There is something magical about a tutu. It’s the fairy tale, twirly princess, cotton candy dream all rolled up into one. It’s the artistry of Degas, childhood innocence and whimsy in a poufy skirt.
Add in a two-year old girl with blond curls, sturdy toddler legs and a laugh like the tinkle of angels’ wings –and the essence of the tutu becomes iconic.
My two-year old Kolby has yet to show interest in the Disney princess or flowing gowns. She prances right past the Cinderella section straight to the stuffed animals and cuddly monsters.
Until today –today was an EPIC girly moment.
Kolby ran to her closet and reached for a lovely ballerina frock her sister wore around age three. Little hands tugged on the dress.
“Please mommy, I wear this one?” my baby pleaded.
In an instant I had the gown over her head and Elmo t-shirt. I pinned up the long straps in the back and she stepped into the leotard. I glanced down at her cherubic face and my heart exploded into spasms of mommy ecstasy.
Kolby carefully stepped down the stairway and made her grand entrance before her awaiting father. Visions of prom and bridal gowns danced in my head.
She twirled around with a huge smile and exclaimed, “I’m so pretty daddy.”
Daddy agreed with gusto.
Tim and I laughed with glee as my eyes filled with tears while we snapped her photo –and for a brief moment time stopped.
My baby was glorious!
I’ve thought about it all morning and I can’t get the picture of her out of my head –maybe because it’s more than just a precious little girl, a tutu and a pretty princess day.
I think Kolby captured the heart’s desire of every woman from age two to eighty.
“Am I lovely? Do you cherish me? Am I worth fighting for?”
Questions we strive to find the answers for in all the wrong places.
My heart aches for the journey Kolby has just begun.
But today, for this moment, Kolby found the answer in her daddy’s eyes.
My middle child’s name is Faith. I thought I gave her this moniker because it affirmed God’s grace and our double fisted faith for her safety during an arduous pregnancy.
But God has a sense of humor.
I’ve now realized naming your kid Faith is like praying for patience. You never pray for patience because then God will give you opportunities –terrible, brain numbing opportunities to develop your patience.
Holy Cow! I am so dumb!
I inserted some sort of weird blessing/prophecy on my kid –and now I am getting the chance to get faith like Abraham as my daughter hits puberty.
Like this weekend for example when I headed into the land of Canaan –I mean the Mission Viejo Mall.
We ventured over to Macy’s after church to pick up an Easter dress for Faith. It had to be Macy’s because I have a gift certificate from my parent’s for Christmas and I’m strapped enough to tap into all available resources. I know, I know…what I sacrifice for my kids.
Faith picked out a few dresses and went to try them on. Tim, Kyle, Kolby and I waited outside the dressing room to view the frocks on display as Faith came prancing out.
First dress –It was ok, nothing to write home about.
Second dress –Youza! It was a beautiful color –a sky blue number, silky, and way too grown up. It was seductively subtle, a little too short with tiny spaghetti straps and just a smidgen too low in the chest.
My daughter is already beautiful but in this dress she was dangerous.
And here is where I screwed up.
Faith-“Mom, what do you think?”
Me- “It’s really pretty.” (Rewind and take this back you idiot)
Tim- “It’s too sexy. No way. She is almost eleven not twenty. Not an option.”
Me- “You’re right. Sorry sweetie.”
Faith- “Waaahhhhhhh! Then she ran into the dressing room and sobbed for ten minutes. “You said it was pretty! It’s all Tim’s fault.”
When in doubt, always blame the step-dad.
Me- “No Faith, it’s my decision. It’s a lovely dress but it’s a very sexy dress and not the best one for you.”
Repeat tears and howling wails for another twenty minutes.
I storm out of dressing room with my eye twitching.
During this time I go and purchase a pair of jeans with my son. When I come back Faith is moping and half-heartedly looking for another dress with Tim.
The boys go home and Faith and I continue to look. Finally, about three hours into the shopping nightmare she tries on a gorgeous and modest dress we both like.
Despite it being more money than I want to spend, I buy the darn thing and escape home.
Next time I will bring:
Imitrix for the migraine headache I will leave with.
