their baby to sleep because guess what? You already tried that a hundred times. Along with EVERYTHING ELSE THERE IS.

I went to a workshop recently and a mom said, “We’re post-sleep. We don’t even need it anymore”. And that coincided with me settling into this wonderfully Zen place about sleep. Cause here’s the thing – kids who are stubborn (non)sleepers are going to be that way no matter what you do. And kids who aren’t won’t need any help. You get the kid you get. You make a plan. You try it. It works or it doesn’t. You change it. You sleep sometimes. Lots of times you don’t. But everyone eventually sleeps. So you just gotta ride the crazy train that is the first 1-2 years and leave it behind like all the other milestones – when dimples turn into knuckles, when boobie turns into cheerios, when 3 naps turn into 2 turn into 1.

Did any of that make any sense at all? Probably not. But I know you’ll forgive me, cause I know you know I’m tired.

My first reaction to the article was, “Oh hey great! I’m totes gonna give that whirl! My kid’ll obey everything that I say! And will be super disciplined as an adult! Life will be so much easier!” so I spent the better part of last week attempting to practice the Art of French Parenting. I had a vague, sloppily-formed notion of what I thought that might look like–something along the lines of saying “NO” a lot and really meaning it, enforcing various arbitrary orders like You Can’t Play in the Spice Drawer Right Now Because I Said So, while also making E take some time to play on her own. Many times during the week I wondered whether I was doing it right, because I thought if I truly was doing it right, it would feel authentic and great while making my kid fall into line, right?

Here’s the truth for me: It felt awful. I felt like my parenting had turned into a cross between utter killjoy and ’70s-style benign neglect (An aside: the book “Poser” is a great memoir about this topic of ’70s-style parenting juxtaposed with the hyper-virtuous-style parenting found in our fair city). E didn’t obey me any better than she had been (not that she is ragingly disobedient, but she is a toddler) and my unmet, unrealistic expectation that she would up and fall into line made me feel cranky, which compounded the killjoy thing. I also felt guilty making her spend so much time alone, when my memories of my own childhood involve a lot of time spent playing on my own. (Soommmeoooonnnee’s prrrroooojeeeeecting!!!) To be honest, I don’t know why I felt I had to change my methods when they were working perfectly well for our family. (Please don’t mistake me: I’m not saying I am the most perfect parent ever or that my family is perfect. We are human and we try to do our best by each other but fail often, natch.) I’m not a pushover (I come from a long line of Strong Ukrainian Women Who Do Not Take Sh*t from People; pushover is not in my blood) and I am raising my daughter with boundaries, structure, and discipline, but I also attend to her needs as the situation dictates. I don’t think parenting needs to be an either/or situation. Like in all things, a balance is needed and the truth about good parenting probably lies somewhere in the middle between caricatures of smothering and neglect. In my opinion, good parenting hits a sweet spot between discipline, freedom, and kind and loving attention (not just didactic responses to overstepped bounds).

So, my thoughts about my failed experiment are, to quote the French: “Pfft…” (Translation: Whatever dude.)

At first, we’d sit in the back. He’d be in his carseat sleeping away. Our services only go from 11-12:15 so I’d rarely need to nurse him while there. As he got older, he became more work. Nursing in the nursery was still fine because they have speakers in there so I can still hear the lesson. It would be cozy in there just rocking my little guy. Although he barely made a peep, after a while I spent most of the services back in the nursery. It seemed like it was ALWAYS at church that he had to nurse or spit up or have a blowout.

Then the thoughts started creeping in, “Why on earth do I even come here? It’s not like I get to say more than 2 words to anyone. Or actually participate in the service.” Sigh.

Some ages were easier than others. My son is a pretty mellow guy. He was never much of a crier or screamer. Many times during church we could be in the service with everyone and he’d be happy with his Sophie and some cheerios.

Man, do I miss those baby days. Gone is my mellow and QUIET kid. Now he is 2.5 yrs old and the energizer bunny has taken hold of our lives. He demands my attention, my correction, and my cuddles. Oh and my hair.

Today and probably for the millionth time, I was thinking while sitting there, “I am neither here nor there.” He’s sitting on the floor playing relatively quiet and then he feels the need to practice reciting his numbers, LOUDLY. Ssshhhh. Whisper! Sorry, Mama, he says. I’ll be quiet.

