My Perfectly Imperfect Children

From the time I found out I was pregnant until my children were born, I spent months planning their lives out for them.  I would imagine what they would look like, how they would act, their interests and dislikes.  Boy was I in for a reality check!

As far as looks were concerned my daughter set the bar pretty high.  She really was a beautiful baby, even as a new born.  So you can imagine my reaction when my son was born and he was the wrinkly, alien looking thing, that is more often the norm.  I remember lying there on the operating table (I had him cesarean) and seeing him for the first time.  I hate to admit it, but the first thing that came to my mind was, "Really?? That is not what I expected."  He did however become very adorable once he filled out, his eyes stayed uncrossed, and his blotchy rash cleared up.

My daughter 1 day old

My son 1 day old

My son looking much more adorable

Personality wise, my sweet baby girl was nothing like I had planned.  She was suppose to be polite, cheerful, outgoing...you know, sugar and spice and everything nice?  I was so naive I want to laugh at myself.  Not that my daughter was an evil toddler, she wasn't.  Although, she was whiny and could turn on tears like the flip of a light switch.  Instead of being out going she was clingy, and the only person that "Her Majesty" would allow do anything for her was, of course, Mommy.   She had also inherited her father's temper and my stubbornness, a lethal combination for any parents' patience!

My daughter "painting"

With my son I had less expectations in advance having learned previously from my daughter.  He turned out to be a sweet and loving baby, but apparently he didn't understand the concept of "crying it out".  He could cry for hours if he was upset about something the only thing that calmed him down was being held.  Where my daughter loved to be sang to, my son gave me a complex.  Even as an infant he would start crying when I sang to him at night.  When he got older and I would sing fun songs in the car, he would start screaming "NOOOO, Dop it Momma!!!!"  I was, however, lucky that my son could occupy himself for long periods of time while my daughter needed constant intereaction.  On the other hand, things that came easy for my daughter such as language, my son struggled with.  At eighteen months old we had him evaluated for speech and in a pride swallowing moment, I had to admit that he would need special education services.

A very happy go lucky child.

As they got older I would often worry: Did I have the only five year old little girl with the attitude of a 15 year old diva?  Or was my son the only three year old that carried his sippy cup around like a security blanket, whose matchbox cars had the personalities of people, and used the "D" sound to start every word?  But as my children have grown into the little people that they are today, I have grown as well.  I have realized that no ones children are "perfect", especially mine.   It no longer matters to me that my son needs extra help with words and learning, I'm just happy that he is healthy and that there is a system in place to help him.  I have learned to sit back and take a deep breath when my daughter is upstairs having a tempur tantrum so explosive, that pictures start falling off the walls downstairs. I know I'm not the only one out there with a drama queen for a daughter.

My son in his sister's heels.

My daughter the "Diva"

 As life goes on I have come to terms that they may not become anyone close to who I had planned for them to be.  The best I can do for them as a parent is support them in their endevors. Yes, this means even when my three year old son puts on his sister's tutu and prances across the floor exclaiming "Look Mommy, I a Princess" I will be there to help guide them when they ask, and put in my two cents when they don't.  To love them, no matter what, because if I don't stick with them through the bad times, I can't appreciate the good times.  Most importantly try to stay sane along their journey to adulthood, as the saying goes "Grandchildren are Gods reward for not killing your kids!".

The moments that make it all worth while!



Missing Half a Life

When my daughter was born, it was one of the best days of my life.  I held her in my arms and spent every waking hour just drinking her in.  Her smell, her sounds, her precious little face...it was all heavenly.  I would often find myself day dreaming about the things we would do, the places we would go, all of it of course hand in hand. 

Those dreams changed when I left her father (It was not a situation where I could have stayed).  She was only five months old and as the courts put it, it was no longer the times of "every other weekend".  If a father was deemed fit, and wanted to be a major part of their childs' life, he would get to share physical custody.  For those of you who haven't been through are arduous and gut wrenching process that is Family Court, shared physical custody meant that I would have her literally fifty percent of the time. 

I came from a split parent home, so I thought I had an idea of what things might be like.  That was not the case.  I knew what it was like from a childs' point of view to go from one household to the other.  After a time it just becomes normal.  But from a parents' point of view, I was completely ill-equipped.  Shattered, distraught, irrevocably heart broken, these were only a few of the momentous amount of emotions coursing through me.   I had to go from being with my daughter every moment, to going two or three days at a time with out seeing her.  Every day apart was like breathing without air, moving without limbs, like the very core of my being had been cut out and placed on a shelf just out of reach.  I would go through the motions of the day and then cry myself to sleep.

As the months went on I was able to shut off some of these emotions, to ignore them, bury them, place my efforts elsewhere. What ever it took to dull the ache. When I was with her, I tried to cherish every moment.  I would sneak into her room at night, pick her up from her bed and just rock her.  Once again taking in her smell and warmth in hopes that it would be enough to last, to fill the void that was inside me in her absence.  It was never enough.

In the mean time I had met someone.  He too, knew what it was like share a child with someone else.  I think this is part of the reason I was drawn to him.  We were inseparable, he was good to my daughter, and when we were all together with our children it felt like a real family.  My daughter was only twenty months old when we had our son.  I tried to play it off as though I was having a wonderful pregnancy, even to my closest loved ones.  All the while inside me was a battle, forged by those crippling emotions I tried so hard to forget as they were brought to the surface by the mere presence of my swollen belly.  Once my son was born, of course I loved him unconditionally.  But to me, he was often a double bladed sword.  On one hand he was perfect, and sweet, and lovable, I enjoyed so much being a mother to him. On the other hand, every milestone he reached before my eyes, every night that I tucked him into bed, was a constant reminder of what I had missed with my daughter.