Anxiety medicine
A Flask
A team of prayer warriors who have previously fasted and have experience with pre-teen demons.
(I’m kidding about the first two)
Upon arriving home, Faith runs up to her room, puts on her new dress and models it for the family.
She twirls in front of us like a lovely princess.
The Compromise...Lovely Faith
Faith- “Isn’t it the most beautiful dress you have ever seen?”
I am staggering, on the edge of tears, frustrated and overwhelmed, “Sure sweetie,” I choke out.
Can someone tell me how to defend my daughter’s honor without going freaking CRAZY?
What I want to say is, “Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Have the confidence to rock your inner beauty. Don’t buy into the world’s lies that sexy defines your worth.”
But it never comes out the way I want and it gets all stuck in my throat. I don’t sound like cool mom I sound like lame mom. And even though I think we have these awesome mother-daughter chats –nothing sticks. She ignores me and forges her own way. I wonder where she got this stubborn trait?
So my friends…this is how I develop faith. I am tested beyond all sanity.
Want to know the really scary part? Kolby’s middle name is Grace.
I always thought this quote was terrible –“Mothers of Teenagers Know Why Animals Eat Their Young” and yet now I can honestly chuckle and relate. OK, I’ve never really thought about eating my kids but military school and/or a nunnery might be an option.
It cracks me up when parents of toddlers and small children insinuate because I have two older children –ten and thirteen along with my two-year old, that parenting must be easier. I nod my head, hold my tongue and silently think, “Oh boy, you are going to eat those words someday oh parenting Yoda of a one-year-old.”
I’m not sure which part is easy? I don’t even get the benefits of my kids dressing themselves. I still have to check every article of clothing my daughter wears out of the house lest a hoochie mama try to slip by. Then there is my son who tries to pull his pants halfway down his behind and wears jeans so tight skinny could be defined as the new loose.
I get wrinkles from being up with a cranky toddler all night and then face a daily mental battle from my tween and teen. Sick babies might be a pain in the you know what but they don’t even come close to the never-ending onslaught of brain cell destruction that parenting older children requires. I feel like I need a graduate degree in reverse psychology and teen Latin (AKA kid speak) to get by.
How do I get my kids to not do stupid stuff when we all did stupid stuff at that age?
I cringe when my kid’s start probing into my past. “Mom, were you pure? Did you French kiss? Did you pray every day? How old were you when you first had sex, smoked, and stole your parent’s car for a joy ride on Balboa Island?” (Thanks dad for sharing that information with them)
Ummmmmm? Is this a multiple choice question? WWJD doesn’t seem to be cutting it anymore and I can’t repeat the acronym I am really thinking…
Sometimes at night, I hold little Kolby close and breathe in her innocence and thank God she is two. I smile in delight at her temper tantrums and bossiness and adorable pouty face when she sits in time-out. And I sing praises every morning because I can still dress her in whatever I want and put girly bows in her baby curls.
Mostly, I thank God she likes Mommy better than all her friends. Yeah for me! I appreciate this all the more because I know these moments expire around eleven -give or take a few months.
It’s difficult as a pastor’s wife. People expect me to do it right and have all the answers. The truth is, the only thing I have figured out is a reliance on the one who does –Jesus.
I’m the one in church raising her two wimpy arms high in worship, not because I am spiritual, but because I am begging and pleading for direction.
I literally prostrated myself on the ground of the floor in my closet a few weeks weeping and crying out to for God to guide my family through these difficult years of high school and Jr. High. Even though I have amazing kids whom I lavishly love and adore, navigating emotions and hormones and temptations is like nailing Jell-O to a tree –pointless and frustrating.
I guess if I am honest, I can thank God for these awkward puberty years too, because it certainly draws me closer to him.
On my knees close. Kissing the ground close. Flat on my face close.
I sure miss the days when a crisis could be resolved with a Hello Kitty band-aid and a kiss.
I thought I would have more time to write. I’m supposed to rest, right? But I forgot I have three children and a trip with a small tribe, Tim Keller and my in-laws is not exactly conducive to contemplation. Fun…oh yeah! Quiet…not so much!