I look back up to the front of the Church. Now what point was he in the middle of making? Oh crap, I’m totally lost now. Uggghh. I can barely pay attention to a lesson when I’m by myself and I have my own thoughts to deal with.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Listen to the lesson, try to figure out what’s being said, what can I learn here? Then….SHHHH! Whisper. No, don’t smack me with Buzz lightyear. Pick up that raisin. You’re gonna step on it. “Mom, I need to go potty!!” Sigh.

Like I said, I’m neither here nor there. Or is it, I’m here AND there. Isn’t this the slogan of my life? As mothers we are everywhere all at once (or at least expected to be) like we possess some sort of omnipresent superpower. It doesn’t quite work out that way. It seems more like I’m partially here, partially there, but never anywhere 100%. I end up feeling like I’m not really 100% committed to any one thing or person.

Maybe those that are good at multi-tasking are already perfect at this practice. Whew. I’ve got a long way to go to master it.

For now, this is my life. I just need to choose to be happy to be in the PRACTICE of this. Focus on this one thing. Now SWITCH. And then make sure dinner doesn’t burn. And answer the phone, Daddy is calling. Oh, and FEDEX is here to drop off a package. And now my son is at the counter trying to stir the stuff on the stove.

I think I’ll just start with a deep breath and figure the rest out later.

There’s the beginning (primary maternal preoccupation stage): disbelief, euphoria, sleeeeeepiness (cause you still change diapers at NIGHT – remember that?!). You would do anything for this baby – whip your engorged, spraying boob out on the bus in front of strangers if he/she gets hungry, go to the bathroom with them strapped to your chest, let them sleep where they may even if your arm/leg/butt cheek falls asleep and feels tingly for hours, forgo showering/haircuts/eyebrow maintenance/pedicures/any sense of personal hygiene. They are your (entire) world. Husband? (or wife.) What husband? (or wife.)

There’s the part after that when reality sets in: the challenges, the growing person who suddenly needs boundaries and real meals and a sleep schedule. You wonder how to get them into their crib for a nap longer than 15 minutes, you let other people take care of them for the first time, you hate them just a tiny tiny bit sometimes, you spend more time than you thought you would trying to get them to stop crying. You have some growing pains as a woman, as a mother.

Then there’s assimilation: You have settled into your groove, your routine, your rhythm. You really get your kid and they know what to expect from you. You can hold both joy-bursting, gigglefest moments of love in your mind simultaneously with the way they look you right in the eye and pinch you – hard – after you take something from them that they wanted to keep. You reclaim just a tiny bit of…you.

Each stage lasts a different amount of time for different mamas. Some revel in the newborn-ness and still have that proud, dreamy twinkle in their eye when their baby is two months old. Or four months old. They glow as if they were still pregnant. They make parenthood look so good.

Some ladies, especially those with more challenging babies, pass right through the Anne Geddes phase and plow straight into sleepless nights, hours of crying. Their dry, pale skin and dull, lifeless, bag-bottomed eyes are battle scars born of too many marathon nursing sessions, not enough water or sleep and immense, sometimes painful emotional growth. They have experienced their mother-death but have yet to be reborn.

But eventually, no matter how long it takes, every lady remembers that she is just that: a lady. Still. That the crusty, bloodshot eyes, the spare, deflated tire around their waist, bushy eyebrows, foul armpits, stinky breath, shredded cuticles still belong to them. That they exist, as an independent human being outside of their motherhood.

I have just arrived here.

I am a straight up hippie of the old school, people. I don’t shave my armpits and I make our shampoo, ok? I have had a pedicure once in my life. But one day, shortly after Hazel’s 10 month birthday, I woke up and wanted to like, put on makeup (which I don’t own) or like, wear a gown to a ball or something. I wanted to be pretty and pampered and – this gross word I would never use to describe any girl or woman who isn’t one – PRINCESS-y!

Because all of a sudden I find I have to claim my lady-hood. It doesn’t just exist, hovering around my person at all times, anymore. I am mostly her mom. I am mostly a boob, a pair of arms, a familiar smell. It hurts but it is true: she is more important than me. Strangers want to talk to her, to look in her eyes, to sing her praises. I am invisible in a way I have never been before. And mostly that is fine with me.

But, I have to carve out these small moments to care for myself the way I do her – to be my own mom. To feed myself (not stuff my face while holding a baby and a bunch of junk and walking to the car). To bathe myself (not wash only my armpits with the shower curtain open while singing some stupid armpit-washing song to my kid who is getting into trouble in the bathroom). To read, to exercise, to SLEEP.