My daughter is now five.  My husband and I have joined our familes, bought a house, and settled in to raise our children in the best way we can.  Though my youngest son is a constant fixture, I get my daughter every other week, for a week at a time.  My husband gets the same with his son.  I have forced myself to operate within these two different lives, the one with my daughter, and the one with out.   For my daughter, this is normal, she has known nothing else.  Yes, there are the times when she will see a photo of her father and I together, and on come the questions and the tears.  I often cry right along with her.  Not for the life that "might have been" as she does, I know my husband is the person I was meant for.  No, I grieve for the fact that I will always be missing half of her laughter and smiles, skinned knees and broken hearts, questions and concerns...half of her life.

My daughter and I.

My Nemesis, My Friend...My Sister

"Sibling relationships outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship.  They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust."  ~Erica E. Goode


There has never been a time when my sister and I have been together and someone has said, "Now you two must be sisters." Our features are different, we have diverse fashion senses, and extremely dissimilar interests.  We are the very personification of opposites.  But in every way that matters, we are...sisters.

It seems we have always had what you would call a love/hate relationship. In our childhood scuffles, I was always considered the meeker of us two.  My sister loved to torture me relentlessly over anything and everything.  I, on the other hand, would feel bad if I hurt her feelings, and was always the first to relent in a good ole' fashion slap fight.  But heaven forbid someone picked on me on the bus or at school, she was the first one there to stick up for me.  Although, there were peaceful times when we were able to play Barbies and make believe for hours before it turned into"MOM!!! she said this..." or "MOM!!!! she did that...".

As the years passed and we became raging hormonal teenagers, our dislikes turned into all out hatred.  We battled over boys, clothes, and makeup, made up rumors, and told lies. Every once in a while we would call a "truce" and tell each other secrets and stories that we thought other sisters told each other.  Then a week later get mad and tattle to our parents everything we had learned in the utmost confidence.  I remember my own personal "best" was when my sister let me cut her bangs.  I thought she looked particularly pretty that day, and lets just say I fixed it!  To this day she is still reluctant around me with a pair of scissors.  My sister on the other hand was a little more upfront about things like that.  On more than one occasion I just got punched for doing something, saying something, or acting in a way she disapproved of.

While my sister was interested in riding dirt bikes, hunting, and horses, I liked hanging out with my friends, dresses, and shopping.  These differences also led us down separate paths after high school.  I went to college because I wanted "that experience".  My sister went to work with horses because that was her dream.  There was a time when we only interacted at family get togethers, or to wish each other a happy birthday.  I could feel the gap.  I missed my sister, and the hectic turmoil our relationship brought with it.  It was not that many years ago that we started to become close again, though we are still polar opposites.  I now have a desk job, babies, and a husband.  My sister still works outside with horses, is very content just having a neice and nephews, and has no interest in marrying her longtime boyfriend. 

It is only as an adult that I can fully appreciate the childhood we had together.  I can be thankful that we still have one another.  Most importantly, I know that we love each other unconditionally dispite what we have done to each other, in only a way sisters can.

My sister giving a toast at my wedding.

My Heart Wears Velcro Sneakers

Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I wanted to be a mom.  At the time it didn't mean anything more to me than the superficial things.  You know, dressing up my little girl in the prettiest dresses and then pushing her around in a stroller to show her off.  The possibility of having a boy never even crossed my mind.

My daughter at 1 yr old

At twenty two I had my daughter.  While it wasn't the fairy tale circumstance, she was my fairy tale baby, seven pounds, three ounces of pure beauty.  Her head was covered in a thick cap of silky hair, her skin was cream and roses, she had eyelashes that went on for miles, and the most perfect little nose.  It was love at first sight.

My daughter at about 5 months

Then somewhere amidst my princess pink, baby powder scented world, reality hit.  I was now responsible for this precious little life.  How on earth was I going to teach her right from wrong, turn her into a decent woman, heck, get her home from the hospital with out something bad happening to her?!?  I found myself seeing everything with new eyes.Life was no longer just about me, and the uncertainty of it all was terrifying.  I remember watching one of those "end of the world" movies that I had previously seen half a dozen times.  This time around I cried through the entire thing imagioning what I would do if that were to really happen.  Normal baby milestones were even teeming with peril, (or so I thought).  Solid foods were a choking hazard, walking was a falling hazard, and stairs...forget about it, I carried her!  If I could have wrapped her in bubble wrap and pre-chewed her food, I would have.

My daughter and I

When my daughter was eleven months old I found out I was pregnant again.  This came with mixed emotions.  More than one child was something I had always wanted, but the thought of being able to love someone else the way I loved my baby girl was beyond me.  I soon learned I was having a boy.  This meant shopping for all new clothes for him, something I had enjoyed greatly when I was pregnant with my daughter.  It just wasn't the same.  Many times I would find myself feeling down right sick with the pressure of it all.  I would have to leave the clothing department just so I could put my mind on something else.

When my son was born, all my fears about a lack of love disappeared instantly.  One look at that little face and I realized I didn't have to take any love away from my daughter to love my son, he already had his very own spot.  My heart had just gotten bigger to accomodate it all.  My children have become little pieces of my heart, around 3 ft tall, walking around outside of my body in tiny velcro sneakers.  When they hurt, I hurt.  When they cry, I cry.  But I also experience their joy, marvel at the wonderment they find in every new discovery, and bask in their achievements right along with them.

                                                     My son and I 2008                   My stepson, daughter and son 2008

My daughter age 3

   My son age 2

Motherhood thus far has been an exciting, emotional, and frightening journey that I wouldn't trade for anything.  So everyday I resist the urge to clothe my children in body armour before sending them out into the world.  Then I remind myself that when they were born, I gave them each a piece of my heart, and when I collect them at the end of the day, I will once again be whole.

The pieces of my heart and me.