Two Mountains (an original poem by me, Natalie)

In my home

Two mountains tower,

Formidable, daunting,

Hour by hour:

Sort the colors,

Wash, then dry.

Fold, put away,

The first mount is nigh.

Another mount,

Another feat:

Set, eat, clear,

Scrub, dry, repeat.

They vary in size

From small to tall,

But rarely

Never there at all.

I dig and dig;

They grow and grow

Sometimes fast

And sometimes slow.

Sometimes one,

Sometimes the other,

Sometimes

Both of them together.

Mount Dish-everest

Mount St. Laundry

Ever present

For every Mommy.

The At-Least Game

4:35 am.  A hoarse whimper resonates through the monitor.  I don’t open my eyes.  “Maybe she’ll go back to sleep,” I hope.  Another cry, a little stronger.  I roll out of bed, and my feet hit the floor.  They ache.  They almost feel swollen, like I’d hiked Mt. Timpanogus the day before. 

I walk to the baby’s room, and the dim night light casts a blue glow. Sally is standing, holding on to the crib rail.  She sees me and her face wrinkles as she lets out another hoarse wail.  The poor thing.  I scoop her up in my arms and she buries her face in my shoulder, smearing boogers across my T-shirt. “At least her fever is still down,” I think.

It started nine days ago. Monday morning.  I was visiting with a couple of friends as our kids scattered toys in the living room.  I happened to mention how happy I was that my family was healthy for Christmas this year.  Three hours later a child was running a fever.

             

            I settle into my recliner and try to snuggle my baby.  She pushes away.  Her little nose runs like a leaky faucet, so I get up and walk across the room, grab a tissue, and wipe.  I pick up the box of tissues and sit back down in the recliner.  I hide the tissues between my hip and the armrest, but Sally has already spotted them.  She reaches down and grabs a handful of tissues.  She reaches with her other hand and grabs another handful.  At least she is happy.

By Friday, I was nursing four feverish children round the clock.  The doctor analyzed the symptoms and declared we probably had the flu. The flu, as in Influenza.  The illness we hoped our flu-shots would prevent. At least Andrew is able to take a few days off to help me care for the sick kids.  

            That evening, as Andrew and I were getting ready for bed, we heard a seal barking. The familiar croup sound came from the girls’ room.  I gathered up my little baby-seal-girl, gave her the next dose of ibuprofen, and prepared to take her outside to let the frigid air work its magic.  Just then, we heard another faint crying.  Andrew went to investigate, and came back holding a frightened little boy, who sobbed in between wheezing and barking.

            “Should I go get a couple of chairs?” Andrew inquired.

            “Sure!” I responded.  “We’ll make it a party!”

            A few minutes later, the four of us sat bundled up on the front porch, snuggled in blankets, watching the stars.  “If we have to be up with croup tonight,” I thought, “At least we can be up together.”

            It’s a game I learned several months back. I saw it on a Facebook post:  some-number-of-things-I-learned-when… This particular suggestion stuck with me, and I tried it.  I call it the “At Least” game.  When I find myself in a frustrating situation, I say “At least…” and think of something for which I can be grateful at that moment. It helps me focus on the positive. It helps me stay calm through challenging tasks. After all, it could always be worse, right?

            It is now 5:20.  Sally has lost interest in the tissues.  Her drippy nose has settled down for the time being, and she sucks her two middle fingers as she rests her little head on my chest.  I slowly stand up, clutching my little daughter, and quietly carry her back to her room.  The humidifier hums softly as I place her in her crib and tuck the blankets around her.

            I tiptoe back to my own room and slip beneath the covers.  “At least she didn’t stay up very long,” I think. And within seconds, I am sound asleep.

I Changed My Wants!

      During a therapeutic journaling session a few months ago, I came to the conclusion that there are two things I wanted right then: a good night's sleep and a clean house. I immediately became discouraged, realizing that I wouldn't have either anytime soon. Since then, every time I thought about how much I wanted sleep and a clean house, I felt depressed.
       Then, a couple of weeks ago, I decided I needed to change what I want, since what I wanted was not making me happy. After some thought, I decided that I was going to want, instead, emotionally healthy and spiritually strong children. Every time the previous "wants" popped into my head, I recited, "No, I don't want that. I want this."
       It took a couple of days, but I really changed my wants. And you know what? I am so much happier now! I still wouldn't mind a good night sleep and a clean house, but I am no longer troubled by their absence. When the baby wakes eight times a night due to a new tooth, instead of feeling angry that she woke me, I feel love and compassion for her. Instead of fuming over the crumbs left on the table and floor, I remember that my children are still just children; they are still learning, and I love them more than I dislike their messes.
Now, I realize that ultimately my children determine how they will turn out. But the point is, I am being proactive about my own happiness and well-being, rather than focusing on what I cannot have. And that small change has made a huge difference. For my entire family.

