Childhoodtake2!

Stomp all you want around the house.
Scream at each other.
Scream at me,
be rude to me.
Cry that you are going to bed early because of your behavior,
be upset about that 5th time out.

I will always love you, period.

Disappoint me.
Make a bad choice.
Fail a test.
Be mean, be rude, try your hardest.

I will always love you, period.

Don't make the team.
Don't be in the play.
Don't make that shot, the one that would have won the game.

I will always love you, period.

Slam that door,
tell me how angry you are.
Have your words rip through me.

I will always love you, period.

Nothing you do or don't do will ever make me love you more, or less.
There is no need to lie to me,
no need to keep things from me.
Don't you get that?

I will always love you, period.

You and I are attached.
You are my family.
I wished for you,
I tried for you,
I was so lucky to carry you with me.
I got to hold you from the inside and rock you to sleep.
I am the one that knew your every sound, your ever whimper.

I felt your hiccups coming from my belly.
I was the one to take away your pain.
I was and am there to pick you up.
And ugly frustration and my stubborn gene won't take that love away.

I will always love you, period.

Yes, I will be sad.
Yes, I will not like you in that moment.
Yes, I will not tolerate your behavior and we will battle.
And yes, I will fight for you, for who I know you are, even when you aren't being that person.
I will fight for your character.

And I will always love you, period.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes to write on one word. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on break.
Go.

Of course I thought I would break,
when I was just a kid and had the weight of adult responsibilities on my shoulders.
Of course I thought I would break,
when my life changed forever at 23.
Of course I thought I would break,
when my job takes up too many hours in my week.
Of course I thought I would break,
when you arrived and I couldn't recover from our surgery, and your sister was a three year old person.
Of course I thought I would break,
whenever life is daunting and my ability to be good at any part of it seems so far out of reach.

But, I never have.
I am whole.
I am still standing.
I am still here.
We don't just survive, we become who we are on the things that should have broken us.

And someday, you too will think this thing, this moment, this time, it will break you, it should break you.
But, it too will pass.
You too will remain whole.
You too will become who you are and you will remember what I keep telling you,
love will fix the broken.

Stop.

I didn't know it at the time.
None of us do.
It just sort of happens.
We are all so busy being parents and me,
I was too busy being sad about big milestones and drinking you in that I didn't take note.
That's how it happens in parenthood, you just wake up one day and realize something you cherished hearing or seeing your kids do, has somehow stopped.
And then you realize, that it's done.
It's gone.
There was a last time and you didn't even realize it.
And then we sit there and say "remember when they used to do this?"
And for me, the memories wash over me like a warm bath.

I didn't know the last time you called Mia "woof-woof" it was your last time.
I didn't know the last time you mispronounced ravioli, it was your last time.
I didn't know the last time we gave you a bath, it was your last.
I didn't know the last time you fit on my chest was our last snuggle like that.
I didn't know the last time you cried for me at night, it was our last feeding.
I didn't know the last time I washed your infant clothes you wouldn't fit into them anymore.
I didn't know the last time you played tug of war with Mia, it was your last.
I didn't know the last time I fed you baby food, it was our last time.
I didn't know the last time you took a bottle, it would be your last.
I didn't know the last time you crawled, it was over.
I didn't know the last time you needed help getting dressed, it was our last.
I didn't know that the last time you reached for me from the floor, would be the last.

So many times, parents can't wait for a phase or stage to be over.
They can't wait for a little more independence right around the corner.
But me, I sit quiet.
I think long and hard about those times, those moments.
I feel a part of me break.
I now look at all of our happy routines and can't help but think,
when will be the last time?

Our last Friday night movie.
Our last Sunday breakfasts.
Our last 7am Sunday morning snuggles.
Our last hand holding while crossing the street.
The last time...

This post was inspirted by a poem...the last time

Every Friday we unite for five minutes to write on one word. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on real.
Go.

The real truth...
sometimes I am overwhelmed.
Sometimes, I lose all self control and patience.
I yell, at you both.
I want to run and hide, from all of you.
The real truth...
you are always messy.
You are always loud.
You are almost always fighting each other, or us.
The real truth...
I never realized I was going to be a mom.
I didn't plan for it when deciding how my life was going to go.
I never really thought I wanted this life.
The real truth...
I love it.
And didn't realize I would.
I hate the loud, but love the childhood unfolding.
I hate the constant attention, but love the memories being created.
I hate the have tos, but love our traditions and family time.
The real truth is that I miss the old me, the old life I created.
But the real truth is I never realized how much I needed this life.
How much you saved me from me.
The real truth...
we as parents need each other.
We need to realize we are not alone in our thoughts.
Not just the good, but that thoughts that rattle you as a person.
The thoughts and days that make you question every decision.
The times you spend crying thinking about how to handle it differently.
The real truth is that our home is rarely ever calm.
And through all the stubborn minds, and doors being slammed, and patience running thin, and screams, and time outs and punishments and more screams, and things being taken away, and feet stomping,
there is love.
And that's the real truth,
there is love.

Stop.