There’s this great moment in an episode of The Office, where Michael is sitting behind Pam’s mom in a church (at Pam and Jim’s wedding? Phyllis’s wedding? I don’t remember) and he asks her if she has a snack.

“Excuse me?” Says Pam’s mom.

“Oh, I just thought, you know, you’re a mom. Moms have snacks.” Replies Michael, matter-of-factly.

And, then, OF COURSE, Pam’s mom pulls out a fruit leather or something cause, duh, we do all carry snacks at all times, and Michael asks IF SHE HAS A DIFFERENT FLAVOR BECAUSE HE DOESN’T LIKE THE KIND SHE HAS.

This is what I’m talking about. If I’m going to be a vending machine for the rest of my life, which is cool, I’m going to have to pepper some spa days, some fancy dresses, and maybe even some lipstick throughout.

Cause I’m a mom, yes. But I’m also a lady.

post script: 

I should say that I love my daughter very much and I feel truly blessed to be her mother. I do not wish for a different life, nor for a different child. But those growing pains, man. That business is for real. 

First of all, I will start by saying to these people that I do understand their heart and where they are coming from. But let’s be honest. I’ve actually been in line at the grocery store with my screaming 3 month old that is hungry and just had a blowout. I also didn’t have a change of clothes OR a diaper. I had to get groceries that day but waited too long in the day so now I was at the grocery store with all the other 9,000 people that needed food at 5pm. I’m bouncing around trying to soothe my son while unloading the cart. He throws his binky across the floor and I didn’t even plan to go pick it up.

“Pay and get out of here. Pay and get out of here. Just get to the car. And then get home.” Focus.

Meanwhile, I’m getting this flashbacks of how peaceful and easy the shopping trips of the past were. Ahhhh, being alone at the grocery store, the shopping mall. No interruptions. No snack breaks. No leaking through my shirt. No trying to find a place to nurse.  Can I just PUH LEEESE press a button and be transported back to those days? Can I click my feet twice and just make this all go away?

“Maam, are you ok?” Huh?

The older lady across the aisle was staring at me with a concerned look. I could tell she was a little worried about me. But I was…

“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Oh, I’m good, everything is great.” Riiiiiiight. She knew the truth, I didn’t have to say it.

“Well hun, I just want to tell you that it only gets better from here. You’ll get through this.”

Yeah whatever lady. Just pay and get out of here, I’m thinking again.

Hours later when I had put out all the blazing fires, I was alone and thinking back to earlier. How did it get so crazy so fast at the store? Things really spiraled out of control and I thought everything was fine until all hell broke loose.

Then I remembered what the lady said. Things will get better. Good. I am COUNTING ON IT LADY!! 

That was more than 2 years ago. My son is almost 3. I have seen the later days and things did not get better. Why did she say that?

I feel like people say this because they want to be the hero in the moment. It’s all about them really. They see me struggling and it makes them uncomfortable. Maybe I’m causing a scene with my 2 yr old throwing his 5th tantrum in the Target aisle and all eyes are on me. Or whatever.

I just have never felt like they are saying it from an authentic place. Is that statement supposed to change my entire day? Oh, things get better from here. Yippee….(as I skip happily out of the grocery store.)

Don’t freakin tell me things will get better. WHY? Because you are not God. You don’t know if or when things WILL ACTUALLY get better for me. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. And that’s the truth.

Maybe she does have good intentions but here’s what would have actually felt more authentic to say.

“Hey. I see you look like you’re having a hard time today. I can relate. I’ve been there. I know how hard it is. You’ll have some bad days, you’ll have some good days. Just know you aren’t alone. You seem like a great mom and that you really care about your kids. That’s the most important thing.”

Or something like that. Is it just me? This would have been WAY more encouraging. It reminds me of when someone asks me, “How are you?” We reply, “good” without thinking about it. Do they even care? Do I even care that they asked? Why did I say good when things are actually terrible? Because no one cares, it’s just a formality. We’re all walking around with our heads up our a**es and no one cares anymore.

*on a side note*, when my husband are were first dating, he would ask me how I was doing. I would say “oh, good.” Then he’d say, “how are you really doing?”. He’d repeat it until I actually answered the question. It’s a question that can lead to hours of honest conversation, if we care and are willing to listen.

For me, this is just a call to action. A friend at church was struggling with her son’s first ear infection. He only wanted Mommy. She was tired from work and from being the sole person that her son would allow to be soothed by. I didn’t tell her “it gets better from here”. I gave her a hug, a long one, and told her to “hang in there, it’s tough, sometimes it sucks, I’ve been there, I’m here for you, and you’ll get through it, and then we’ll go out for a girls night.”