Keller Home
We are staying on Bainbridge Island which is seven miles across the Puget Sound from downtown Seattle. There are no words to describe how stunning it is. I should be paying my in-laws to visit. The Keller house perches on the water of the Sound with a forest behind them. I can sit on the sofa and see the skyline of the city over the crystal blue waves. It’s gorgeous.
Deck with a dusting of snow
From sun-up to sun-down we eat gourmet food, walk about ten miles a day through a rainforest and then drink great wine. It’s a wonderful way to get in touch with nature, expand my ass and get really strong calves.
Bainbridge Island from the Ferry
I wish I could say it’s been all relaxing, but thanks to my dramatic tween-age daughter who has been forced to share her iPad with her siblings and a ginormous lemon bar with the family at a coffee shop we have had DRAMA and tears. If this is a hint of PMS I am terrified. I seriously want to bang my head against the wall when trying to decipher Faith’s emotions.
Faith, Kolby and Me
I AM NOT EQUIPPED FOR PUBERTY! AAAHHHHH!
Pike Place Market
Why can’t they just stay cute and little like our bossy baby Kolby?
Seattle Aquariam
Kyle has fared well. He loves the cold and the rocky beach and he whittled himself a spear to stab deer in the face. Of coarse the only thing he has actually bloodied has been his finger. I think he imagines himself to be a wild mountain man surviving on the rocky beach with nothing but his weapon, some raw oysters and a small boat to ride the waves and survive. We like to encourage his dangerous fantasies and we send him out to play often.
We went on the Underground tour yesterday in Seattle. This is crazy and will mess with your mind. There is a whole network of the city underneath the ground. Talk about a subculture! The city apparently was built on a mud flat and after the great fire of 1889, they rebuilt the streets one story up-leaving a secret world for the red-light district, criminals and chinese immigrants. It was disturbing and creepy and they do ghost and vampire tours at night.
Dude, where is the vampire?
When I’m up here in the Pacific Northwest I appreciate the Twilight/vampire and Indian lore more because the climate is so moody. I can’t stop staring at all the gothic teens and yoga people searching for something -anything to make them feel better. It’s like these people can’t understand that what they are missing is freaking SUNSHINE (and maybe Jesus)!
Underground
I told my father-in-law I’m not sure I could live up here despite the overwhelming beauty. I honestly think I would be so depressed from the lack of light I wouldn’t be able to appreciate it.
Space Needle
It’s nice to visit but I’m ready to come home. And I know it’s sunny in the picture above. But I need more than a few hours. I’m greedy like that.
Did you check out Faith’s wolf hat? It’s to scare the vampires!
Five hands reached out to the center of the table and piled one on top of the other. Kolby’s little arm had to stretch really far, but she got the tips of her fingers in as our family made our New Year’s pact.
“One, two, three…Yo Gabba Gabba,” we yelled out to seal our commitment.
The crowd at CPK (California Pizza Kitchen) looked at our table in open curiosity. Our family isn’t exactly a quiet bunch and tonight we were celebrating Kolby’s second birthday.
First, we went around the table and affirmed our little girl. Kolby beamed over her mac-n-cheese and pizza. Then we picked one New Year’s goal each and shared it with the table. We finished up by picking one crucial action item we could each do in the next few months to turn our goal into a reality.
Our conversation was sincere, tender and full of cheers and encouragement.
The family next to us glanced over at us occasionally. Their boys were dressed in the height of surfer cool and the mom and dad had the “OC well groomed look” (i.e. hours at the mall, salon, dermatologist and gym). Each child got their own meal and soda. It was obvious their entertainment budget had more wiggle room than ours.
Our family was out to eat on a gift certificate received from a congregant as a Christmas present. Each of us split a meal and we made our kids drink water. I dressed baby Kolby in a birthday girl t-shirt, just to make sure the restaurant didn’t forget to give us our free ice cream sundae.
Just as they delivered Kolby’s monstrous sundae (amidst a loud and lusty rendition of “happy birthday”) and the five of us dug in –snarfing like wild dogs on the baby’s treat, I noticed the other family getting served individual desserts the size of Texas.
