Love Hate

Dora is my three year old.  She was so excited Eli was going to school and she was desperate to go.  Last year I put her in preschool at her request and had to take her out a month later.  She hated it.  This year, she vowed, would be different.  I had my reservations.  I signed her up but the preschool agreed to waive the supply fee until she stayed for four months.  We all knew she was a flight risk.

Cut to the first day.  It was a breeze.  She floated in, said bye, and played.  The second day was a little dicier, but she ultimately waved bye and I waltzed out.  By week two, the bloom was off the rose.  She was still excited to go.  Got dressed, put on her new hat, generally had lots of excitement and good humor.  She lost her marbles when I went to leave. I mean, they had to PRY her hands off my pants to keep her from ripping the pocket off as I walked away.  That was after attempting to reason with her about my departure for a good 20 minutes.

I have now been through two more experiences that were almost, if not quite, as harrowing.  Before you think I'm the world's worst mother, I should add that at all times other than the exact moment I leave, she is excited and interested in going to school.  She babbles about it.  She looks forward to it.  She dresses for it and helps me pack her lunch.  It's only right as I leave that she loses it.  Tonight I sat her down and we had a "talk."  I finally thought to ask her why she was so sad that I was leaving.  Her response?  "That why I love you so much."  (In Dora talk, this means, Because I love you so much.)

Where in the world am I going with this? I do have an actual point.  If you will bear with me, I will make it soon.  But first I have to cut back five years.  My son, who is five now, was an absolutely miserable baby.  Call it colic.  Call it bad parenting.  Call it being formula fed when he would never latch.  I have no idea, but that kid did not like me one iota more than a blow up doll.  He was just as happy (or as unhappy) with a stranger off the street as he was with me.  I thought it would kill me.  Obviously he's very loving, sweet, and affectionate now, but he is very very very independent.  To a fault.  He wanted to learn the alphabet at three.  How to read and write at four.  And he wants to do it all on his own.  And he does.

I hated that about him when he was a baby and a toddler, too.

I loved him with all my heart and every time I tried to hug him or squeeze him, or hold him, he would cry and push away.

Ironically it is what I love about him the most right now.  He is so helpful and independent.  The kid combs his own hair, he can read the scripture reader (about half the words) on his own now.  At our house, for school, he sets the alarm, gets up, gets dressed, makes his bed, puts his clothes in the dirty clothes (because he wants chores) and then comes and wakes me up.  I don't worry about alarms.  I don't worry about getting up on time.  MY FIVE YEAR OLD does that stuff.  He then scrapes his plate and all his siblings plates after breakfast, rinses them and puts them in the sink.  He combs his own hair and puts on his own shoes, and tucks in his own shirt.  It's pretty ridiculous.

This made me think.  It is making me nuts that in church Dora wants to sit with me in my classes (quiet as a mouse, without moving) instead of going to her class. At school she can't stand to be away from me and it makes things miserable.  But I have to remind myself that with each of my children, as with each of my loved ones, it's what I hate that I also love.  Dora loves me.  She wants to be with me all the time.  I should love that! I finally have a child who wants to spend every single waking (and every single sleeping) minute with me.  Isn't that what I wanted?? And now I see it cuts both ways!

The same is true of other people I love.

For instance, my dad is the best listener I have ever met.  It doesn't matter what you want to talk to him about, he is completely and totally interested.  He laughs at my tiny jokes, sorrows with me when I am sad and is angry when I feel wronged.  He is completely, 100% vested in anything that I have going on in my life. How could anyone not love that!?!  It's only good right?

Except that he also thinks everything is interesting so you might be in for some stories you personally find boring because there is absolutely no topic on earth he does not want to hear about.  It doesn't occur to him (unless you tell him so) that you don't care about the rock strata in the surrounding hills, as one random, non-specific example.

How about my husband?  Am I going beyond the pale when I say that he makes me absolutely bonkers in his incessant and never-ending searching for things online?  He will spend hours reading about and researching various guns (the vast majority of which he wants to buy), and then when you think your head might explode on the topic of guns, he'll switch to RVs/vans.  He will find a gazillion that are just perfect.  And then he will switch to trucks.  And then to something else.  And then back to guns.