Sometimes we just want to be acknowledged for how hard it is. For the fact that we give and give and give of ourselves to seemingly get nothing back but a quick smile, maybe some cuddles, and an “I love you Dada.” (This is where we are at right now. My son looks in my eyes and says, I love you Dada, and then runs away laughing histerically. It was cute at first, but sometimes it actually hurts.)

We want to be recognized for all that we do, all that we are. TODAY. My life is a huge pile of messes. To-do lists not finished, laundry not folded, dishes not washed. Saying it gets better from here implies to me that where I am today is not beautiful. That it’s not where I want to be. But it IS. It’s where I am. It’s absolutely where I want to be. And it’s perfect.

It may or may not get better from here. I’m ok with that. I surrender to what today is and what tomorrow brings.

Having this time away from personal writing and also E (I primarily stay home with her, but when I have more projects to do, we increase her time at daycare from one morning a week commensurate with the amount of work I have on my plate), has kind of reopened my world. I’ve been in the “baby bubble” for the past almost 2.5 years–on purpose. I intentionally have chosen to keep things small, quiet, and child-focused, so I could really concentrate on being present with E. Not that there aren’t five bazillion ways of doing things, parenting being no exception, but knowing myself, keeping things small–for a v. sensitive person like youuurrrs truly–was the best thing to do. But now, it’s like all of a sudden I remember that there are things! That I like to do! That make me happy! And engage me in a completely different way! And I need to make time to do them!

I’ve written before about the friend of my family who is a medical intuitive; part of her “thing” is to help people to recognize their purpose. According to her framework, everyone has a core set of attributes that are specific and unique to them. And there are activities–small and simple things–that harmonize with that core set of attributes. That engage you on a deep level, feed your soul, and, as she says, “put you in ‘the light.’” For some it could be playing music, for others it could be solving a math problem–it is anything where you are completely immersed in a positive space of utter engagement. The clearest path to your purpose, then, is to determine those activities and do them. A lot! And the way forward to your Purpose will emerge.

So that’s another reason I’ve been MIA–is that I’ve been trying to metaphorically put myself in the light (’cause living in the PNW, it ain’t happening literally), to try to determine what my post-baby-bubble purpose–or really my greater “Purpose”–is. To reexamine what I’ve done with my life up to now, and to figure out if the trajectory I thought I was on pre-baby is one that still fits me, post-baby. I know this is something a lot of new(ish) mothers struggle with–where do I want to be and how does it all fit together, pre/post. I’m still trying to coax the Big Picture into focus, but I can say that trying to stay open and focused on actively choosing things that put me in the proverbial “light” have helped to make my life a more comfortable and pleasant place to be, even if I don’t know what the ultimate outcome looks like right now. I think, too, that part of staying open is recognizing that nothing in the past has been a waste of time–that it has all been in service to getting me inches closer to figuring out my purpose.

I honestly don’t have just one answer. Some areas of my life are actually great. I have many blessings that I am thankful for, a warm house, a loving husband, an amazing and intelligent child, a car that works, food on the table, etc etc. One answer might sum all of that up and it would be the truth.

In contrast, there always seems to be the extreme opposite side going on simultaneously. Let’s see, my husband hasn’t had much work for 2 years which means no money to go on dates or really to do anything. Or my Mom is pretty sick and doesn’t seem to be getting any better. She also doesn’t seem to care or want to get better. That’s pretty depressing. Or the fact that things keep breaking in our house and we can’t afford to repair them. And then my husband dislocates his shoulder and we have no insurance. This whole side of the fence would be summed up perfectly by saying, “Sometimes life just seems too overwhelming and I honestly wonder if I’ll ever get out of this hole.”

If I say that though, then everyone will start to get worried and wonder if I’m OK. Or worse, ask me if I’m depressed.

Why is it that people always seem to have the expectation that everybody have this thing called life completely figured out?

It’s so hard and time consuming to keep up appearances when life is not going perfectly. But that’s just it. Who’s life is perfect?

I’m not perfect. And I don’t care who knows.

I just wish it was a little easier to talk about how imperfect I am. Does that make sense? When someone is giving off the vibe that “they have it all put together”, it doesn’t exactly create the atmosphere of me wanting to share my mishaps and challenges with them.

