Archives for 2008

Summer at home with three kiddos under the age of 5 is about to drive me to the brink of insanity. They go to summer school two days a week. For that, I am more than grateful. The other three days—well, I survive. Just barely.

Sometimes I feel like such a freak. You know, when I think about that lady in Arkansas who is expecting #18. About the only thing she and I have in common is that we both chose names for our kids beginning with the same letter (she: J; I: S). That naming strategy alone precludes me from reproducing 15 more kids. No way I could come up with 15 more “S” names.

So, she’s Supermom: pregnant, breastfeeding, homeschooling, and just exuding a maternal glow during Today show interviews.

I really think I’m the antithesis of Mrs. Mom of 18.

I still look pregnant but have gratefully left the nausea and discomfort far behind. Some days I feel like my greatest parenting strategy is playing Thomas the Tank movies back to back to back. I do exude something, but it’s not a maternal glow. It’s sweat. All I do is sweat. All the time. I’m hot and dripping wet with sweat all the time. Really.

Wednesday, we went to a birthday party for one-year-old twin girls. We met Penny and Rusty and the girls through POTATO, the parents of twins club. We were all excited to celebrate with them. The kids were thrilled to be going to a birthday party. They know that means cake.

I was thrilled to have a fun outing and give them some additional play time.

By the time we got to the party, I felt as if I had made the journey on foot. Hot, sweaty (as I said, always sweating…), tired. Nothing is ever easy. Not even going to a freaking birthday party. Yes, I was the mom who looked as if she had rolled out of bed. No makeup. Hair pulled back (because, as I said, I’m sweaty all the time). I promise I had bathed. All the other moms were adorable. Cute and made up. Painted nails. Skinny waists. Jewelry and makeup. How do you do it?

And, yes, my boys were the ones not tossing, not rolling, but HURLING, LOBBING, balls throughout the party place. My daughter was the one picking up the babies at the party. You know, a grip that vaguely resembles the Heimlich maneuver while Baby hangs on for dear life. Yep, the Bernards partied with bells on.

Oh, and I’m the one who left the tattered gift bag, excavated from my jumbled-up gift wrap stash moments before we left the house. Don’t even ask me how many cute, so-adorable-you’d-want-to-die, polka-dotted, plaid, and ribboned presents were on the gift table.

No wonder I had a headache all night long. Something like someone was driving an ax through my forehead just over my right eye.

Do you think Mrs. Mom of 18 ever has a headache?

Nahhh. I doubt it.

When I meet a first-time expectant mother, I have some misgivings.

Usually her eyes are dancing and her face is frozen in a huge grin. Her belly is swollen with the life inside. She’s going to be a mommy. And expectant moms of multiples are especially chipper. Wow! Two (or more) babies.

Do I break it to her? Do I dare tell her the secret we in this Sisterhood know to be true? Do I tell her about the hardship, the depression, the tears?

Oh, but she knows already. Yes, she’s heard everyone talk about the sleepless nights. She knows Brooke Shields’ story. She may even know my story (the hardship, the depression, the tears).

Yet those maternal instincts—the desire for a baby—override reality. She floats around in a fantasy world for nine months until the first contraction hits.

See, I’m the most idealistic person I know. I kid you not, I had (OK—I still have them sometimes) daydreams of getting all sorts of chores accomplished in my picket-fence-surrounded cottage while my little cherub slept peacefully (on a schedule) in the bassinet next to the large picture window. (Yes, I hear you laughing.)

Imagine my surprise when I found myself sobbing in a tattered bathrobe that reeked of sour breast milk.

What was I thinking? Me, a mother? This was no June Cleaver adventure! Where was my cottage? God gave me a colicky, screaming baby (and later, TWO colicky, screaming babies), not sleeping cherubs. A friend once said that she believes people always say to the expectant mother to enjoy her upcoming “sweet time” because NOBODY actually does enjoy it. It’s not sweet! It’s agony.