But it is precisely that exuberance, that excitement, that joie de vivre that I absolutely love about him.  When I went into labor with my son, for example, my adorable, extremely smart, 6'3" tall husband did this little dance of joy.  When we have an anniversary, a birthday, a holiday coming up, he spends lots of time doing little things for me.  He's made me, in no specific order: a custom jewelry box (which he promised to fill and he has completely filled it...), a wooden chest for my rubber stamps, a pillow case made from scrubs so I could hug him when he's gone at work, a tiny hand carved kangaroo ring holder to put by the sink (because I had a pet wallaby), a custom sewn (by him) and modified care bear (when I was collecting them before Dora's birth for her room) that looks like a doctor, to show me and eventually our daughter he supports her in reaching for the stars.  I could go on and on.  He leaves me notes and sends me texts constantly telling me he loves me.  He plans little surprises, brings me flowers (still after six years for no reason) and folds laundry, does dishes, cooks.  He does all these little things because of his zip, his energy, the very same part of him that has his questing fingers clacking over the keys of the computer looking up guns, RVs, trucks, and imagining our family adventures (okay, not so much with the guns maybe).

I think this may be the case with almost everything.  So, the point?  I did say I had one.  Here it is.  I will say it loud and clear so you don't miss it.

Think of someone you love very much but are frustrated with right now, for whatever reason.

Now, think of what's frustrating you.

Now, here's the hard part.

Think about how that thing you HATE is also the very same thing you LOVE.  And get over it.  Forgive him.  Forgive her.  Realize that the things they hate about us are also the things that they love.  Every single coin in the world has two sides.  You can't have heads without tails.  And vice versa.

And the next time they do that annoying thing you hate, say, throwing their socks on the floor and walking off like they didn't even realize their feet were formerly housed by socks... remember that it's their very carefree attitude (I actually don't have this problem with anyone) that made you love them.  It's the reason why they don't mind that you fill the entire sink with icky foundation when you wash your face.  Or it's why they don't mind if you eat the food they ordered at the restaurant, or whatever.

I bet if you really think about it, you'll see how that thing you just couldn't handle for another minute is really the very part of them that allows them to love you.  That makes you love them too.

And for a final, pontificating point... I'd like to add.  Your heavenly father, and your brother Jesus too, they love you for who you are.  It's a who that has things that they love and probably some things that they don't like very much.  They take the whole package, and they are willing to work with you on the things that they'd really be better off without.  If we're trying to be like them, we'll extend the same courtesy to the people we love too.

Sunglasses

I think I may have to change the title of this blog!  Not only have I been so sick with pregnancy that I kind of just dropped it, I have shifted from being a ranting mom to being a preachy preacher.  Huh.

I guess I learn so much from my kids that I am having trouble feeling like I have no where to share it.  Some of my insights feel really colloquial or folksy, but I want to put them down somewhere or I'll forget them.  So without further adieu, here's the latest...

Every single day for 3 weeks now, I've been taking Eli (my five year old) to school.  He just started kindergarten.  I am too "new mom" with him and I insist he ride in the car to and from school, afraid he will get picked on or pick up bad things on the bus.  Plus it's just more time with me.  My husband works nights so he is always in bed when I do the drop off run, which means 15 month old Emmy and three year old Dora are also in the car with me.  Every single morning the sun shines directly in our faces.

I am old enough to put on sunglasses and put down the visor.  Eli sits in the back so he's okay.  Dora is right in the line of sun and she asks for my extra pair of sunglasses.  Every day I have said, "Okay, sure, but make sure you don't touch the lenses."  I figure if I tell her not to, it will happen somewhat less, but let's get real here.  I know she's gonna touch the lenses, and I have an end game as well.  I will clean them off.  :-) The more cleaning, the more scratches, the sooner I have to toss this pair and get new ones.  So I say it over and over.

After a week and a half, her tiny voice says, "Mom, I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to, but I touched the lenses."  Then when I didn't say anything (distracted) she said, "I can still wear them, Momma?"

I obviously reassured her it was okay and I could fix it, but I reiterated that she should try not to do it.  It made me think.  

Our Heavenly Father is always telling us not to touch the lenses.  It takes many forms.  Every single morning though, it's there, if we are reading our scriptures, the Ensign, etc., like we're supposed to.  If we are paying attention to his counsel, and listening to the Spirit's promptings, we're being reminded.  Don't touch the lenses.  Sometimes that counsel takes the form of, "Be kind to your children." (or "Love One Another.")  Sometimes it's "Serve One Another" or "Repent" or any number of other scripture messages.  I mean, how many times do you read the same exact counsel in the Book of Mormon?  You could probably boil the Book of Mormon in a pot for an hour and end up with just a handful of phrases.  If we'd only follow those, we'd keep that pesky sun out of our eyes and never ruin our sunglasses.

