A Song About Love

sleeping watermark

My hum was low and gentle. I drew her closer to me in my arms, knowing the soothing vibrations of my voice would carry from my chest to hers. It was a familiar tune, the same song I’d sung to all my babies before they were even born and each day since. In fact, it’s the first song my husband and I danced to at our wedding. It’s a song about love.

As I rocked my littlest before her nap, softly humming and smiling down into her drowsy eyes, my four-year-old in the next room accidentally dropped his baseball into a bucket of Legos. Accidentally.

The crash was jarring, but I kept on humming. The pace didn’t change. The volume didn’t change. I didn’t even skip a beat.

Moments later, my three-year-old started calling out for a drink. “MOMMMAYYY!” Wait for it. “MOOOOOOOOOOM!” Wait for it. “MAAAAAAAAA!” Wait for it. Wait for it. And then, silence as she discovered the cup of water that is always on her night stand.

Through the calls, I kept humming. The pace didn’t change. The volume didn’t change. I didn’t even skip a beat.

It wasn’t long before I heard a lawn mower roar to a start across the street. When my firstborn was a baby, this scenario was a personal nightmare of mine: noise at naptime I could not control.

But instead, I just kept humming. The pace didn’t change. The volume didn’t change. I didn’t even skip a beat.

Since the time she was a newborn, I’ve wanted to show this baby that she could ignore the jarring distractions around her, that they were normal and that she could still fall asleep despite them. I hoped to show her that the sounds didn’t faze me, and they don’t have to faze her. And that although her room isn’t perfectly conducive to mid-day sleeping, she was still safe and loved and could feel secure enough to nod off.

Though certain rare circumstances beg for intervention, if I’d have jumped up out of the rocker at every loud disruption, inserted myself into whatever situation caused the ruckus and begged the world to quiet down, what would that teach her? And would she really be better off?

No, she had to learn how to thrive in a noisy world.

To master this skill, which is imperative in a house with three kids under five, she had to learn how to ignore the occasional clamor by focusing on the constant undertone of familiar love I was softly humming to her, and by holding firm to that sense of trust and security even after I had laid her down and walked out of her room.

Distractions will arise and the world can be scary and noisy, baby, but I am with you; try to focus on what we are doing here together, the hums seemed to say as I rocked her in my arms. Listen to my voice, feel it deep in your chest, and remember it even when you don’t see me.

I dedicated some time leading up to Easter to focusing on my faith. Each day, I’d distance myself from all the chatter and distractions in my life and dedicate an hour or two to listening, studying, and praying in a secluded corner of my house. It became my daily joy to work on my relationship with God, to reading and re-reading the scriptures, to be inspired by the writings of others who have been touched by God’s grace.

Now that Easter has come and gone, I’m realizing how difficult it is to maintain that level of prayer and devotion. I’ve got three kids with soccer and baseball and something called Farm Camp about to start for the summer, a husband who wants to go out on dates with me, parties to plan, road trips, and a calendar already full of commitments. The world I live in just isn’t always perfectly conducive to quiet, solitary prayer.

So what happens to my faith when I can’t regularly make time to quiet the noise in a hole in my house?

Well, it must learn to thrive in a noisy world.

When I realize I’ve gotten so busy with life that I’ve stopped seeking with my whole heart, or when I find myself being drawn to the beautiful lies of the wide and easy road, I listen for the hum. Distractions will arise, but try to focus on what we are doing here together.

When my daily news stream is saturated with stories of the violence, hatred and corruption around us, I listen for the hum. The world can be scary and noisy, but I am with you.

When people are cruel and insecurities bloom, or when the doubts and anxieties of motherhood creep in, I listen for the hum. The noise doesn’t faze me; it doesn’t have to faze you either.

When I recognize the worst of myself in my words and actions, having allowed myself to forget who I am and what’s important to me, I listen for the hum. Remember my voice even when you don’t see me.

It’s not so loud as to compete with the noise of the world, but it’s always there, I think. I hope. I believe it’s the song I’ve been hearing from before I was born. It’s a song about love.

