Apples to Apples

When I was a new Mom, I had this really strange (and yet totally common) habit of comparing myself with others.

There is very little job description when it comes to motherhood so one has to look to her past to see how her mother nurtured (or didn't). (My mother was an amazing cook who homeschooled five children single handedly. She took very good care of us. Still does. ) And with a little observation, one can also see how to mother by looking at how other mothers do it.

Somehow by observing and thinking and resolving I cobbled together a job description for motherhood.

Sometimes in the process of marveling and enjoying how another mother would raise her children, I would slip down that very slippery slope of comparing, usually thinking myself worse than others.

I would visit a friend who was extremely health conscious and realize that it wouldn't hurt to go running a bit more, eat a few more apples.

I'd visit a creative friend and gush over her sewing skills, wishing I had all the time in the world to sew.

I have cooking friends, baking friends, teacher friends, fashion friends... and all of them have their own beautiful spin on motherhood, their own flare.

I'm embarrassed to say that it's probably only in the past year that I am able to accept the unique blend of gifts and personality that makes me mother to my children.

I'm creative, which makes my schedule a little more flexible than others. With that creativity comes a difficulty in being organized.

I enjoy having people over to nosh with me and my family. This means my kitchen struggles to be clean but it isn't a "show" kitchen, either.

I like good food and sincere friends.

I have a yo-yo relationship with my treadmill.

I eat somewhat healthy until it's time for a treat and then I go for the gusto.

I don't buy clothes for myself very often. When I do I buy for, like, two weeks straight and then I'm mostly done for the year.

I see design in everything. Everything. I'm allergic to ugly things.

I'm a technophobe; I don't like change. I feel bad for inanimate objects when I need to replace them.

Until I was able to embrace these idiosyncrasies about myself, I judged myself constantly. I'm learning to have grace on myself. I'm learning to have grace on others who don't like how I live or, worse yet, don't like how they live.

And with that realization, I'm able to help my daughters when they tell me, "I'm sad you got rid of the old washing machine. I don't like new things."

God, give me the "grace" to accept things I cannot change,

give me the "courage" to change the things I can change,

and the "wisdom" to know the difference.

Washing Machine

Yesterday I had a friend over for lunch. She brought her three adorables with her. I told her "come hungry 'cause we're making pizza". I have a soft spot for homemade pizza.

So in the process of letting the children spread the sauce and put cheese on the pizza she admitted that little children + pizza making fun caused her some anxiety, to which I thought, "Oh, I don't want her to feel that way" while at the same time thinking "This ain't nothing, girlfriend."

Yesterday the morning started poorly. Mondays tend to do that. Eve gave herself an oatmeal facial and then decided to hydrate her pants as well. "I go potty," she told me. "NoNoNoNoNoNo," I pleaded as I watched the evidence drip on the floor.

At exactly the same moment, Morgan had a meltdown because she is at a very sweet and sensitive age and because her mother doesn't know what to do with this. *calm, calm*

And then our washing machine decided to die. It was that kind of day.

So last evening, Dan and I decided to go on a date. Normally we go out to eat, but this time we decided to buy a heavy appliance and install it ourselves that evening. Heave ho.

I told the salesperson that I didn't care for digital readouts, that I'm a bit of a techno-phobe and prefer the old "clunk, clunk, clunk" sound of knobs turning on my washer. He convinced me otherwise. I bought a Whirlpool Cabrio. On a whim I looked up the defintion of "cabrio" and Google asked me "Did you mean cabrito? Because it means goat meat in Spanish."

I didn't think that boded well.

I went upstairs to check on my machine and the digital readout said "LF"... and I thought "LF? What the heck does 'LF' mean?" Plus, it sounded foreboding and somewhat mean. If I told someone to "LF" I don't think they would take it well.

In a nutshell it means we put the hose on wrong on the washer, which is a relief because my first thoughts were only evil and I began to emote like a tarnished old lady, "This grim crackery is driving me nuts... When I was young we didn't need digital readouts... We used the good old low-efficiency kind of machines. And we were happy." Lots of "har-umphing" followed.

When I get to heaven, weary and full of life, I'm going to ask God why motherhood was so hard and He'll just smile and say, "It's okay, hon. You're home now. There are no digital readouts here."

