Breaking Out.

Bam.

Today we broke out.

It is a rare 65 degree day. In January. In Nebraska. And we opened up the windows of this house like it was our job. The freshness of air imploded in through the window screens with a breathless poof. Shaking the dust off of the wintery feeling inside this house and grazing over our dry, cold skin with spring scented warmth.

We left the windows open and ran outside.

We dipped our toes in the invisible beginnings of where Spring must be secretly growing. Growing and waiting, just a few more weeks. We're sure of it. It's coming.

And when I say "we ran," I mean all of us. Because Teebs is a real walker now.

He lumbers around with a solid purpose, each step is a plan and each plan is going to methodically take him where he wants to go.

I know it's still weeks away, even months, and there are blizzards to come and fingers to warm. But today, we broke out.

The house breathed a sigh of relief behind us through the open windows and we really didn't look back.

The past few days I've been in a funk. An antsy funk. A kind of funk when I slump over across an armrest and whine in long drawn out slimy words to Tom, "I'm booooooooored." A funk where I'm 12 years old again waiting for someone to entertain me and tell me what to do. Because there's noooooothing to do and everything is booooooring.

Thankfully, mother nature heard my cries and answered a sweet, savory answer.

 

Brightness. Sun piercing through wafting clouds. Enough warmth that when you're wearing a t-shirt and a sweater and walking briskly you can almost, almost taste the salty scent of sweat.

Brightness, nature answered my whines with brightness.

Right now the boys are restlessly jostling around in their beds. Usually, it's nap time. But the windows are still open and a breeze is still breezing and this house is still imploding with freshness, and the boys, they know it's out there.

A Spring Preview broke out of the crusty ice of winter, just enough to tease us. The forecast for this week is still nice, but temperatures are dropping and moisture will come I'm sure. Today is just a preview, a small snapshot for us to break out of the house into. But Spring is coming, eventually, and we know it, and we're ready.

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What I love about Tom

What I love about Tom.

What I love about Tom is that my inner mama voice is so loud and hard; pushing gogogogo all day long, and there are these moments when I am go, go, going and over all of that loudness Tom says in his wordless way "look."

Yesterday after dinner I was going in go-mode. I was going to clean up dinner and going to give the boys a bath and going to pick up the mess of boy that trails these babies' every step throughout this house. And as I was going Tom tried to get my attention "Babe, look at this," "Come look at Teeber, Babe," "Get your camera, come here." But I was going and was firm with my no. I told him my camera was in the truck, in the driveway, it was cold. No.

But Tom knew a moment was happening.

Out of all of the happenings of life, there was this sliver of time after dinner where Teebs was splattering his left over food through the air and in between as many blades of his hair as he could smoosh it through. He was squealing and smooshing and mess making. He was laughing. He was being a baby.

And where I saw a mess and more reasons to listen to the mama voice whooshing through the tunnels of my mama bones with go-go-go's and do-do-do's and more-more-more's, Tom saw a moment.

And he put on his jacket and went to the driveway, to the truck, in the cold to get my camera. Because this moment mattered.

Just dinner, just messes, just baby squeals. But it mattered.

With my camera pressed to my face I started snapping and recording. I started laughing. And the gogogo was still whooshing but even that robust mama voice knew it was no match for this sliver of time.

It lasted less than five minutes. Teebs bored himself with his mess and he had to be stripped of all his mushed up clothing and the cleaning began. And Tom melted away into the bathroom to patiently clean Bub's ears.

Like nothing remarkable had just happened. Like everything was just as good as it always has been and always will be. Like every sliver of time just smoothed away into one huge pool of time and all in all, everything was pretty good.

The mess was cleaned, baths were finished, boys were wrapped up warmly in beds, and the mama gogogo voice seemed not as important that evening because there were moments to be had, recorded, and remembered.

And that, basically, is what I love about Tom.

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Mothering

I've been thinking a lot about mothering.

About the word, the action, the fury of love that drives us to do it.

I've been thinking a lot about mothering.

What does it mean to be mothering? How is mothering different than being a mother? How, exactly, does one ensure they are mothering well? Why do we do it. Why do we so naturally, so effortlessly, devote every bit of being in ourselves to mothering babies?

This. is. why.

These faces are why. Every bit of being in myself is devoted to, poured into, these faces.

Because the smoothness of these faces deserve mothering. The one dimpled cheek deserves mothering. The eyes skimmed with shimmer and pooling with shine, they deserve mothering. The scraggly chunks of hair. The steady stream of slobber collecting under the chunky dollop of fat right under a baby chin. These babies with their rolls of skin, their messes, their tempers, their yawns, their little fists that look like tiny blocks of flesh. They deserve mothering.

Every talent, shortcoming, passion. Every breathe and wheeze and sigh. All of the whimpers and chuckles. Everything that happens, that comes from me, everything, it is all for mothering. And I'm not perfect at it. There are days that I'm not even good at it. But I love it.