Thoughts on Andrew

      At one point in what's considered my adult life, I learned that when God says "Do", I don't ask "Why", but "How". So when a fifth little spirit whispered, "It's my turn," I prayed for courage to do it again.
       It didn't take many times to realize that pregnancy is my great trial in life, despite doctors and nurses and midwives and well-meaning friends. I don't know why God keeps sending me little spirits, while I am surrounded by friends who would give their right arm to have just one.
I don't know all the "why's", but I've learned a little about the "how's." Among them is #1, I married a good man. I knew he was good when I married him, but that's another essay. These pregnancies have been challenging for him, too. He could write his own essay on that.
Last night as he climbed into bed next to me at a crazy early hour (I don't do late, or even normal nights), and said, "Let's play 101 things I love about Natalie," I smiled.
       Day after day he arrives home from work to a mountain of dirty dishes, kids still needing help with homework, toys and chaos everywhere, and an almost vegetable-like wife (of the potato variety: you know, one of the really round kind) on the couch. Okay, not everyday. Some days I do get a simple dinner made, and on rare occasions I'll get the kids to clean up their toys and empty the dishwasher. But yesterday it was paper plates and pasta for dinner, with three loads of laundry piled on the couch. And me, nauseated, shuffling around in a zombie-like manner, attempting to function.
       So when he started his list, "You are beautiful," my brain seized. Washing my hair takes so much energy I need a nap afterward. I don't shower every day. Applying make-up? Only on days that I feel a surge of energy: hardly ever. And yet, he stills sees the beautiful me. The one that's really me. Not the zombie-creature.
       "You still have great legs." Here I agree with him. Whatever else pregnancy and sickness do to my body, I still have great legs. They are my best feature.
       "You are goblin craft." What the--? Turns out this is an analogy about the quality of goblin-made weapons from Harry Potter. Quality, able to absorb the strength of other materials. I apply the good principles I learn from others.
       And on and on. I don't know how far he got before I dozed off. ("Gracious" probably did not make it.) Not 101, but a pretty good list.
       Here is the man who has become the Dad and the Mom. Whose own needs go unmet. And yet, he still rubs my feet, knowing it won't lead anywhere other than rubbing my feet. He rubs my back and runs his fingers through my hair. He sits with me while I cry because I am frustrated and want a break from the never-ending yucky. He does not criticize. Does not tell me it's all in my head or that I should take a Prozac.
       If one of God's "why's" to rotten pregnancies was to teach my husband to be unselfish, loving, self-sacrificing, and patient, it's done. Lesson learned.
       What I DO know, is that when I ask "how" I'm supposed to accomplish what seems to be an impossible task, there he is: a little bit of God in the face of the man who loves me.

Anniversary Morning

            Exhausted, I cracked an eye open.  Light streamed in through the window above my head.  I glanced over at the baby.  How long had she been smacking her lips?  She spotted my face and let out a hungry squawk.  I scooped up the tiny little person and began to nurse. 

Gradually, my brain emerged from its sleepy fog and I could hear the other children in the kitchen.  “What time is it?” I wondered.  I hoped we weren’t late for school.  Carefully, so as not to disturb munchkin’s breakfast, I craned my neck around to look at the clock on the night stand.  “7:11; make a wish,” the childhood phrase popped through my head.  That should be plenty of time.

Andrew had only been gone for two days and I was already scraping for an extra dose of energy to survive the next four. 

A minute later, someone knocked on the bedroom door.

“You can come in,” I called.

The door opened just enough for Martin’s head to poke through. “Mom, can you stay in bed? We want to bring you breakfast in bed.”

Did I hear right?  I must still be dreaming.

“You want to bring me breakfast in bed?” I repeated.  “Sure, I can stay here!”

And the door closed.

As the baby continued her rhythmic sucking, I pondered, “What could have gotten into the kids this morning?  Why were they being so nice to me?”

Another knock on the door. 

“Come in.”

This time the door flew open and James hopped in, holding up what appeared to be two or three pieces of copy paper taped together.  He stood in the middle of the room, beaming.  I realized he was waiting for me to notice something on his hand-made banner, but I couldn’t see a thing.

“Oh, I wish I had my glasses on so I could see it!” I said.

Understanding, he explained, “It says ‘Happy Anniversary!’” and ran out of the room.

A light bulb clicked on in my head.  It’s May 1^st, my wedding anniversary.  How sweet of the children to remember, and to want to celebrate!

By this time, the baby had finished her meal. She let out a satisfied belch and I gently placed her on the bed.  Again, the bedroom door flung open.  I grabbed at the bedside table and, finding my glasses, I placed them on my face.  Martin stood next to the bed holding a cookie sheet. On it sat a plate piled high with scrambled eggs.  He must have cooked at least half a dozen.  I made a place on the bed for the cookie sheet and properly expressed amazement and gratitude.  Luke, who had followed Martin in, climbed up on the bed.  He obviously wanted to share my feast. He clearly needed a diaper change, too.  Oh, well.

James appeared at my bedside with another cookie sheet holding another plate.  He had sliced pieces of grapefruit for me. Mmmm.  I love a good, ripe, pink grapefruit. I took the grapefruit plate and placed it next to the scrambled eggs.

Next, Mary entered with yet another cookie sheet and a plate of toast. She also remembered the knife, fork and spoon.  Ah, my wonderful, thoughtful daughter, who surely instigated the entire scheme.

I thanked my children for the breakfast.  I kissed the ones I could reach. I gave Luke the first two bites of scrambled egg.  And I realized I am the luckiest Mom in the whole wide world.

Happy 12^th Anniversary, my wonderful husband.