Maryland, My Maryland

I recently returned from a wedding in Texas where I saw, among many other things, a great deal of pride-of-state. Bound up in the heart of every Texan is the Alamo as well as the motto "Don't Mess with Texas." I was there briefly, but didn't feel like challenging this sentiment; I was friendly with Texas and it returned the favor.

Upon returning I went through a brief period of covetousness. People of Texas embrace their accents, their cowboy boots and their rustic charm.

Residents of Maryland, on the other hand, struggle to find the beefy pride that matches our southern friends.

I submit that there are good reasons why Maryland struggles to maintain its identity.

The Motto of Maryland leaves a lot to be desired: "Manly Deeds, Womanly Words". I turn my head in sheepish shame whenever I read it and wonder what the blazes it means. Given that Maryland hasn't used it in any advertising campaigns recently, I'm probably not alone in this thinking.

One look at Maryland and you can see that it picked the short straw when it came to overall size and shape. Surrounded by West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Virginia and DC, one can clearly see that Maryland received, for lack of a better word, "leftovers". DC's awkward rhombus bites Maryland's south while Pennsylvania piggy-backs heavily on the northside. The other states are just as greedy.

I came to a clearer understanding of Maryland's unfortunate shape in fourth grade when my mother made Maryland-shaped cookies for my class to share. I distinctly remember her asking me, "Emily, look what I made! Can you tell me what it is?" Upon seeing the irregular looking cookie, I thought it looked like Santa's sleigh had met up with a pitbull. It's distinctive, that's for sure. I brought the cookies to the class, taking care not to let the weak northwest arm of Maryland crack off, an engineering nightmare.

Furthermore, Maryland struggles to ally herself with either the north or the south of the states. Technically speaking--or should I say "Civil War-ly" speaking, Maryland holds the esteemed position of being neither northern nor southern, dangling beneath the Mason Dixon line.

Midwesterners are quick to point out that Maryland is technically mid-Atlantic, and Marylanders will accept this nomenclature with general agreement because they realize that the midwest is filled with pioneer men and women who will eat them for lunch with Lawry's season salt. But in their hearts, Marylanders cleave to the fact that they are one of the Thirteen Original Colonies, a fact I learned in a song as a tender elementary student. Plus, we disregard most of what midwestern folk say the instant they ask, "So how IS Massachusetts?" Come to think of it, all the small "M" states on the coast hold this grudge.

It's a delightfully amusing place, culturally speaking. When a piece of land is surrounded by pearl-wearing political figures, West Virginian mountain folk and gritty Pennsylvanians, there is absolutely bound to be some confusion in what culture will evolve.

And that, I submit to you, makes Maryland a very adventurous place to live.
Beaches? Check.
Mountains? Yep.
Ocean? Uh-huh.
Rivers? Yes, and don't forget the Chesapeake Bay either.

The landscape and peoplescape and cityscape and countryscape keep one constantly learning and evolving and changing and committing.

This is impressed upon me every time I visit my husband's Iowan relatives; the people-scape is less diverse there and so are the cultural implications of that. I distinctly remember being offered copious amounts of Jello upon meeting Dan's family for the first time and seeing some very strong stares upon not digging in. That being said, Maryland can never, not-ever produce the sweetness of corn that I have indulged in Iowa. It's divine.

But I digress.

Maryland, I salute you. You are the generous neighbor to DC's political atmosphere, the kind harborer of the best crustaceans on earth, the ideal melting pot of ideas and the precious home of my upbringing.

Sorry you got the leftovers. I still love you.

Looking for Eden

When I look at my friends, I see that they have such a variety of personalities.

I have a friend I call when I want to talk deeply about life, a friend who fills the "par-tay" category very nicely, and a creative friend who believes you can do anything yourself if you put your mind to it. I love the breadth of friendships I have been granted; each one is so precious to me.

It's funny to me how something might irritate one of my friends and the same situation will bead right off the back of another-- totally unaffected.

What's more, what is considered fun to one friend is considered frivolous to another. What is considered delicious to one is inedible to another. I revel in their differences. One friend will tell me that I must see a movie and another friend will "tsk, tsk" it altogether.