I looked at my husband and chuckled, “You know you’re the financially strapped pastor’s family when…”
The waiter hates you because the bill is always couponed, meals are split, and they have to ID your kids to make sure they are twelve and under for the kids menu (the hair on my son’s lip and almost six-foot status might indicate an older teen-ok he’s thirteen)
The baby yells out “Amen” when the food arrives because she is hungry and doesn’t want to wait for prayers.
The homeless guy in the parking lot is wearing an outfit you have in your closet because the same rich family in town gave you both their hand me downs.
You get excited when your kid loses a tooth with a cavity in it. What a saver!
You re-gift nice gifts you actually want.
You consider washing the birthday girl t-shirt and wearing it the next time you go out to get another free dessert. (The two-year old won’t catch on for a while)
You also really know you’re the pastor’s family when the rich kids next to you look longingly over at your table and wish they could abandon their big sundae’s and fancy clothes to come and hang out with the big, noisy family where the mom has just spilled ice-cream all over the son’s pants as they try to share bites and snort hysterically.
And even though I don’t love always struggling and pinching pennies, I also know there are some things money simply can’t buy.
Two weeks after the honeymoon my new husband cornered me outside the door of our condo and whispered in agony, “The kids never go away, do they?”
I looked at him with all the empathy a former single mother of two small children could muster and shook my head, “No, they are pretty much around ALL THE TIME. Better get used to it babe.”
I really did feel sorry for my husband that day. It’s a big adjustment for a single (i.e. self absorbed and not used to sharing) thirty-eight year old man to get married and instantaneously have two children. Within a year, I was pregnant and then there were three munchkins running around creating havoc.
But to his credit, my husband adjusted admirably and I have watched in both delight and trepidation as fatherhood has transformed my sweetie into a more loving, sacrificial and humble human being, even though, by his own admission, it’s been excruciatingly painful at times.
The truth is kids affect the best of relationships because kids create stress. But it’s truly up to the couple to determine if the little stressors will be a blessing or a curse.
There is an antidote to the grass is always greener adage about relationships; it’s called –the grass is greener where the lawn is watered. If you take care of your marriage along with your children, both will flourish, but if you neglect one for the other, the marriage will inevitably wither.
The biggest shocker when the stork arrives may be the overwhelming demands of children on one’s time, resources, and sleep. While this may seem obvious, it’s still surprising how many people are baffled at what this actually entails- pretty much everything.
Sleep isn’t guaranteed, emotions become fragile due to lack of sleep, and sexual relations (also due to lack of sleep and post-partum recovery) generally take a nose dive during the toddler years.
There is an erroneous assumption all couples make as they stand at the altar and say “I do,” believing their romance will stay the same and transcend the length of their marriage. And it will, if they would continue to woo and romance each other for the rest of their days.
But generally, couples who spend a great deal of time meeting each other’s emotional needs in the early years refocus all their love, time and attention on the children, leaving their marriage high and dry.
The husband (feeling neglected) starts working longer hours and the wife glares at her husband each evening as he arrives home late while simultaneously blowing kisses to the baby (her new love). Little junior replaces daddy’s spot on the bed next to mommy and the internet become’s daddy’s new girlfriend now that he’s been booted to the sofa. Sound familiar?
In an age of child-centric parenting and skyrocketing divorce, many couples forget the best gift they can give their children is a strong and stable marriage. Kids need to know that their parents adore not only them, but each other as well. A child’s sense of security grows as they watch their parents display love, with all its imperfections, struggle, and willingness to choke out an “I’m sorry (even when we aren’t).”
Because I’ve been through a divorce (and don’t want another) there are certain non-negotiables in our marriage that we implemented right from the get-go.
My husband and I intentionally spend time alone catching up –usually over a long rambling walk where we air out both the good and bad. I make an effort to meet his sexual needs (always a challenge) and he tries hard to emotionally connect with my complicated female heart. We vacation together without our children (AKA “sexcations”). We affirm and admire each other and we go to counseling on a regular basis. We are honest with each other and try to always put our marriage first-even before the children.
All of this takes enormous effort and a hearty dose of unselfishness, but the results are a strong and healthy marriage that we both treasure.