And yet... Our Heavenly Father knows we will touch the lenses.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but sometime we are bound to do it. After all, we are only three.  Our coordination is not so good.  Our focus is not so great.  We forget.  There are any number of reasons why it happens but the result is the same.

He reminds us not to so we will touch them less but when we've touched the lenses, he has a protocol in place to clean them off.  It's called repentance.  And he's not angry.  He's not upset.  He's not even disappointed I think.  He just wants us to avail ourselves of His prepared solution, His perfect, free, wonderful solution.  The glasses won't end up scratched, they won't end up being discarded because unlike this analogy, his solution is eternal.  It's perfect.  And it can be repeated indefinitely.  Until we develop the maturity, the confidence, the dexterity to perfect ourselves in that one area.  And move to another.

I am so grateful for the insight I can receive into the love our Heavenly parents have for us as a result of the love I have for my tiny earthly charges (I mean my kids, in case that's too obtuse).  I am so grateful for a Heavenly Father who loves me, even when I touch the lenses after being repeatedly and consistently reminded.  I pray that one day I can stop but for now, I just keep wiping away whenever I do.  And I know that's okay with Him.

The Winter

I bought some Gerber daisies this January and put them outside my front door in a pot.  That might sound kind of crazy unless you know that I live in Houston, Texas where it's frequently in the 60s and 70s even in January. They did wonderfully and bloomed profusely.  They brought me (and my kids) a lot of joy.

Until I forgot and left them outside during a freezing cold night.  

Then they died.  

The plant turned completely black.  The leaves wilted and the whole plant just crumpled.  

I told my kids we needed to dig up the dead plant and throw it away.  The kids protested.  I didn't have enough energy to go to the store and buy a replacement plant so I just never got around to uprooting and replacing it.  Weeds started to grow in the pot where the daisies had been.

Every time we went outside to water the hibiscus, a hardier plant in freezing weather, the kids insisted I water the dead Gerber daisies.  Rather than fight with them, I just did it.  So, those dead daisies kept getting water.  They kept getting sun.  The bugs were kind of eating the dead leaves.  I knew there was no way they were coming back.  

Until they did.  I'm ashamed to say I didn't even notice it.  Eli pointed it out.  He said, "Mom, next to that weed is a new daisy plant."  

He was right.  

Now I am sure there are all kinds of things for which this could be used as an object lesson.  But the same thought keeps coming back to me.  

I have lots of friends who used to be my sisters (and brothers) in the gospel--that is, members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  Many of them still are.  Some of them have either fallen away from a belief in that religion slowly and may still believe but simply don't act.  Some of them have made a conscious decision that the Church isn't right for them.  Now, if you are reading this and you're one of these dear friends, please don't think I'm saying you're a dead plant.  I really really really am not.  

If you have made a conscious decision to leave the Church and you are happy then I am really truly happy for you.  I'm certainly not trying to preach.  

But if you got left outside in the winter freeze... if you were unexpectedly torn away... if you lost a loved one and couldn't understand how God could let it happen... if you don't understand how God can love you and let bad things happen... if you feel unloved... if you've been neglected, or offended or are lonely.  Or if you've simply made decisions that result in you feeling like you are separated from God, from where you want to be, from your church family or from the Son (like the Sun), then please...

Know that we often think something is dead when it's just asleep for the Winter.  We want you back, little Gerber Daisy.  I want you back.  And most important of all, God wants you back.  Just make one tiny effort and use the water of the faith of those around you, the sun from the Son and grow.  Just a little bit.  

You can bloom again, and we'll all smile when you do.  

Breast is best?

A friend of mine made a comment on facebook that has me thinking about this a lot.

Breastfeeding.

Why is it such an emotional topic?

Before I ever had a kid (or was even pregnant), I had a cousin tell me, "Don't let anyone tell you that you have to breastfeed.  It's your choice and you do what you want."

I thought she was nuts.  Really.  I mean, I hadn't thought about it, and it seemed a little out of left field.  Besides which, my mom had breastfed me and everyone says it's amazing and natural and wonderful.  So, of course, when it came to it, I'd breastfeed.  I mean, I knew I'd be a good mom.  So, I'd breastfeed, right?