I think—through some odd combination of God-ordained amnesia, romanticism, and those ambiguous “motherhood hormones”—we re-write our own histories by living vicariously through our pregnant friends and relatives.

I really have no recollection of much of those early days. It’s kind of like an alternate reality. I KNOW I went through it. I KNOW I lived it. I do remember some aspects of the pain. But it almost feels like I remember a movie I watched. Yes, it was an emotional experience. Yes, the feelings can come flooding back. But, now—unlike then—it seems like it was all worth it and then some.

No, it’s not a June Cleaver cottage. It’s not the easiest road. It’s the hardest work EVER. It’s giving yourself to one or more human beings every single day.

That’s what makes it so rewarding.

But it’s HARD. Did I say that already?

And, so, I do feel a certain obligation to the Sisterhood. I want to warn her. I want to tell her that more than likely, it’s not going to turn out like she thinks.

But the good news is that it’s not going to turn out like she thinks.

After the tears are dry and the sleep returns and she starts moving in her groove, one day she’ll notice something unfamiliar.

The feeling of overwhelming love is unlike anything you’ve experienced or expect.

Maybe that’s the most wonderful sisterhood secret of all.

Last night I served my family (our parents included) my first foray into preparing a raw foods dish. I made a “fruit cobbler” for dessert. It was really, really good. We couldn’t believe it didn’t have any sugar! I got rave reviews from my test kitchen. (I’ll post the recipe in a separate entry.)

I read this in a raw food cookbook I checked out of the library (my addition in italics):

My body is … [God’s] … temple. My body isn’t a discount body. Just because something is cheap or free doesn’t mean I need to eat it, especially if I know it’ll do me more harm than good.
—Ani’s Raw Food Kitchen, Ani Phyo

Check out her website here: Ani’s Raw Food Kitchen.

I am also loving this Scripture verse right now:

“All things are lawful,” but not all things are helpful. “All things are lawful,” but not all things build up. Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbor.
—1 Corinthians 10:23 (ESV)

I think it’s quite illuminating that the second part of that verse speaks to the good of one’s neighbor. I don’t want to hyper-spiritualize this issue (but since I do believe the Bible speaks to every molecule of our lives, I think this is appropriate…), but I really believe that all of our (humanity’s, broadly and our family’s, specifically) issues with healthy eating, weight gain/loss, healthy living, disease, epidemic obesity, environmental concerns, etc. stem from each seeking his or her own good. Indeed, we are self-absorbed, self-seeking, self-satisfying, self-indulging creatures. We have mass-produced plants and animals until they are stripped of their natural health benefits, all for the indulgence of our insatiable appetites. We have created more and more ways to feed our sweet and fat and salty tooths, all to the detriment of our health. We pour millions of dollars into fast food so that we can have it all right now. And all of this seeking for our own good just creates addiction to more. It’s powerful. It’s destructive.

I don’t know why it’s all kind of an epiphany for me to figure out that the way I eat—my food addictions, my idolatry of satisfying cravings, my lusting after french fries—is, first and foremost, a sin issue and an inevitable aspect of the Fall. But, I am, for the first time, kind of seeing all of this through new lenses. I don’t think I’ll totally abandon all of my eating patterns, but I am ready to embrace more healthy foods and free myself from the bondage of sugar, fat, and salt.

I’ve completed my first week now of “conscious eating.” I have very deliberately paid attention to my body as I have drastically reduced my intake of sugar, fat, and processed foods. (I know this seems a little ironic, being posted after the squash casserole recipe.)

Each day I’ve tried to eat high fiber/protein for breakfast. Lunch has been either a tossed green salad and fruit or black bean/whole wheat burrito and fruit.

Guess what? I have noticed more energy throughout the afternoon. A greater satiation that lasted throughout the evening.