Marriage isn’t for the weak or the namby-pamby’s out there, and it’s no walk in the park once the children enter the picture, but I believe it’s a worthy endeavor and if done well, can be a beacon of hope to a world desperately in need of something to believe in. Love –at its core is radical, sacrificial and a choice made every day in the trenches of dirty diapers and temper tantrums.
The greatest compliment my husband bestowed upon me was when he leaned over and whispered, “I know it would be hard with four children, but I would love to have another baby with you.”
*Note* I wrote this piece for a secular magazine. I tried to weave God into it, without being overly preachy. But ultimately, I believe God is love and marriage is a beautiful picture of the relationship between Jesus and his church.
Some people simply know how to play better than other people. My husband is one of them. Tim’s middle name is “epic” fun. He is energetic, spontaneous, and always up for an adventure on the fly. He is also the kind of guy who get’s on his knees and plays blocks with the baby, dukes out Madden with our boy untill the wee hours of the morning and delights in Scrabble with our daughter.
I, on the other hand, was not blessed with the “gaming” gene. I’ve got the bookworm gene, and the cuddling/nurturing/smart-ass gene…but games, not so much.
And while I am no expert in birth-order traits, I think “us” more structured “type A” personalities can blame growing up as an only child or as a much older first-born. It’s hard to play games (other than Solitaire) when you are the only kid around. (I guess my imaginary friends don’t count as companions either?)
Anyway, it was no skin off my teeth as a little kid, because I thought I was a grown-up. By the age of four, I read the newspaper with my Lucky Charms and coffee, scavenged for antiques with my parents, and conversed with adults effortlessly. Basically, I wasn’t ever a childlike kid, I was an adultified kid.
It’s not a bad trait –this grown-up kid mentality, but when it comes to child raising it makes a big difference in attachment and children feeling connected and cared for by their parents(according to my Yoda-like counselor).
So, to sum up my counselor’s theory, my kids don’t really care how many books I complete this year, or about my husband’s heavy workload…they just want us to play blocks and chase and Barbie. That’s so un-adultlike of them.
My lackluster game skills have never really been an issue before now. My oldest teen son is pretty mature (AKA another adultified child) and the baby has my husband to play with, but my middle girl child has become rather demanding. And now it’s come to a crux, because it’s partly my fault.
Apparently “play” is Faith’s love language and that’s just awesome, because I stink at it. And, though I excel at sophisticated grown-up play –Vegas and cocktails, wit and politics, this kiddy frolic stuff sails right past me.
Vegas anyone?
So, I can continue to justify my lack of folly and claim my parents didn’t play little kid games all that much with me either (which is fine, I mean they had jobs to do and they did lots of cool stuff with me it’s just they weren’t five-year-old companions) or I can choose to own it and figure out how to be more silly in a childlike way.
Ummmm….painful! But do I really have a choice if I am to move towards my girl with love?
And so I am now entering a challenging season of being more intentional with my darling middle munchkins (and just for the heck of it, I’m throwing in some pre-school hijinks for the baby too).
For the last few days, I have played Matchbox cars, painted ceramic magnets, used crayons, tried not to punch Mr. Potato Head after I put his arms back in for the forty-fourth time, cut-out paper icicles, decorated sugar cookies, and watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse over and over and over. I also played in the Jacuzzi with the baby, chased Faith and Kolby around a fountain until Kolby barfed (all over my shoes) and have read an endless stack of baby books. I have listened to toddler music until my head hurts and made Barbie do the splits about a hundred times.
I wish I could say it was easy. Sometimes I actually find myself hoping someone (anyone) will walk in and see me on the floor playing so I can get props and hear, “well now aren’t you the loving mama!”
And I’ll be so demure and bat my eyelashes…”You know, I am really into crafts and being an organic mother. I even make my own baby food.” I’ll say this as I pull my fourth baby out of his sling as I simultaneously play puzzles with my toddler and make macrame necklaces with my tween.
And then my nose will grow like Pinocchio because I am a big fat liar.
I envy the earth mothers. It is so hard for me to just sit and play. It’s like someone is taking away my efficient identity and things that need to get done are falling through the cracks. We already have one playful person in the family -epic funmeister Tim, so somebody has to keep us track, right?