Then I was pregnant (and sick and miserable) for nine months.  And I was Super Fat.  Which has nothing to do with breastfeeding at all, except in that it goes to my mental state around the time Mr. Man decided to show up.   My ten pound son was born in July.

Suddenly my cousin's comment didn't seem so crazy.  My son had no interest in latching.  Right after he was born and I was told to feed, my arms were shaky.  I was exhausted.  I was miserable.  I hadn't eaten or peed on my own in 30 hours.  I felt like crap.  So when the nurse finally pried his mouth open and he closed it on me, imagine my surprise when...

IT FELT LIKE SOMEONE WAS PIERCING MY NIPPLE.  I am not kidding.  Piercing.  I don't like weird crap like that.  I thought putting a second hole in each ear at age 19 was pretty rowdy.

I looked down at that little chubby newborn and I hated him.  I was convinced something was wrong.  Nope, I was told, the latch was correct.  After a dozen people (family and nurses) told me that I just had to deal with the discomfort (DISCOMFORT?  Is having a toe amputated uncomfortable?  I had just pushed a baby out.  It tore the crap out of me and they sewed me up.  Wrong.  And breastfeeding hurt more than any of that. If it's "uncomfortable" I am a monkey's uncle.  And I'm a woman, so unlikely to be an Uncle.)

I digress.  I was told that I just needed to "deal with the discomfort" for a while and then it would get better.  Around four or five weeks.  The second and third weeks are apparently the worst.  So what was the first week, I thought?  Would he be pouring SALT on my amputated nub toe in weeks two and three?

I hated my kid.  I dreaded feeding him.  He wouldn't latch.  He'd cry (which stabbed my heart) and he would scream and he'd latch and then I'd cry.  And I'd scream.  And he'd rip my nipple.  And the whole cycle would resume.

Finally I started pumping.  That hurt like the dickens and I cracked and bled, but at least I didn't hate my baby. I hated the pump.  But he drank 40 ounces a day.  Even pumping every single two hours of the day and night I didn't make enough.

Insert long story about how he got thrush and I got a yeast infection, and oh yeah, something lovely called mastitis.  BLAH!  Finally at around 6 weeks, since I was making roughly 24 ounces a day, or about half of what he ate, I decided to try to get him to latch again.  That worked as well as a Miata offroading. My milk dried up in the process and I was so glad.  So happy to be able to say I tried and just failed.

That's when a new round hit.  The judgment.  It's around 6 weeks, after all, that you get out and about with your new baby.  I started to see friends and people at church, and people around town.  Call me crazy, but they were judging me.  I was feeding my baby formula.  I was a sucky mother.  Some people said things.  Mean, hurtful things.  Some people asked mean, invasive questions.  "OH, do you have inverted nipples?  No milk?  What's wrong with you?"  Other people blamed any issues I had with my son on my choice not to breastfeed.  "Oh, he has horrible colic?  That's because you are giving him formula."  "Oh, problems pooping?  That's because he's on formula."

Well dang.  I didn't know that you were a crappy mom if you didn't breastfeed.

Except I did know.  Deep down, I knew.  If you didn't breastfeed, you just weren't a good mom.  You didn't care enough about your kid.  You chose yourself over your baby.

That is all complete bull.

In case you didn't get that, by the way, THAT IS ALL COMPLETE BULL.

My son, Eli, who was only on breastmilk (and only part of the time) for six weeks, is incredibly smart.  He's healthy, beautiful and SO SO smart.

When my first daughter came, I nursed for two weeks.  I absolutely hated every single bloody, painful, awful minute of it.  My husband, THE DOCTOR (an MD), finally convinced me to stop.  She received formula every day since that first two weeks.

You know what?  She's absolutely freaking gorgeous.  She's three and she's smart, healthy and beautiful.  My kids are every single bit of everything they are supposed to be.  They are precocious, funny and sweet.

With my third, another girl, the pumping wasn't so awful (for the most part) and so I didn't try to breastfeed. I knew I'd hate the baby and have an awful experience so I skipped it.  And I pumped for 5 months.  Until I just didn't want to do it anymore.  Guess what?  She's 9 months and...

I CAN'T TELL A DANG BIT OF DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HER AND HER SIBLINGS.  THEY ARE ALL JUST PERFECT.