Read it slowly and let it sink it. I love mothering. It's the devotion that really gets me. The pouring out of myself into this task of raising children, and how no matter what else is going on at any time, anywhere, I have this one job of turning babies into good, future people that matters above anything else. I love the strain of worrying, planning, failing, starting over and trying again. I love the breathlessness of a solid success after a string of daunting failure.

And the wrapping. I love the wrapping. The wrapping of arms around my neck at bedtime or around the spot right above my knee that is the perfect height for an unsure 3 year old to wrap his arms and cling. Because when life makes him unsure and he needs that wrapping and clinging, his mother is there.

 Mothering is being there.

I've been thinking a lot about mothering and being there and agonizing over the things I do wrong or the things I do right. I've been contemplating the beauty and complexities of being mom. But I think maybe it really is simpler than I think. Every day the brightness of those faces burst with every kind of emotion, and my one job, always, is to be there. For the clinging and the wrapping, to just be there. To mother. To give them everything they deserve. And most importantly, to give them a mother that loves mothering.

I'm pouring. I'm pouring and mothering, pouring and mothering. Pouring every bit of myself into mothering these babies. Because that is what they deserve. Those little faces full of squish, they deserve a mother who loves mothering. Every bit of baby that they are, they deserve every bit of me. Every bit of my being. These babies, they deserve mothering.

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Back to Normal

On Saturday we woke up at a groggy nine a.m., Bub and Teebs rubbed their eyes and piddled around the house, walking around with slaps of their bare feet on the cold wood floors while Tom and I high-fived each other with our eyes. Nine a.m., we had slept in.

We felt refreshed, rejuvenated, almost new, and as we began our day I could feel the familiar blanket of normalcy slowly warming us with its soft routines and stitches of familiarity. The flu had passed, we had survived, and normalcy was blanketing us once again. There was nothing else to do but wrap ourselves in hats and coats and leave our house to play in the cold, distant, but still present, sun.

It was just the flu, just a virus, just a few days of moaning and cursing our germy burden, but still when it passed we were left with an appreciation of life. Like that first meal after laying like a curled up rag on the bathroom floor for a whole night, when plain, dry toast tastes like the most savory cuisine that has ever entered your mouth. That was the kind of appreciation we had.

 Luckily, there was a lot to appreciate.

Just the little things. Like funny faces and pine cones and sunshine.

And quiet moments that move slowly with thoughts that are soothing but powerful.

And sunshine, and sunshine, and sunshine. Let's not forget the sunshine.

That blanket of normalcy, it fell down on us like a leaf weaving through the wind and we felt so good we almost forgot that just a day ago, just a few hours away from where we were, things were different. But normal came back with the solid assurance that everything always gets better.

Everything. It always gets better.

Always.

Even when everything feels heavy and bad---

The heavy and bad passes---

And we are left with so, so much to appreciate.

Saturday was our savory dry toast. Our day of appreciation for just being. And that kind of appreciation almost makes being sick worth it. Almost.

Now we've been normal again for so many days that our difficult week of stomach flu is nothing but a fizzling memory of something bad that happened, but passed, because there is too much to appreciate here. Like kissable, bulging cheeks, that used to be seeping with sadness but now are absolutely exploding with chubbiness and life.

Chubby cheeks. Sunshine. Wrapping ourselves up warm enough to play outside on a January day. These are our dry toasts of life. Our simple pleasures that are actually, really, really worth appreciating. After a long, hard week, our everything finally got better, and of the things we are spending time appreciating, our normal is definitely at the very top of our list.

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Sick Babies and Mama Strength

Right now there are two sleeping babies in my house. My feet are propped up, my tired body is nicely settled into the cushions of the couch, the volume on the t.v. is turned almost all the way down, and the only thing I can hear is the gentle churning of the dishwasher in the background. It is almost peaceful. Which is a far cry from what this week has been.

It started on Monday. Tom was working late and I was just starting to drift to sleep after putting Bub and Teebs to bed and doing my evening routine of chores when a shrill cry came from Bub's room. Every mother is used to shrill cries in the middle of the night, but this one was different. It was abrupt and panicked and echoed with thunders of fear coming from my Bub. I ran to his room in time to see him cupping fistfuls of vomit in each hand and fat, wailing tears burning down his cheeks.

Honestly, I have always wondered how I would handle this situation. What would I do when I had to intervene when a precious little baby was throwing up? Would I get sick too? Would I turn away and ask Tom to help? Would I panic? How could I possibly soothe a sick baby and tell them everything was fine when in that moment of vomit and terror and fumes of nauseousness nothing seems fine?

But when it actually happened and I actually had to deal with this exact situation I had dreaded since becoming a mother, something inside of me took over and I became the kind of mommy I'd always hoped I could be. Something took over and it was stronger and smarter and calmer than I ever have been and without hesitation I was on my knees at Bub's bedside, scooping him up, and promising him that everything was fine as more vomit fell from his trembling mouth. In that moment, I was the kind of mommy I'd always hoped I could be.