But I’m learning (very slowly and awkwardly) that being present with my children is not about checking tasks off a list –it’s about getting rid of the list.
Nothing enormous has happened since I began my big “PLAY” effort last week. My daughters and my teen didn’t fall on their knees and thank me for my efforts. But, what I have found is that I feel closer to my kids. Faith smiles more. Kolby loves having a new playmate and I feel better knowing that I am making an effort to engage my kids in a way that speaks to them and in a language they can discern.
And sometimes love means ripping out our selfishness and cutting it off at the knees…and somewhere in all this pruning, reconnecting with our lost inner child.
Game on ♥
Do you have a hard time being present with your kids? Do you know your kid’s love languages? What can you do today to see the world from your children’s perspective?
“Ooohhhh, that’s stinky!” said Kolby, crinkling up her pert little nose. “Daddy farted.”
Daddy looked dismayed. “I did not fart! Kyle farted,” Tim adamantly replied.
A guilty look crossed (my teenager) Kyle’s face. “Nope, it wasn’t me,” he playfully teased, even though we all knew his butt smelled like day old broccoli.
Baby Kolby looked confused, but then a brilliant thought passed through her emerging toddler paradigm, “I know,” she said very seriously, “Mickey Mouse farted!”
And how could we do anything but laugh –because at the tender age of twenty-three months, Kolby is already learning the blame game.
We blame being late to church on traffic or cranky babies, not finishing home projects on illness or injury (like back pain, sprained ankles and the endless cold…I’m just referring to random people dear, not you).
We blame our overspending on the bad economy, our addictions on stress, and our wine habit on the kids (this is a generalization, not a confession. I do not have a wine habit, though I do like a nice Cabernet occasionally if you would like an idea for a Christmas gift)
I personally get frustrated when my pants don’t fit and blame it on hormones, getting older, and my parents for being tremendous cooks. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I have only exercised less than a dozen times since I came back from my cruise in July. Or, that I put whip cream on my coffee every day and that since Casa Ranchero has opened (my favorite Mexican restaurant) I have demolished about 52 baskets of chips with an accompanying margarita (that’s over the last year -not all at once)
Blame has been around since the gardening days of Adam and Eve. Adam said the woman made him do it, while Eve blamed the serpent for her lust of the forbidden fruit. (I wonder what would have happened if they had just owned it?)
“Uhhh yeah God, I wanted it, I thought you were withholding and I ate it.” (We might have gotten lighter curses…just saying)
So, I’m thinking about what it would mean to me if I admitted more of my stuff.
Is it rude to say I’m late because I dawdled around and read just five more pages of the Hunger Games(which is AMAZING) before getting in the shower (i.e. I’m selfish and don’t care that much about your time) or how about I’ve gained five pounds because I like pie and the reason I’m walking like a duck is because I worked-out the last four days in a row and I can’t sit because my buttocks ache –all because I ate the pie, can’t afford a new wardrobe and I hate having a muffin top.
Not sure how that would go over? Our culture seems to embrace the little white lie as a requisite of good manners.
Hmmmm? Regardless, we now have a new friend in the house to blame our farts on (and yours too if you visit).
So if it stinks in the Keller home, blame it on Mickey Mouse. (Apparently, he’s related to MVE–our dearest and fartiest friend)
Daddy has an "owie" and he laid on my blocks all day.
Stumbling down the stairs, blurry eyed and heading straight for the coffee pot, I heard a large howl –sort of like a wounded raccoon. Slightly stunned and now jolted wide awake I scanned the house to search for the suffering animal.
“Yeeeoowww,” groaned my husband from the sofa. “Uuuuuuggggghhhh, I hurt my back really bad.”
Now realizing I had found the raccoon, I started on the coffee prep. “What happened sweetie?”
“I sneezed and my back went out,” cried my dearest. “I can’t move.”
“Ok, we’ll get you to the doctor today,” I replied and hurried on with my morning activities, stopping every two minutes to cater to my husband’s needs. Fortunately, Tim had the Hebrew alphabet to study for a seminary test so he primarily occupied himself with groaning and singing like a raspy Israeli preschooler.