Most people would say I should have kept feeding her breastmilk through a year.

MOST PEOPLE ARE FULL OF CRAP.

If I have learned ONE thing since becoming a parent, it's this.  Throw out the rule books.  You do what you can.  You do your absolute best.  If something is making you miserable (as long as it's not, say, feeding your kid) then DON'T DO IT.  If you love to sleep in bed with your kid, DO IT.  If you love to keep them in their CRIB and out of your bed (that's  me), DO IT.  If you need to take a DVD player with you everywhere so you can plug them in while you shop, DO IT.  If you love cloth diapers, GREAT!  If you love disposables? GREAT!!

Being a good parent isn't about doing what's always best for the environment, or what your friends or people tell you is best.  It's doing what is safe and healthy for your kids (which FORMULA IS) and being happy with them.  Love them.  Do it your way.  And tell anyone who criticizes to do what they want with their kids and leave you the heck alone.

Rude

Oh Friday night my family went to a trunk or treat for church. The kids were all dressed up and we had a great time. Most importantly (as any parents knows) there was lots and LOTS of candy.

When we came home it was already far past my young childrens' bedtime. We came into the kitchen and I shucked the costumes for the older kids. It was cold that night so pajamas were already waiting underneath the costumes. I wiped their sticky faces while my hubby took the baby up to her crib.

Then I shooed the kids upstairs and straight to bed. (Well, *I* read for a while in bed before going to sleep.)

The next morning I noticed there was mud all over the kitchen and on my stairs. The floors had just been cleaned Friday morning, and now they were covered with mud. Egads!

Mom (yeah, that's ME) was forced to sweep the entire downstairs. You better believe that as I spent an hour cleaning up the mud, I was not thinking kind thoughts about the "mud tracker". I mean, it was possible it had been a kid, but I knew I pulled their shoes off downstairs when I took off their costumes.

If HE had cleaned the floors the day before, you better bet he wouldn't have kept his shoes on and tracked mud all over my very recently cleaned house. I fumed as I worked.

I finally got around to the last room left to be vacuumed, my bedroom. As I sucked up the last bits of mud, I thought to myself, "It's just rude. At least the person who made the mess could do the cleaning."

That's when I saw my muddy shoes parked right by my bed, where I'd left them the night before.

Oops.

The Awakening

Youth is utterly wasted on the young.

I heard that sentiment when I was young and did not (unsurprisingly) understand it at all.

My little brother Jesse and I burned a book while we were in High School. We were forced to read The Awakening by Kate Chopin in English and both agreed it was total rubbish.

The book's protagonist Edna has two sons. Her husband is a total jerk. She falls in love with another man while on vacation. Knowing any relationship is doomed, he flees on business before anything really "happens" between them.

Edna is in a downward spiral, and becomes emotionally distant from her entire life. In the end, after an affair with someone else entirely, etc., she walks into the ocean, committing suicide.

This book embodied, to our teenage minds, every thing that was wrong with the world. Mothers must love their children and their calling in life to care for them. Mothers should not fall in love with other men, commit affairs with someone else entirely, abandon their children, and most of all, they should not commit suicide, leaving everyone else holding the bag on their responsibilities. I still believe all of that.

There was nothing wrong with Edna's life. No terrible trauma, no inciting event that threw her down this depressing path. Her own ennui led to her eventual demise.

And yet.

I decided to have children. I had a career, I had hopes and dreams of my own for another path as well (writing novels) and I had hobbies that I truly enjoyed. I had hobbies I hoped to enjoy later (horses.) I had a man I loved. And we thought, "Hey, let's have some kids. That'll make everything better."

In a way I cannot fully explain, having children was the absolute best thing I've ever done in my life. They bring me deep and abiding joy. They bring me laughter. They bring me perspective. I had to give up almost everything about what made me who I am to be their mother, and it was totally worth it.

Having kids was also the hardest thing I've ever done. Suddenly nothing in the world is about me. I used to have the space to be a great wife and still be Bridget. I could clean up after my very messy male roommate and cook, and clean, and do laundry (which he helped with) and still have time to work, to hobby, to exercise, to love.

Now every single minute of my life is pre-spent on either being a good wife, or being a good mom. I can't shower, work out, or do my hair without scheduling it. I have to stop blowdrying my hair because the baby is crying. I have to run extra laundry because Dora threw up, or Emmy pooped through her outfit. I have no money to buy new clothes because I spent it all on clothes for the kids. Or toys. Or treats.

