Hunting for Wisdom

As a mother of two babies in January, I find myself looking, searching, pawing my hands across the cold earth, hunting for wisdom.

I’m restless, impatient, bored, lonely, and often cold.  And my back aches.  A constant throbbing in the middle of my spine as if I am carrying around a brick with my back muscles that I can’t ever put down.  I want to put it down.  I’m sick of carrying it.  But alas, I have a twenty-three-pound one-year-old who hasn’t yet learned to walk, and a thirty-pound three-year-old who needs to be scooped up into his carseat.  My job is physical.  And my job is contstant.

I find myself biting my tongue.  A lot.  Literally, not figuratively.  Biting my tongue while I’m on my hands and knees wiping peas and bread crumbs and milk puddles off the floor, biting my tongue when I’m picking refrigerator magnets up of the floor for the fifth time that day, biting my tongue while I’m trying to change a diaper on a squirming baby, biting my tongue while I’m trying to wipe the bottom of a squirming three-year-old, biting my tongue when I hear a crash and a cry and a “MOMMMMYYY!!!”  It’s a miracle it is still whole, in my mouth, bracing itself for the next dumped toy bucket.

So, I do yoga.  What a Godsend.  For one hour I get to lay on a mat, listening to soft music, while I stretch my aching back as someone tells me to “love my spirit.”  Twenty-three hours a day I am privileged to take care of my family, to cook them meals, to give them medicine, to kiss their owies, to wipe their bottoms.  But in yoga, for one hour, it feels like somebody else is taking care of me, asking me where it hurts, telling me to relax.  On Monday, at the end of class, I started to cry, a full release of all the tension I was carrying around with me.  And today, at the end of class, as we were doing our “Savasana,” which is the yoga term for “I’m pooped and I’m going to lay down now,” the sun appeared in the room and it lay across my face.  It felt so warm and soothing, I couldn’t move from that spot, even when she told us to.  It was like medicine.  For my spirit.

Yoga doesn’t fix it.  It doesn’t make January or refrigerator magnets go away (the garbage can is so close and so tempting).  It doesn’t make the ache in my back go away either.  But it helps.  Yoga and Goldie Hawn. 

Goldie Hawn was on Oprah’s Master Class this week imparting some of her life’s wisdom.  Yes, Goldie Hawn has some wisdom tucked away in her blonde hair and her big, toothy grin.  She said when she was eleven, she was so afraid of the atom bomb that she started to read the Psalms.  And it helped.  She said her religion brings her joy.

So, I tried it.  I got up early, before the boys today, 5:45 a.m. early, and I hurried downstairs to pour myself a cup of coffee and read a Psalm, quickly, before anyone could cry for me.  I read Psalm 2.  Psalm 2:12 says:  Blessed are those who take refuge in Him.  I wrote it down and decided that today, maybe instead of biting my tongue in half, maybe I would say this line to myself instead.  Maybe it would remind me that someone else is taking care of me, asking me where it hurts, telling me to relax, like a blanket of sunshine across my face.  Medicine.  For my spirit.

One

Charlie,

About this time on this day last year, I was holding you for the first time. I can hardly remember now how little you were on that day. I do remember though that sometime before you were born, I was wondering how it was going to work, how I was going to love you and Finny at the same time. Finny had been my whole world, my whole focus—how was I going to share? The midwife told me that my love would not divide; it would multiply. She was right.

Every day since the moment you were born, that love has grown exponentially. And now, at one-year-old, you’re the best you’ve ever been and only getting better.

You’re our comedian. At the ripe old age of one, you are already working on your act. You know when you have an audience, you like it, and you aim to please. Showtime is usually meal time where your dah-dahs lead to razzberries which lead to full force head shaking. And with that frohawk of Jerry Lee Lewis curls shaking back and forth, it is entertainment. Give this boy a piano and a microphone and he will sell out shows. Goodness gracious.

You’re our independent one. You love a buddy, but you’re great at playing by yourself too, and you’ve never been much of a cuddler. Unlike your older brother, oftentimes as a baby you didn’t necessarily want to be soothed, you didn’t want your forehead rubbed, you’ve never wanted a pacifier and you didn’t necessarily care to be rocked either. Sometimes you would push me away as if to say, “Leave me alone! I can do it myself!” Classic second child.

But lately, my little independent one has wanted a bit more cuddle time. Sometimes you do just want to lay across my chest and be rocked to sleep, sometimes you do just want to be held, and often if you’ve been left to play by yourself for too long, you’ll come charging across the floor to climb my leg or you’ll “boulder” your way across the kitchen cabinets just to be close to me. I like it.