As I survey my friends and hear what makes them tick, I'm reminded that, while the irritation of one is the joy of another, ultimately we're all looking for Eden.

We're looking for a way to make our home perfect and not be irritated by dirt or outdated furniture.

We're looking for the perfect connection to our friends, our children, our spouse, and God.

We long for music that speaks to our soul, to purge the cliché from our lives.

We long for our bank accounts to be "above average" and for our faith in God to be spotless.

If you'll grant me the image of Eden, we long to be completely naked, without guile, innocent, content, fulfilled and happy.

Well, I won't speak for anyone but myself: I long for it with the sweet hot intensity of a thousand suns. *

I especially desire it on days at home that are long and arduous. I'm not one of those mothers who take life's silly antics and spins it into an opportunity for growth. I'm more of the "what the sam heck just happened here?" kind of mothers, continually reeling from very basic biology: "By jove, if I toss 24 oz. of fluid down my daughter's gullet, she will, in fact, need to release it. All of it."

"Mom, I need a lunch for today," my 2nd grader reminds me, to which I wish to retort, "Again? Didn't I just make you ten thousand sandwiches in the past 30 days?" Instead I smile and nod.

I wish I was naturally organized and smiled upon every spill and nuisance.

In my defense, I have started to say, "My, Morgan! Look how wonderfully you've grown! Your pants are up to your shins!" instead of the "Sweet mercy, child! You look like a flood victim. Fetch something that fits" that I want to say. I've learned the latter method works poorly. And due to some friends who have children with medical problems, I do indeed see that Morgan's growth is very much a blessing. I'm thankful.

I try to remember that I'm thankful when I buy mountains of clothes for said growing child or when I have to buy more toiletries because my 2 and a half year old uses an ENTIRE roll of toilet paper upon producing two drops of pee in the potty. I remember to be thankful that our toilet is strong and that I don't have a to call a plumber this time. *whew*

And if you'll grant me this, writing down my thoughts on this blog help me to see the reality of the mundanity of my current stage in life as well as my gratitude.

I can sigh at the laundry and still smile when I hear the washing machine running, a favorite sound of mine.

I can remember my salsa class dance steps on my hardwood floor while carefully mincing around Cheerios.

I can hear Eden in the midst of the chaos.


*A phrase that Dan is known for saying: "hot intensity of a thousand suns"

Training

I'm in the midst of potty training. To any non-parent, this is the point where they veer sharply to the right of the blog road and get off as soon as possible. Understood.

But to those anticipating this blessed event or who have recently undertook such an adventure, I find that they like to talk.

My initial thoughts on this journey is that it is a "hurry up and wait" experience, which is somehow simultaneously stressful and boring. Additionally, it's not the kind of adventure where you can say "Time out! I'd like to take a break." Nope. We're on the Concorde to Pottyville and there are no stops or layovers, baby. Strap in.

There are some adorable stages to training. The first being that preschoolers have no shame whatsoever and find underpants somewhat useless. Some of my friends recommended buying special princess or themed underwear for the occasion, but I can tell with a good deal of certainty that my daughter does not care if her princess-clad undies get a rain shower or not.

I did cave, however, when I thought to buy an M&Ms dispenser. Total overkill, I know, but it's novelty and it'll get her attention. She loves it, by the way.

Dan came home yesterday and asked about the progress. Frankly, if you put your mind to the task, you can do anything, I told him. Anyone who knows me and how I bail on projects knows how ironic this is. But she is my daughter and not a project, which helps. :)

The laundry room coughed a sigh of relief at bedtime last night. It was running non-stop yesterday as the floors and some clothing got some "spot cleaning" for lack of a better word.

Grace comes in various forms. I was most thankful for my friend's little daughter coming over yesterday. She was trained just a few weeks ago and showed Eve the ropes. There is such a thing as positive peer pressure. I embrace it heartily.

I have a friend who said that when she taught her son to be potty trained she felt like, and I quote, a "genius".

I don't feel like a genius.

Yesterday I felt excited.

Last night I felt less excited, more like glad.

Today I perch precariously between feeling "glad" and "weary", like a committed mother who loves to see her child grow and learn and try.

I flushed all the other feelings away.