I cook, then clean, then throw away everything I cooked after they pick over it (without eating any) and start all over again. Five minutes later, they are whining that they are hungry.

!!

I suddenly understand Edna in a new way. I don't agree with her decisions, and I think she would be the first to tell you she made some major mistakes. She didn't know that until she'd already made them, unfortunately.

But.

I get resenting your kids. I get missing the ability to have some small part of my life (or, yes, even a large part?) be about me. I cry a little inside every day as I sit feeding an unhappy child because I can't go get my hair done. I can't go work out. I look like crap all the time, which makes me feel like crap. I feel the little creative person inside me jumping up and down, screaming, "I have these ideas. I want to let them out. I want to do something impressive, and hard and good again."

To that little person I just have to keep saying, "All in good time. Don't go walk into the ocean. Your day will come again. For now, just enjoy the beautiful smiles on those little angelic faces when they paint pumpkins. Enjoy tickling their fat little bellies and washing off the mess they made on their perfect little arms and fingers. Your day will come again. And if you're fat and saggy by then, well, maybe, just maybe it was worth the sacrifice."

Because when I come right down to it, even as hard as it is to squish Bridget up inside while I put my kids first, I still think Edna was wrong. Life is messy but there's no peace to be had in giving up on slugging away at it. The peace comes when you're knee deep in sludge.

The great lesson in The Awakening that I failed to recognize when I read it years ago was that she didn't find peace and joy in leaving her family. When you allow yourself to disconnect, that's exactly what you are. Disconnected. You can't find joy if you only focus on yourself. I mean ultimately you are what you choose to do with your time. Does that mean I am a maid? A nurse? A schoolteacher? A mom?

I think I am what I need to be at the moment. I am a mom all the time right now because my kids need me so much. I have heard older moms (not necessarily in age, but in years of "mom" experience) talk about how their kids don't even seem to need them or want their help anymore. In its own way that would be profoundly painful. It's so hard to have perspective in the moment so I try to remind myself that right now my kids need almost 100% of my time and my husband demands the little bit that's left over. One day I'll be wishing they wanted more of my time.

Until then, little person inside, keep your chin up. Your day will come too. And you'll be wise enough then to take advantage of it.

Jack

I love animals. I really love dogs.

I had a dog when Whitney and I met. We kept Tessa until he matched (for medical residency) to Pennsylvania and we bought a condo out there. I was eight months pregnant and terrified of having a new baby and trying to walk a big dog while my husband worked his buns off in a residency and we lived in a place where we knew no one. My parents' neighbors really wanted Tessa, so we gave her up. I have been able to see her every time we visited my parents and she is always fat and happy. It all worked out. I only had a moderate amount of regret with which to contend.

When Eli was old enough to talk, it became apparent that, whether it was inherited from me or simply the natural love of little boys for dogs, he wanted one desperately. I wanted one too.

But of course, we also had a brand new baby girl, our little Isadora, and a new move coming up. We moved to Oregon and Whitney and I spent a small fortune fencing in our yard. We were finally ready. We adopted a dog. He was beautiful. His name was Jack. He was a border collie and he was almost out of the puppy stage. He already knew how to mind his manners inside and had no accidents. There was a waiting list of people who wanted him and we were lucky enough to get him first.

We had him for two days.

Somewhere at the end of that first day I had my first (and so far also my last) panic attack. We'd just discovered I was pregnant again, and Whit had just started a new job. There was dog hair and smell all over my house and Dora was terrified of him if he ever came close. He was a big dog, relatively speaking, and knocked Eli and Dora both down in his youthful exuberance. He stayed glued to my side, but I needed to be with the kids every minute when he was around to make sure they were okay. I'll admit it. I freaked out.

I called the rescue we adopted him from and they called up the next lady on the list who was delighted to take him. (We periodically saw him going for walks with his mom thereafter. That was a little upsetting to Eli...) So, after a small donation fee to the shelter, and a lot of money on the fence, we were again dog-less.

