Momming.

This year, I have been momming.

Mother: verb
1.
bring up (a child) with care and affection.
“the art of mothering”

Momming: verb
1.
bring up (a crazy human) without accidentally bringing serious detrimental physical, mental or spiritual harm to the half wild/half child you created.
“the art of being an orange and squeezing all your juice and nutrients out every day”

Let’s look at a typical momming day:
I change diapers, snuggle my “Pook”, shovel new foods into his little mouth, rock his wriggling self to sleep every night and read the same books over and over and over.

I also work. Thankfully, a demanding but no less fun job that I love.

My phone rings. My voicemails pile up (as does my laundry), my hair goes unwashed for too many days in a row, my meals consist of too many processed foods (is high cholesterol really a thing? Come on…), and I get less and less time for “me” every day.

I cannot in adequate words explain the phenomenon that happens when normal, average, everyday (and relatively selfish people) become moms. It’s like we somehow morph into super-humans that suddenly resemble more of the energizer bunny than the under-utilized college kid who would binge watch Netflix in her soft Pink sweatpants. Gone is any hope of a nap or eating any snack in peace without fingering a few pieces into a waiting mouth as little hands slap your maybe-a-little-too-chunky thighs for more.

Cracker crumbs. Everywhere. All the time.

Breaskfast for my son (aka the “Pook”): an overly processed, non-organic *submit collective gasp here* cherry tart for breakfast

Morning routine: wake up 45 minutes before we leave every day because “mom” keeps hitting the snooze button.

Attire: well let’s just say the socks never match.

No one told me it would be this crazy. Or maybe there’s just no way to prepare a human body for the cosmic shock that is a child. In any case, this is my life. I’m momming.

I’m rocking and rolling, and then I get a diagnosis from the doc. The Doc says, there’s this thing called adrenaline. We use it when we’re running away from a saber tooth tiger. Yeah…so you have used all of yours up. Sometimes, when your body demands too much of it, for too long a period… your body just stops making it.

Me: But I have to be an orange! People need this pulp!
Doc: You need sleep – pulp comes later.

See, no one told me this. That you could exhaust yourself to the point of a medical diagnosis. But – truth – you can. While momming, you definitely can.

Guess what else they don’t tell you?

That it’s wonderful. Every little tiny ounce of it. If my day really were an orange, this mom would squeeze every last drop of that yummy sweet stuff out of it and perhaps the first sip is mine, but the rest is guzzled up by every other person that needs me.

Lesson: Momming means sharing yourself. And like everything, the more you put in, the more you get out of it. I keep thinking my glass is going to run out and the person who tries to guzzle up the last of it is going to realize that all the juice is gone and the only thing left is some dried old pulp stuck to the bottom.

Instead, I realize that sticky-fingered Pook smile with his little gap teeth, mommy’s dimples and wild “old man” hair is just enough to pull me through. And when my energy runs out – my heart does the rest.

To date: I got promoted at my job, my Pook and I giggled for 15 minutes together before bed, my husband and I actually sat down for a whole movie together two nights ago without falling asleep AND as I’m writing this, I’m only 1 minute past my newly implemented “adult” bedtime.

I’m entirely unique and yet not unique at all, because every mom has this story. Just the details are different. You’re still an orange. Remember to rest, little orange. Remember to enjoy giving of yourself. And most importantly remember to slow down – you are homemade orange juice, not that artificial crap that comes from concentrate // the real stuff takes time and effort.

Never rush the good stuff – but hey, you’re probably late for something by reading this.

This is how we live. This is momming. ❤

This is Us. 

Feather wisps of blond hair curl at every edge

Half Moon eyes crinkle at the sides, blue pools staring boldly up.

Skin smooth as finely sanded wood grains touches mine.

Little palms flatten on my cheek, nudging my head to turn as an earring dangles.

Tiny nails bite into my gum as small fingers explore my mouth 

A corner of your mouth tips, amused but withholding laughter when I close my lips, pretending to munch. 

Tiny dimples deepen on each rounded cheeks as I tickle a thigh, then a pounce on a ribcage. 

Still, a toothy grin only is released revealing little gaps between budding rounded teeth of pearl. 

A rumble of noise escapes, usually the flapping of your lips together as air is exhaled sharply or your tongue clicking quickly against teeth.

Your weight shifts and a small hand pulls on my shoulder to stand in my lap. 

Little knees hit my stomach, and I feel a small pang where the incision is from my C-section. The twinkle of amused eyes falls on the gold bar dangling from a thin chain on my neck. 

You pull the necklace, shifting it from hand to hand, rolling it over until your elbows finally land, and you’re content to just finger the bar. 

Little do you know that it is my most cherished possession, a gift from your father on the day I celebrated being your mother. It’s your name etched in precious metal, and I smile fondly at the sweetness that is you. 

This is us. 

7.27.17

Dream. 

Some days with you are quite like a dream

And I fear when I wake, it won’t be as it seems

Sun kissed cheeks, blonde white hair,

Chasing you as feet zip here and there,

Giggling and laughing as you patter along,

A look back, a devilish twinkle, you’re gone!

Splashes, toes and raspberries galore,

Mouth widely opened, delighted, glass door. 

Like lightening, day flashes, here and then gone

Naught to forget, we danced to life’s song. 

Oh, how I hope to awake and true see!

That your sweet, darling face is more than a dream. 

Love. 

Oh sweet boy, you are to me,

Like a whistle is to its swing,

As a piece of sand is to the sea,

Or a leaf is to rooted tree. 

Your head nestled close to mine,

Is as a tock is to its time,

A VHS clicked to rewind,

Linked as ink is to its line. 

The steady stream of your breath,

Mingled close to my breast,

A moment I dare not let,

Escape my heart, not now, not yet. 

Snow.

Snow; thickest dew of white

Whispers, falls in dead of night,

Alights the branch, ground, a thud

A Candle’s wick of glow above,

The morn’ is icy wooded cracks,

Furry rabbits’ hopp-ed tracks,

Pierced pupil, young dream’s delight,

Now hush and taste first snow tonight.

Baby Boy Mine. 

I heard of a baby at church today
Whose mommy was told that he couldn’t stay

What was a short nap, turned into a long one

And so my mind the reel of her grief did run,

I wondered if you, baby boy mine,

Were hers for a day, and her greatest pain mine 

If she wouldn’t choose to lay you down for a nap 

But just to stroke your sweet head while you laid in lap

Would she hold you forever, baby boy mine,

As long as the clock knew how to keep time?

And if I were her, would the blue starlet sheets,

Never be touched, would my memory repeat,

Every fluff of your hair, every softest of sighs

Every laugh, every grin and each one of your cries?

I imagine her heart would still beat every day,

Because once in her heart, there forever you’d stay. 

So I held you longer than normal this time,

And thanked God for each breath, baby boy mine.