Beyond your great affection for me and your “dah-dah-dah-dah,” I love to see how much you love Finny. Three of my very favorite words these days are, “Come on, Charlie!” followed by contagious giggling. Finny is so excited by all the new things you are doing, and he’s constantly pointing out to me all the ways you are getting bigger.

“Mommy, look! Charlie is crawling! Charlie is standing! Charlie is playing with the kitchen! Mommy, Charlie can drink out of my cups now! He’s getting bigger! He’s becoming a big boy!”

Sometimes, I will find the two of you just sitting in your fort, rolling all over each other and laughing like little wolf cubs. Other times I will find Finny wrenching toys from your hands, pushing you down, kicking you, or pinning you to the ground, but I’m sure it’s making you stronger.

You’re our Bear. You are The Bearbees, The Bear, Charlie, Charlie Bear, (never Chuck). Your independence, your easygoing nature, your sense of humor and your Jerry Lee Lewis curls are all the wonderful things that make you The Bear. That, and the fact that at twelve months old, you already have man hands. I think they are bigger than Finny’s. It’s unnatural. They are more like paws than hands. If you start sprouting chest hair before you’re five, I’m going to have to do a little research into the VanHimbergen lineage, see if at some point the VanHimbergens lived in caves and caught salmon with their teeth.

We love you, Charlie. We’re so glad you came to make us laugh, to make us smile, to show us just how much our love could grow.

Happy Birthday, Bearbees.

Love,

Mommy

Man Hands:  Only a few minutes old and already your hands are the size of a twelve-year-old's!



Papa Bear, Brother Bear, and Baby Bear





The only thing bigger than your hands, is the size of your smile.  Love it.



And God

One of the greatest gifts my parents gave me was my faith.  And for me it is everything.  It trumps all other gifts.  It guides everything I do and comes with me everywhere I go.  It goes far beyond religion and the walls of the church which often become marred with skepticism, cynicism, politics, and disappointment.  It is a faith that sits deep in my spirit, that snuggles up tight in my heart, that fills me with such overpowering peace and joy, I sometimes cry out of gratitude.

While I think that the routine of attending mass every Sunday was valuable and important and remains valuable and important, my faith was really created inside the walls of my own home, by my bedside where my parents taught me to pray.  They told me that little old me could talk to God directly, that He was always listening to whatever I had to say, and that if I listened hard enough, I would hear Him answer back.

So when I’d kneel by my bed or just lay with my hands clasped in front of me as I drifted off to sleep, I knew I could ask for forgiveness and be forgiven, I knew I could ask for protection and be protected, and I knew I could pour out my heart before Him and always, always receive love in return.  And I knew, above all, that I was never alone.  No matter how dark the night was, no matter how lonely or scared I felt,  God was always with me, holding my hand, lighting my path, assuring me that He had a plan and it was good.

So, I know that as I’m trying to teach Finny about faith, as I’m trying to teach him about this God who loves him, I know that some of our most valuable lessons will occur at his bedside after the stories are read, just before I turn off his lamp.  I need him to know that he is okay without me because while I cannot always be present, God can and is.

So a couple of weeks ago when I was putting Finny to bed, I pulled up his blankets and snuggled him in with his stuffed animals, and he said, “Mommy, I want you to lay with me.”

“Oh, not tonight, Finny.  But you have your teddy bear and Thomas and your lamb and there all with you, by your side.”

“And God,” he said.

And my heart jumped. 

“And God, of course, you always have God.”

And once again I was filled with that overpowering peace and joy, knowing that my little boy will never be alone, that he will always be protected, always be forgiven, always be loved by the God who created him.

So when I switch off the bedroom light, I know that he does not lay in darkness.  If he knows he has God, he will lay in a light more powerful than a night light, with a protector more snuggly than his teddy bear.  His faith will tuck him in far longer than I ever will, and despite all the fear and worry I carry with me, that gives me rest.

Weaning Charlie

Nursing, like most of parenting, is a mixed bag.  There’s a lot of lovliness mixed in with a lot of hassle.  So, weaning, when it comes upon a nursing mom, is pure bittersweetness accompanied by both relief and longing.

And today, Charlie is weaned.  And I’m happy because it tied me down.  And I’m sad because I loved it.