What I think is that they won’t understand. Or they won’t care. Or that it makes me feel “less than” because I’m struggling and they are not. Or that I’m always being such a downer because I need to talk and vent about how crappy things are and how I am so desperate for a change.

Sadly, I can count on one hand how many friends I have that I feel the freedom and trust with to just talk about anything, no matter what. Some friends make it obvious they only want to hear about the good stuff. Other friends I can be talking to for less than 60 seconds and we are already talking about the deepest darkest stuff in our hearts.

Here’s how it goes. As much as I’m dishing it out that I want to expect more transparency from other friends and more vulnerability, I know I should be that kind of friend to them FIRST. I’ve struggled with relationships for so long, I sometimes wonder if I truly know how to be a good friend.

I think I am seeing it now though. What I value as important, I should ask myself if I’m giving that to my friends. If I’m not, then I have my answer. So I’ll start there. I think, no…I know that I want to work on that this year.

Be a better friend. Be a better listener. Be more transparent. Be a giver. Be open. Be honest.

This at least seems like a great place to start.

Pacing the floor at 2 in the morning, with no sleep in your future and no real relief in sight for hours, days, years, you wonder how on earth other mothers did what you’re doing while also contending with war, famine, genocide, you name it. You wonder how they did it without washing machines, without birth control, without the right to vote.

You suddenly wish you knew a lot more about those women, and maybe a little less about their sons and husbands.

I often think about this poster that my mom hung up in our laundry room when I was a kid. It was black and white, a blow-up of some ancient laundry soap ad. “Every day she did the impossible,” it said. At the time, I saw it as ironic or cutesy or something, like Rosie the Riveter, or Buy War Bonds or some such. But I get it now. Sometimes, during moments of complete chaos, those words are my salvation. Every day she did the impossible. Other times my mantra is simpler: Live through this. This too shall pass.

Your concept of womanhood is vastly changed, your view of marriage and especially of gender relations forever altered. The way you see your body shifts two-fold as you accept at once the majesty of its ability and the destruction of some of its aesthetic attributes.

There are entire categories of movie you can’t even consider watching anymore, news stories you should never, ever read.

You find yourself watching Steel Magnolias and, though you are only a few years older than Julia Roberts’ character, you are now totally crying for Sally Field.

There is a strange universality in the very specific and very acute love you feel for your child. Sometimes you will be holding them, feeling their weight against your shoulder, their breath against your cheek and you will think of  some other child being neglected or hurt and you will find yourself panting, desperate, feeling like the wind was knocked out of you, like you might lose your mind.

At the same time, you have an odd understanding for the mothers who kill their children. You could never, ever do such a thing, but you have some understanding for the madness that can come of caring for young children, for the frustration you can feel when all you want is a minute, just one minute of peace, and the desperation that comes when you realize you won’t be getting it.

I know that I will never see the world the way I used to, will never see my own purpose the same way. That some things will never go back to being the way they were before, and I’m not just talking about my boobs.

I’m not too sad about it, either, though I recognize that my mommyvision comes at the expense of my carefree youth. Oh well. At least I had one.

I feel a much stronger sense of community than I’ve ever felt before, a connection to mothers throughout history. I feel closer to my friends and neighbors, less competitive, more loving. I feel more motherly to people who aren’t mothers.

Motherhood has taught me to be patient and kind, to maintain my sense of humor under extreme duress. It’s made me self-reliant and forgiving, creative and optimistic.

Now why the hell can’t I list it on my resume?

One struggle connected to another until one day I woke up and I felt like I had reached the grassy prairie that was covered in spring blooms of wildflowers. I don’t know how I got there. I only knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had reached “the other side”. What felt like a dream was not, it was reality. I thought, I must make this moment count because on the other side of this prairie there is sure to be more quicksand or worse yet some type of swamp full of indescribable awful things.

Can’t I stay here forever? The sun is shining. It’s warm on my face, my back, my hands. Birds are singing. The flowers smell wonderful. I feel peace. Hope. Even happiness. It’s a good day.

This is my world called Motherhood.

No one told me it would be like this. Heck, maybe I wouldn’t have believed them if they did. I seriously think my Mom doesn’t remember the early days with 3 kids under 5. She probably had to block it out to keep her sanity. I’m not surprised. That will be me someday too, I’m sure.

When I wake up everyday, I wonder what kind of day it will be. I’ve believed for a long time that our thoughts become our reality. Mainly, I know that’s true.

Some days my positive thoughts do win. Other days, they lose quickly after suffering brutal beatings.