Then we moved again. We had a six week old baby. Our movers cancelled on us last minute and we had to rearrange everything to move ourselves. Eli broke his leg on the day of the move. The close on our house in Texas kept being pushed back and changed up. Our house in Oregon hadn't sold yet. Whit had orientation here and then went back to Oregon, leaving me here with my parents, remodeling the house and taking care of Eli with a broken leg, Dora (a cute but busy two year old) and Emerald, the six week old for whom I was still pumping. My mom helped a lot, but it was busy. Several weeks later, after working every single day back in Oregon, Whitney drove all the way down to Texas to help us get settled (finally) in our remodeled home. Did I mention I had a part time job I kept doing work for during naptimes and after bedtime to help offset remodeling costs, which just kept rising??

After all the chaos, being settled in at home with a little boy who had recently had his cast taken off, a two and a half month old baby and a two year old... with a husband in residence, thing seemed easy! After seeing a rash of snake-bitten kids in the ER, Whitney suggested we look at dogs. The kids would love playing with them, and it would likely protect them in our enormous back yard, too. One day I took the kids to an animal shelter, just thinking we'd see if they had any likely prospects. We were still waffling about whether to try to add a dog to the family.

They had a little puggle that the kids loved; he was slated to be killed in two days. We took him the day he was supposed to be put down, not because we'd decided we wanted a dog, but because we were all horrified that he'd die if we didn't. I'll save you some of the gory details, but let's just say there's potty trained and then there's Jack Two. (The kids wanted to name him Jack as well.) He peed on my clean and folded laundry basket, soaking everything. He peed in the kids' game room and in the hall. In the office. In the family room. Basically, he peed (and pooped) everywhere but outsidet.

He also kept hopping up on my new sofas. He hopped up on the baby and her bouncer. He scratched on the door when we put him out until he discovered he was small enough to just pop through our iron fence and run around outside to the front yard. Gah! He licked Dora's face (and Eli's, who didn't mind a bit.) We put him up almost immediately after finding him, on craigslist. We spent a reasonable amount on pet supplies and then found him a new home on craigslist.

I had adopted and abandoned yet another Jack. After working through the guilt, I have come to a conclusion.

I look around at church, on blogs, etc. I see moms all around me.

I see Brooke Oldroyd. She's adorable, skinny, together. She has a precious blog, and adorable kids (FIVE!) She does great photos and is generally awesome.

I see Jackie Sarager. She's got three kids, aged like mine, and she makes little crafts, nurses AND pumps, visits family, goes on trips and always always always looks adorable. (Cute hair, cute makeup, cute clothes.) She blogs, too.

I see Natalie Sill. She has four kids, and an ER husband too. Her kids always look cute, the girls' hair is done and she does it all alone most of the time. No nanny, no babysitters, etc. She is always picking up extra stuff for church and doing little parties.

I see Alisha Oldroyd. (What's with that last name and cute moms?) She had three kids under 20 months at one point, and even now they are all under three. She's a great mom, with a cute house, and cute kids. She makes cookies, eats organic and works out all the time. (This reminds me of my sister in law, another great mom.)

I could go on and on. My sister Cassidy, my friend Christine, and on and on and on.

You are all so amazing. I look up to you. I babble incoherent frazzledmom while you ladies seem to do everything so effortlessly. (I know it's hard work.)

BUT.

I sit here thinking of Jack. My biggest failure as a mom, probably. I tried to add something to the routine and I just couldn't do it. I admitted defeat and surrendered, TWICE. I want a dog, I just can't handle it.

I think most of the moms I listed have a Jack. I think they had something that was simply the straw that broke their organized camel's back. Or at least, that's what I tell myself when I think of my failure to handle a dog!

I tell Eli all the time, "Eli, you get what you get and you don't freak out." When she came to visit, Aunt Cassidy had a similar, albeit cuter, saying. Something like, "You get what you get and you're thankful for it." I am holding Eli to a lesser standard. We'll start with not freaking out and work up to gratitude later when I have more energy. I am coming to the conclusion that I have to apply that platitude to my own life. I do what I can do and I don't freak out about what I can't do.

I can't blog adorable blogs like Brooke. I can't effortlessly keep six tiny kids happy like Alisha. I can't plan her cute little outings or Brooke's fabulous parties, either. (I just don't have the patience or creativity!) I can't dress cute like Jackie, or nurse effortlessly like her. I can't travel with fortitude like Cassidy. I'm not as kind and loving to my husband when he's working a lot as Natalie. I'm also not as good at letting my kids work things out themselves.

And there's Jack.

But I am guessing those ladies I admire so much have their Jack too. Maybe I just don't know about it.