All things considered, breastfeeding, for me, has been easy.  I know that it can be pretty difficult for a lot of moms leading some to jump through all sorts of hoops, struggling through the misery of mastitis, the pain of plugged ducts and sore nipples, and the incredibly time-consuming act of pumping.  Some moms fight through this struggle for weeks and months before things improve and some moms throw in the towel and fix a bottle.  And who can blame them?  The baby needs to be fed and the mommy needs to be well.  So the truth of the matter is…sometimes breast is not best.

But my trials with breastfeeding were minimal. 

The second night in the hospital, before my milk came in, a newborn Charlie nursed and nursed and nursed.  And I knew this was how it was supposed to be.  This was the process of bringing the milk in and it would not last forever.  But at 10 p.m. after I had been nursing for two hours with no break, the day after I had experienced the incredible, athletic feat of birthing a baby, I was exhausted, so I called in the nurse.

“I’ve been nursing him for two hours now.  Can I stop?  Do I really have to keep doing this?”

“Well, that’s just what you have to do,” she smiled through her cruel teeth.

BIG tears rolled down my cheeks, “Do you mean I just have to keep nursing him FOREVER?”

A more veteran nurse walked in at that moment and she took him to the nursery and told me to get some sleep.  She was an angel and I loved her.

It did get better, but it continued to be hard.  Charlie had thrush on his tongue for months.  So,  desperate not to contract the thrush myself, which my doctor warned would feel like razor blades in my nipples, I had to rub Nystatin on my nipples every time he fed.

Then there was the breastfeeding/potty training combo.  As soon as Charlie would latch on, Finny would poop his underwear or pee in the living room.

And of course, any time we went out for the evening, I could never come home and just fall into bed.  I would watch jealously as David would head up the stairs and I would pull out the pump and the bottles and milk myself in front of the TV.

All that being said, nursing my boys is one of the best things I’ve ever done.  Truly.  Because when you’re nursing, you have to sit down, you have to slow down, you have to stop and really enjoy your baby.  And it’s a kind of joy for which adjectives can do no justice.  When it works, it’s soft, tender and perfect.  Like licking a grape sherbet ice cream cone while listening to the crescendo of “O Holy Night” or cuddling up beneath a thick fleece blanket in your jammies watching the ending of It’s a Wonderful Life. 

It’s all those good, wonderful feelings, only better, and without the cacaphony.

But today, it’s over.  We’ve been doing the slow wean for a while now and for the past month or so, I’ve just been nursing Charlie first thing in the morning.  Today, while he’s at my mom and dad’s I tried to pump and got only drops, so the jig is up.

Which means next weekend when I want to sleep in past 5:30 a.m., I can because David can roll out of bed and fix a bottle just as easily as I can.

But it also means, at eleven and a half months old, that my baby is getting older.  That my second baby is weaned.  And it’s sad.  And it’s lovely.  Both.

Whadda you wanna do?

Stuck in the old house, holed up by runny noses, chest congestion, fever, headache, ear infections, and sinus congestion, Finny, Charlie and I have not been doing a whole lot of field tripping the past couple weeks. Even if we were well, the cold, slushy rain is gross and bothersome and who wants to put on anything but a blanket and some socks and Johnny Mathis’s Christmas classics anyway? But when we are stuck in the house for days, I start to become obsessed with “doing something” because surely there are things we can do around the house aside from watching Bambi for the four hundredth time, right? Right?


So last night, I put Charlie to bed early because the poor, sad baby crawled up to me with his frowzy, red mop of curls and red-rimmed eyes and practically demanded that if I did not put him to sleep right this instant, he was going to climb the stairs and scale his crib wall and put himself to bed. So, after poor, old Charlie went off to bed, Finny and I revisited the “what are we gonna do?” conversation once again. Ever seen The Jungle Book? We were the vultures:

“Whadda we gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Whadda you wanna do?”
“I don’t know. Whadda we gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Whadda you—now don’t start that again!”

So, I said, “Finny, what do you wanna do? Wanna play memory cards? Wanna build with blocks? Do you want to do a puzzle?”

His response, “No, I don’t want to do anything. I want to do nothing.”

My thought: Well, we can’t just do nothing…can we? Because that’s actually what I want to do. Is it healthy for a toddler to just do nothing? Shouldn’t he be getting some exercise or learning shapes or numbers or something?

“Okay,” I said, crawling up on the couch and pulling the blanket over me.

He immediately followed suit and crawled up on the other end of the couch and pulled his blanket over him.

Still feeling the need to suggest we do SOMETHING, I asked, “Wanna touch toes?”

Finny beamed from ear to ear and started in with his chipmunk giggles, “Okay! Okay! Let’s touch toes, but you have to take your socks off.” He’s very particular.