And as I suspected, stopping the sugar and fat helped REDUCE the cravings for sugar and fat. Eating sugar and fat brings on a greater desire for more sugar and fat.

Oh, and I lost about 1.5 lbs. this week. 🙂

I can’t help it. I’m a Southern girl, raised on my mama’s yummy cooking. Hers is good comfort food.

And while I AM committed to overhauling our family’s diet (and have been doing a pretty good job getting started this week), I refuse to totally abandon all my favorite dishes. I say, everything in moderation (I’m just working on remembering the definition of moderation).

So I cooked my mama’s squash casserole tonight. It was a wonderful complement to salmon.

Thought I’d share it with all of you.

Squash Casserole
4-5 yellow squash, chopped
1 onion, chopped
2-3 slices bacon
1/2 stick butter
1 egg, beaten
salt, pepper, garlic powder to taste

Boil squash, onion, and bacon until tender, about 20 minutes. Drain squash and onion and remove bacon. Melt butter over hot squash mixture. Add beaten egg and seasonings. Use hand mixer or food processor to blend until almost pureed (I like it with a few chunks of squash throughout). Pour mixture into square casserole dish. Bake at 375 degrees for about 30 minutes or until bubbly and browned around the edges.

For those of you waiting for the next installment of the Potty Training Chronicles, read on…

Today was AMAZING. Both boys went pee AND poop in the potty. I can’t believe that neither boy had any kind of accident. No peeing on floor, couch. It all went in the potty.

We also had dry pants for car rides and a grocery store trip.

I think this will be my last potty training report. And I am thrilled.

Well, today it finally all clicked. Both boys went several times in the potty. Yippee!!!

This morning I was desperate for a break. So, I just put diapers on them and we went to the Y.

Once we got home, though, we went to underwear again. Within a few hours, Seth went first. Spencer followed soon after. (I think the positive peer pressure helped.)

My stomach did a flip-flop when Seth said, “Mommy! Finished!” It’s funny to me how excited I got over the liquid deposit.

I think we’re well on our way. Hooray!

I am really physically tired.

And also just tired of interacting with my urinating boys all day long.

Still no pee in the potty.

The closest today was Spencer running to me, “Mommy! I need to go potty.”
“OK, Spencer. Pull down your underwear and put your pee-pee in the potty.”

(I begin the mad-dash-scramble to the potty as Spencer squeezes his legs together and watches the pee run down his legs.)

“Mom. Wet. Wet.”

Sigh.

I had a fun present today as I got to change poopy underwear. Seth didn’t seem fazed by it.

Yippee. More fun awaits tomorrow.

We finally made it to the ballet recital! Whew! What began as excitement way back yonder in September turned into a sometimes hysterical uber-reluctance to practice dance. My theory is that Susanna just couldn’t embrace the restraints that the discipline of ballet demands. No talking? No shouting? No running around, doing whatever one wants to do? Oh, and she really struggled to wear the same leotard, tights, and ballet bun every single week. I think ballet just cramped her style a bit too much.

I have to admit that I was more than a little bit disappointed that she didn’t love, love, love ballet. I danced (ballet, tap, pointe, jazz, acrobatics) for 14 years. I wanted Susanna to love it, too.

I got my day, though. All of MY dreams came true as I dressed and made up my little ballerina. When I was pregnant with Susanna, I remember commenting that I wanted a little girl so that I could fix her hair.

Dance recital day lived up to all my expectations and then some.

I have very little to report. Lots of peeing everywhere except in the potties. The boys are liking their Elmo/Thomas/Bob the Builder/Buzz underwear and are moderately fascinated with being diaper-less.

They would LOVE to eat marshmallows (their reward for putting their pee-pee—even just a few drops!—in the potty), but so far it has not motivated them enough to make it to the potty before the pee comes down their legs.

Lots of “uh-oh, Mom!” and pointing to the puddle on the carpet.

Aargh. I had hoped we’d at least have a smidge of success on Day 1.