The challenge, then, is to draw closer, recognize the low reverberations from that song deep in our chests, and feel secure enough to trust.

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The Grief In Growing Up

Last night, I put my littlest baby girl in her own bed, in her own room, for the first time.

I should have been happy. Happy she’s growing up. Happy to have my own room back. Happy I don’t have to worry about my husband snoring her awake in the middle of the night. It marks the beginning of the end of so many sleepless nights and early mornings. In real life, this is where I’d insert a joke about how I haven’t slept through the night in five years, and how great this move will be because if I put Desitin on my toothbrush one more time during the hazy edges of the day, my mouth is going to suffer an identity crisis.

But as I laid her in her bed and walked away last night, all I could feel was a gripping sense of loss.

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10 Things Grosser Than Nursing In Your Own Bathroom

An image of a woman breastfeeding her 11-month old while sitting on a toilet has gone viral, causing an uproar this week after the image was uploaded to her Instagram and Facebook pages. (To view the photo in question, see her public response to the Huffington Post.)

Though some people have praised her bold candor, the photo has also brought an onslaught of criticism for Elisha Wilson Beach, wife of actor Michael Beach, for her lack of concern over the seemingly unhygienic practice, for bolstering the message that mothers never get a moment to themselves, and for oversharing. Plus, if her husband took the picture, he probably could have just helped her instead. Fair points.

Beach has publicly responded to the criticism, saying all mothers do things behind closed doors but are afraid to talk about them for fear of judgment, and that a sense of humor has gotten her through many of motherhood’s challenges. Sounds reasonable.

The Internet responded to her statement with a resounding, “Ew, but poop.”

So here are my two cents, because the world needs one more opinion about this photo: The moment you lay spread-eagle in a room full of strangers to deliver a child is the moment your sense of shame goes out the window. There is very little that can embarrass us or gross us out after having several strangers elbow-deep in our birth canals while interns clean up the spills and discuss their plans for sewing our taints back together.

And the attempt to normalize and find humor in the often-repulsive struggles we all face is the mission statement of 99.79% of parenting blogs in existence. This isn’t new.

I can’t say I’ve nursed a baby on the toilet, but I’ve certainly held a baby while I’m there (and have also wiped another kid’s butt with a baby in my arms) because you do what you have to when you’re in survival mode. For what it’s worth, the concern is usually less focused on baby’s proximity to turds and more focused on pulling pants back up one-handed. Not easy — I’ll wait while you try it.

*humming the diarrhea song to myself*

So in support of this woman and her argument that motherhood is gross and we should all just embrace it rather than judge each other for it, I present to you my personal list of 10 Things Grosser than Nursing On Your Own Toilet:

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Achieving Unflappable Mom Status

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I was the stereotypical mom walking through Target with a screaming two-year-old this morning.

Unlike our typical public outburst, though, which is usually followed by shame-fueled sobbing in the parking lot, today I have RISEN ABOVE and believe I have reached a higher level of motherhood. Whether I’ve become desensitized to the cries of my offspring or have just developed a newfound ability to cut through the ruckus to get a job done, I realized I am no longer fazed by the antics of hellion children in public.

At the height of this morning’s pandemonium, my blood pressure remained steady. My voice was calm and still, knowing nobody was sick or hurt. I was deliberate and level-headed, never wavering or giving in to demands. And then, when it became clear there would be no redirecting or coming back from the edge of tantrum, I walked out — baby strapped to my chest, three-year-old’s hand in mine, and a raging two-year-old on my hip, flailing backwards and screaming. My expression was stoic, Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” blaring in the background (or possibly just in my head?), and there was a swagger in my gait as I strut through the parking lot. Shades down. LIKE A BOSS.

I think this liberating phenomenon is one that must be reached after dealing with a certain amount of child-centric BS and public humiliation. If there are any moms out there who were able to maintain this level of cool with their first, my hat is off to you. For me, I felt like I had finally just gotten my black belt in motherhood.

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