But it didn't stop there. It wasn't long before Bub, Teebs, Tom, me, and even my parents were battling the same stomach flu that had brought Bub to tears Monday night. And it wasn't kind. It was vicious and relentless and we are still struggling to be o.k.

But aside from the misery of seeing my babies hurting and the despair of being sick myself, there are amazing things I have learned this week. And in a small but powerful way, I feel just a little bit stronger.

I have learned that I have Mama Strength. I have learned that from the moment my babies were pulled from my body, in the vacant void of my stomach where a bulging baby once was, a tremendous Mama Strength began growing. It is a gift to mothers, and makes us amazing women in the thickest of moments when we are scared, shaking, and unsure.

It makes us able to pat the backs of terrified babies as they tremble over the toilet for the tenth time in one night. It gives us the calmness to say "don't worry, its alright" as a trail of vomit explodes onto the carpet and tiny feet stumble to the bathroom. It numbs every last drop of exhaustion in us and rolls us out of bed two, three, four, times a night when things are too quiet and temperatures just need to be checked one more time. Just to make sure everything is o.k. It holds our eyelids open when every flinching muscle inside of us says sleep but there is a steamy, sick baby finally asleep in our arms.

In what was arguably our most demanding week of parenting, I was stronger, smarter, and calmer than I have ever been. Than I ever knew I could possibly be. The Mama Strength brewing deep within me took over and let me be the mommy my babies needed me to be. And as the nightmares of this week begin to dissolve away I'm holding on to that strength and calmness for as long as I can and absolutely saturating myself in the love I've felt from my boys this week. The love that comes from being there in the moments they have so desperately needed me. The love that fuels the growth of my Mama Strength.

After Bub's long night of throwing up again and again, and begging me each time to help him and make it stop, I cleaned him up and tucked him into bed with a reassuring kiss and a loving "goodnight, baby." His heavy head sunk into his pillow but he rolled over just a little as I closed the door and said faintly "thank you, mommy." I know it was just Mama Strength, and I'm not really that strong, or that smart, and certainly not that calm, but I still feel, just a little bit, like I earned that "thank you."

We have big, big dreams of a better weekend. Starting with eating dinner tonight, something we haven't been able to do all week. It will be small and we will start out slowly,  but it will be amazing. For five whole days I have been the kind of mommy I'd always hoped I could be, and while I never want me or my babies to ever go through this again, I wouldn't trade what I learned this week for anything. I've learned that I am capable, and in the thickest of moments when I am scared, shaking, and unsure, I have the Mama Strength within me to be stronger, smarter, and calmer than I have ever been.

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Mommy, Watch This

 Our weekend started and ended with a lot of this---

 A lot of snuggling, a lot of closeness, a lot of planning on not planning anything.

And one huge lot of goofy, break-your-heart-with-their-cuteness grins.

All of that closeness, all of those grins are really unmeasurable. Sometimes the best things are simply unplanned. And in between all of our not planning, we did manage to spend an evening romping around an indoor playground where Bub soaked up every second, every drip, every squeal of fun.

And I found my heart breaking with love over one of Bub's new phrases. 

Mommy, watch this!

I am enamored with his yearning to share his victories with me, and he is infatuated with seeing my adoring reaction.

Mommy, watch this!

It doesn’t matter what I’m doing. Elbow deep in dish soap bubbles, power walking with a wad of poopy diaper, drowning behind heavy eyelids that sink closed just a little longer with each blink, or just hanging out with my boys on an unplanned Sunday evening---when Bub shrieks “Mommy, watch this!” I watch. 

And it doesn't even matter what kind of mood I'm in. This single phrase spews from Bub's mouth in a fury of persistence and chisels itself into the coldest parts of me. Mommy, watch this, and suddenly I'm a warm. melted, attentive, mommy.

And there is the soothing promise of baby Teebs, who is just oozing with the potential of his own "Mommy, watch this!"

Someday.

 Mommy, watch this!

 And this!

Mommy, are you watching this?

 

Those words, those high pitched squeals of excitement, are musical.  

 Musical, magical, little tiny moments that my baby needs me to watch.

Our weekend was free and unplanned. It was full of closeness and packed with love. We snuggled, and played, and shared our warmth with each other. Looking back over the pictures I can see little crinkles in the corner of my eye. Tiny V's of skin beginning to tire, the beginnings of future wrinkles, right on the edge of my eyes.

Someday, those wrinkles will appear to remind me of the beautiful chunk of time I spent squinting in response to "Mommy, watch this!" They will remind me of the thrill of my babies needing my attention, my love, and every ounce of passion I put into watching them grow. Those crow's feet wrinkles will seep into my skin some day, and never let me forget that this job was hard. It was hard and draining and pulled down heavily with worry on every inch of my body. But it was important. And there are few things more beautiful and important than "Mommy, watch this!"

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