“But I don’t wanna take my socks off. My feet’ll get cold.”

“Okay, well, you can just leave them on then.” Thanks, buddy.

And then, we touched toes, and it was…hilarious. There was a little touching of the toes and then a little playful kicking of the feet and through it all just uproarious laughter.

Then, we made a fort with my blanket and we both hid beneath it and we waited for the monster to come, and we waited and waited, and if it were up to Finny, we would’ve waited all night, just to stay cozied up underneath that blanket. And eventually, the monster came, and it was Daddy and he found his spot on the couch too.

And then we decided to read books. And one by one, Finny would pull a book off the self and bring it over to his spot on my lap and listen and snuggle and listen and snuggle. And eventually, forty-five minutes later, we headed off to bed, exhausted.

We did not learn shapes or do leg lunges. We did not bake cookies or build a dinosaur out of blocks. We did not hang a new craft on the wall. We did nothing, and I’ve never laughed harder.

Finny, nothing is more fun than doing nothing with you.

Reaching Out...

Recently I connected across the great big blogosphere with one bad mama-jama. Here name is Heather Von St. James and not only is she a fellow mom, but she is also a cancer survivor. When her six-year-old daughter, Lily, was just three and a half months old, just as she was likely feeling grateful to start getting a regular night’s sleep again, Heather was diagnosed with Mesothelioma, a highly aggressive cancer caused by asbestos exposure. 90-95% of those diagnosed with Mesothelioma do not survive—Heather did. And she keeps a blog to tell her story and to be an inspiration to others.

If you’re interested or if you know of someone who would be interested, I’ve posted a link to her blog on mine.

Thanks for sharing your story, Heather. http://www.mesothelioma.com/blog/authors/heather/

The Growing Story

I read The Growing Story by Ruth Krauss and Helen Oxenbury to Finny before his nap today and fell in love. I fall in love every time I read it. There is so much I love about it, it’s hard to know where to begin. I love the little boy. I love that he has just one pair of warm pants and just one woolen coat and I love that he puts them in a box and climbs up on a chair and puts them away on the closet shelf for the summer.

I love the farm that he and his mother live on. The beautiful orchards, the pear trees, the wandering chickens. I love how adorable his mom looks in her red polka-dot head scarf. I love the way he follows his mom around and helps her with the farm chores.

And I love how concerned his is about growing up:

The chicks were chickens. The chickens were nearly up to the little boy’s middle…The puppy was a dog. The dog was nearly up to the little boy’s head. The little boy looked at the chickens and the dog. “You both have grown up. I haven’t grown up. I am still little.”


This story has gorgeous, lush, tender illustrations—the white blossoms on the orchard trees, the fall leaves blowing in the storm, the boy and his mother in the looking-glass.

And the writing is nearly perfect. Short, simple, rhythmic sentences and a sense of the passing of time. The honeysuckle bloomed. The roses bloomed. The corn grew as high as a man. The pears were ripening.

But I love it most of all because I snuggle up beneath a red blanket and read it beside my little boy…who is growing up…before my very eyes.

I don’t love everything about that, however. I don’t love the crying and the tantrums. I don’t love the constant, constant, constant bonking of the head. And I don’t love the little bitty white lies that are starting to pop up from time to time.

But here is what I do love…

I love that after a backyard picnic, I found him huddled up on the couch beneath a blanket eating a peanut butter sandwich…naked. I love that he doesn’t go anywhere without his little orange cat and his binoculars and that sometimes he puts on swim goggles to play in the yard. I love that he will carry his heavy black stool across the house so that he can reach the light switch to be in the dark with his flashlight. I love that he is very concerned about what I wear and prefers that I wear my green dress so that I look like Princess Fionna. I love that he loves his new fort from Grandma and that he’s so proud she made it just for him. I also love that last night after dinner, he invited Charlie into his fort and they both just sat in there giggling their heads off…so I put down my dish towel and I crawled in too. I love how proud he was of himself yesterday morning at the park when he climbed up the big kid ladder at the big kid park all by his big kid self, and I love that yesterday on our walk, we spent fifteen minutes just sitting in a pile of yellow leaves. I love that when we had to say goodbye to his friend Caroline, he said in these exact words, “But Caroline, I thought you would be joining me for lunch today?”

I love all the fun and funny new things that come along with Finny as he grows up and I love that at three years old for all his new big kid discoveries, he is still my little boy and he still enjoys a good snuggle and a great book with his mommy, whom by the way, he still--to my great delight--totally adores.