It's not all good.
I'm sorry guys, but it's not.
I know I write a lot about the good, and the memories we share.
It's really important to me that you realize that you gave me a second chance, at life, at childhood.
But I also want to be honest and let you know that parenting is so hard.
Seriously hard.
Not horrible, but really hard.
It's so loud, all of the time.
And time is just rushing by, I am getting so old so quickly.
And although I have found this great balance, by the time I head home, I am bone tired.
And then I start being a mom.
And it's loud.
There is so little time and like all of us, there is still so much to do.
I have a million things to get done and I want to get you to bed and I just worked a really long day.
All I want to do is pour a glass of wine and listen to the quiet.
I want to read a book, on my couch, in the afternoon.
I want to binge watch a show, as soon as I get home, with take out food and my person.
But, the loud, it's so so loud.
You are running and screaming and chasing each other and soon, some one will get hurt (or think they got hurt) and the whining, blaming and crying will start.

But, someday, I will have my old life back.
I won't be repeating myself over and over to two faces that definitely hear me but are not listening.
My person and I won't have to have a conversation over two kids screaming for attention, we can just...talk.
Our talks will not be quick updates as we now have to calm the storms.

But, not today.
Today I have a five and two year old.
Today I have loud and chaos and mess.
Today my two year old follows me everywhere.
Shower, yep.
Bathroom, yep.
Upstairs, yep.
Laundry, yep.
Back downstairs, yep.
Today my five year old follows him everywhere, and therefore me everywhere.
Today their faces are always a mess, covered with food.
Today, their noses are always running.
Today, dinner is filled with "do this", "sit this way", "no, sit on your bottom", "this is how you ask for things", "you're being demanding", "we say please and thank you", "that's not how you talk"!

But someday, it will all be different.
Someday it will be quiet.
Someday it will be calm.
Someday it will be just us two.
Someday it will be filled with nothing to do.

But I'm not ready for that yet.
I'm not ready to give this life up or to trade it in.
I am not ready to stop raising you.
I am not ready to let go of even the worst days.
I am not ready for calm, or quiet, or clean.
I am not ready to have empty bedrooms.
I am not ready to have clean bathrooms.
I am not ready to hear from you, through phone calls.
I am not ready to lose you.
To lose small.
To lose hand holding.
To lose "I love you mommy".
To lose bedtime stories and songs.
To lose one last kiss at night.
To lose all of us, together in one house.
To lose how we define family because you will be out there, defining your own family.

I am not ready for that yet.

And luckily, I am not ready.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes to write on one word. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on plan.
Go.

I always had one.
Way before I even knew it was called a plan, I always had one.
At eight, I remember making my first plan to start living life for me.
At eleven, I dove deep into the plan with more research.
At fourteen, I started saving for the plan.
At seventeen, I started working the plan.
At twenty-one, it all changed.

I met a person who believed in family.
In happy.
I met a person who changed my plans.

Because you were never in my plans.
You were never suppose to be here.
Until he said you were.
And I listened.
And then, I made a different plan.

A plan that included family,
and counting on someone else.
A plan that meant I was no longer on my own.
A plan that expanded our footprint.
A plan that included childhood and second chances and love,
enough to fix the broken.

So no, you were not always in the plans.
You were not always on my mind.
You were his idea, in his plans.
And, he was right.
You should have always been here.
We made the right decision.
We planned it just right.
I just needed to listen.

Stop.

Just down the hall are two people that know what my heart beat sounds like from the inside of my body.
Just down the hall are two hearts I got to carry and forever will.
Just down the hall are two little people, with determination and stubbornness and love.
Just down the hall, they are dreaming...of their day, of their hopes, of their fears.

Just down the hall, they are safe, they are snuggled, they are still with us.
Just down the hall, they are resting, they are tired, they are gearing up for tomorrow.
Just down the hall, they are breathing deep, their curls meshed to their face, their comfort so obvious.

Just down the hall, is love that I did not expect.
Just down the hall, plans I did not think to make.
Just down the hall, lies worry wrapped in small.
Just down the hall, the weight of family is so heavy and so freeing.
Just down the hall, defines family.

Just down the hall, is concern.
Just down the hall is childhood.
Just down the hall is happy.
Just down the hall, they are curled up, both sleeping on their side, both roll over when kissed one final time, both whisper from their dreams.

Just down the hall, you will find my insecurities.
You will find a part of me.
You will find my fears.
You will find my hope.
You will find my smile.
You will find my peace.
You will find my second chance.
You will find my kids, my two crazy kids.
And when I finally put my head down, my last thoughts are,
just down the hall.

Every Friday we unite for five minutes to write on one word. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on gather.
Go.

It's Friday night, and that means one thing, it's family movie night.
And as we all pile into the house and gather around, I am filled full.
These are the moments I never knew I always wanted.
These are the moments that I will take with me and moments I hope they recreate.
It's moments of "just us four",
moments of laughter and excitement,
moments of pizza and popcorn and childhood.
It is the definition of family.
It's this brief moment in time where the rest of the world melts away,
and it's just us.

And as we make our way towards the warm fire place,
as we all pile onto the couch, trying to hold hands with everyone,
as we all snuggle and cuddle in,
I am in awe of love.
I am in awe of family.
I whisper in their ear how much they mean to me, how much they have reinvented me, how much they have given.

Because the truth is, it's not always like this.
We're not always this warm,
some weeks are harsh and loud.
Some weeks are too much for all of us.
But not Friday nights.
Not this time.
This is a time of just of four gathering to define family, love and childhood.
Just with a pizza and a movie.

Stop.