As I walked in the door after taking the two older kids to school, I was greeted with the screaming raccoon again and a terrified toddler while my husband sprawled on the ground writhing in pain and laying on two buckets worth of jumbo Lego’s. This time, I knew it was serious.
I grabbed the baby and soothed her and tried to comfort my screeching husband who had injured himself further trying to build a Lego skyscraper. After a muscle relaxer and a strong dose of ibuprofen, I was finally able to pull out every last block stabbing him in the back (a process which took well over an hour). I left him on the floor, covered him with a blanket and fed him applesauce and Top Ramen.
When it was time to take him to the doctor, my ten year-old daughter and I loaded him into the back of the Expedition (like a yelping two by four) and I found myself driving for thirty minutes under excessive paranoia of getting into an accident and launching my unseat-belted husband out the hatchback. He was in so much pain he simply rolled around the back and whimpered in Hebrew.
We somehow managed to drag and hobble Tim into the doctor’s office (fortunately directly into a waiting room) and hoisted him up on the table. The doctor arrived, pronounced it a herniated disk and prescribed some shots, physical therapy, and heavy medication to deal with the spasms and tremendous pain.
As soon as the doc mentioned shots, my husband’s ears perked up. “What? Shots? I don’t like shots!”
The doctor chuckled, “well, that’s what will work the fastest.” It’s not like you can run away.”
So while my daughters closed their eyes, my sweetie got poked in the buttocks with two huge needles by Nurse Ratchet, who seemed to enjoy making my poor exposed sweetie suffer more.
I held Tim’s hand (secretly glanced at his cute butt) and he squeezed my hand back hard in terror. I think it’s adorable that bigstrongbold men are afraid of little shots.
And some little part of me relished caring for my usually very capable and efficient husband. It’s nice to feel needed.
Later that night, when daddy acted grumpier than usual, I explained to my daughter Faith (who got her feelings hurt while doing math homework) that men are cranky when they are hurt or sick or tired or injured. “It’s just a part of their nature, darling”
Faith sighed, “Boy mom, men are a lot of work.”
I thought about my darling husband and smiled. “Yep, but a good one is worth it all.”
Just then, we heard Tim struggling to make his way up the stairs (despite the excruciating pain) to apologize to Faith and tuck her in.
My heart ached at his effort to love our little girl. “Yep, Faith, this man is definitely worth it.”
Next month, my husband Tim and I will have a rather important discussion –do we try to get pregnant and go for a fourth child or do we cry “uncle,” say three children is enough and buy a puppy instead?
Decisions, decisions…
My friend Page says if I have to even ask the question I’m not ready to have another child. Which I agree with in theory, but my biological clock is ticking very loudly and at thirty-nine years old I’m terrified of my uterus crashing when I hit forty.
Bong, bong…you’re out if time lady.
In theory, I would love another child but selfishly I would also like to wait a few more years because I have a lot going on right now.
But life isn’t like that. Some decisions have an expiration date.
I know all these Hollywood starlets have babies at sixty, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have the money for Depends and diapers all at the same time. Besides, I really don’t want my poor kid to have to constantly explain that’s I’m not his grandma and make excuses why his daddy drinks prune juice instead of beer after the ball games.
Did I say “his?” Oh right, that’s because Tim wants a boy child too, just to make it more complicated.
I would also like to ensure this pregnancy is free from any debilitating nausea, with no blood disorder (which has plagued me in all my other pregnancies) and no gas (seriously –the elephant farts are the absolute worst part of being preggers) If I could guarantee all of this…I might be open to another munchkin.
More income might be nice too (because babies are expensive) and a nanny would be extremely desirable. We might need to add an extra room over the garage to have somewhere to put the child and the nanny. Cha-Ching!
The obstacles seem insurmountable.
So, we come back to the puppy. I like dogs. I have a yard and a dog run (though I need to fix our fence). But my husband seems very resistant to this canine conversation, which leads me to believe he really wants another child.
And sometimes all the good reasons not to do something fall away in light of love.
Either way –it should make for an interesting conversation.