I work at not becoming a victim to my surroundings. I think, “I choose today to be happy no matter what happens.” One thing happens, then another. Next thing I know I feel like screaming at my son, putting that loud annoying toy down the garbage disposal and sending him to bed at 5pm without dinner. Ok, I wouldn’t actually do all of that I’m just saying that sometimes the emotions are that strong. I don’t have a problem admitting it either.

I think that’s a problem in this world. You know, people acting perfect. Or at least they walk around and you KNOW they think they are giving off the “perfect mom” image. Sorry to break it you Mamas, but that doesn’t fool me for a minute. I know you aren’t perfect. You may be able to look at yourself in the mirror and get away with believing that lie but reality will soon be shining through a crack in that mirror. One day, the crack will come and you will wake up. It’s just a matter of how much time you will have wasted living that lie.

Enough of that…back to my prairie or quicksand. Which was it?

Things aren’t perfect and they sure as hell aren’t the way I thought they would be. Wasn’t that book “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” supposed to cover all of this?

Check this out. Now they have an entire website devoted to it called What to Expect. This is disturbing. Check out the topics of the Most Read articles.

• The Facts on Babies’ Flat Heads
• The Best Sippy Cups for Babies
• The Toy-Safety Scoop
• Should You Bathe With Your Baby?

Some of the featured articles on the homepage are topics such as Celebrity Families & How to Win New Baby Bedding!!! No wonder Moms feel no support and feel so alone. We certainly aren’t getting any help from these people.

Their tag line says, “Pregnancy and Parenting, Every Step of the Way.” GREAT! Where are the articles about how to deal with postpartum depression? What about helping me with how to deal with figuring who the heck I am anymore? Or how to deal with my spouse that is doing everything I don’t want him to do and nothing I want him to do? Or why do I still feel so alone? Or helping me with my unrealistic expectations I put on myself? Or how to deal with the pressures of having a perfect baby according to all the books and experts? Or how to manage my life when everything I try seems to completely fail?

I mean, seriously! How about just being honest? You are not with me every step of the way, not even close.

It’s really fun. We made santas out of felt, decorated ornaments, made gingerbread, read The Night Before Christmas four billion times. That kid cracks me up that she loves that poem so much. I can’t wait to make paper stars with her, decorate gingerbread houses, and go visit the reindeer at Swanson’s.

But I’ve got to admit, the usual Christmas story has been feeling mighty hollow as I share it with my wide-eyed babe. Very commercial. Heavily sugar-laden. Even more than I thought it was before.

Christmas rolls around and you have this expectant wonder within you, and then you try to pass it on to your kid and you find yourself just talking about presents and a jolly man coming down the chimney, about a freshly-cut tree covered in glowing lights or even about reindeer that can fly and it just falls flat.

The problem is that so much of what’s missing is wrapped up in sensory memory and it’s from your childhood brain. How I can bite into a sugar cookie and remember exactly how it felt to stay up all night waiting to hear Santa’s sleighbells outside my window. How I can smell a Douglas Fir and remember giggling with my little sister as we unpacked our ornaments together. How I can hear someone, anyone singing “Silent Night” and be transformed into my 12-year-old self, standing on the stage in St. James’ Cathedral surrounded by the hush of incense and faith late in the night on the eve of Christmas.

I want to encapsulate that feeling of wonder and share it with my toddler. The sacred music, the beautiful mystery, the promise of peace on earth. You know, the small stuff.

I’m not religious, but I also wanted to share the other Christmas story with her. I told her that Christmas was actually the birthday of a little baby born a long, long time ago. That his mommy and daddy had to work really hard to raise him during hard times. But that he lived a good life. He taught us that everybody should love everybody. We celebrate because we want the world to be full of love and peace.

Music was a big part of my childhood, with both my sister and I singing in the Columbia Girls Choir, and growing up in a very musical family, one that could belt out all five versus to any given Christmas song in perfect harmony, and did.

So singing Christmas songs was one easy way to reach Quinn. I wasn’t sure how much she heard me, but the other day she sang to me:

“Silent Night, Holy Night, it’s very quiiiiiiiiiiiiiet.”

So, we’re making progress. I guess what I have to accept is that I’ll build wonder with her slowly, that she’ll grow her own cadre of sensory memories that make her Christmas. I have to hope that for her this time of year will always be tied intrinsically to family, to love and to wonder, that someday a sugar cookie will transport her that way it does me.