Pregnancy, etc.
Aside from the fact that pregnancy brings all kinds of aches and pains that you’re not supposed to get until you’re much older—persistent heartburn, perpetual lower back pain, high blood pressure, etc.—your body then has to bounce back from the stretching and the pounds—while possibly getting used to nursing, needs and next to no sleep. I swear, every pregnancy adds like 3 years to my body’s age. Three kids—that’s like ten years!

I want to be HOOOOOWD!
My 3-year-old, a classic middle child, has a favorite wail: “I want to be hooowd!” (Hold). (Sometimes I really think that even if she were an only child I wouldn’t be able to give her all the attention and affection she wants!) Whether your kid is fifteen pounds or fifty, the constant carrying wears on your back and arms and hips. All. The. Time. You’d think the exercise would help burn of those persistent pregnancy pounds. Ha. Ha. No.

Now I want to be HOOOOOWD!

Hello, ER!
Basically about the time they decide they don’t want to be held constantly, they start getting into everything dangerous you can imagine, whether that’s the stuff under the sink or jumping off the couch—or the roof. When you’re on a first name basis with the ER staff, you know you’ve earned every one of those gray hairs.

And you thought your blood pressure was high during pregnancy? Ha.

*Scoff!*
Perhaps even before they finish the I-have-no-idea-what-safety-means! phase, they move on to the I’m-waaay-too-cool-for-you phase. As if the attitude weren’t grating enough, even subconsciously they remind you that you’re so out of touch with what’s cool you seriously can’t tell hip from hokey. (But seriously, they think they look cool? Maybe you should pull out pictures to show them what was “cool” when you were 14—if you stand the eye rolls and “Mom/Dad, that was never cool.”)

Fortunately, by now you’re usually old enough not to care about the “cool-o-meter” of a fourteen-year-old . . . but that doesn’t make you feel less old.

Time doesn’t stand still
And probably the most bittersweet of all, children become a measuring stick for how much time has passed. You might feel like you’re the same age as when you started having kids, but now they’re six—or sixteen—so obviously your math is a bit fuzzy if you still think you’re 22 or 32 (or 16!). In this crazy time warp of parenthood, it feels like just days or mere weeks since you held that new baby, taught that toddler to walk & talk, or helped that kindergartener to read (and each time, wondered if this phase would ever end). And now they’re finishing high school or college, becoming adults, getting ready to start families of their own.

Every day, I swear parenthood makes me older and older—but I know that all too soon, this phase of parenthood will be over.

And then I’ll be a lot older.

What do you think? How does parenthood make you feel older?

Photo credits: tired mom—Jason Sewell; baby rolling eyes—nerissa’s ring

DUNK-DUNK!

Once upon a time, I decided to take my kids out on a fun trip all by myself. Usually, I try to avoid leaving the house . . . ever, but every once in a while, I’m overtaken by this idea that I should, you know, try to expose my children to fun learning experiences. I want to be a Supermom—you know the kind, those ladies who take their kids out, dressed adorably and coordinated-ly, for the requisite hour of active play every! day! with water bottles and Craisins and carrot sticks, and then they return for hour number five of reading and mind play . . .

Actually doing this in a tiny way, especially with some small amount of forethought and planning (like making them sandwiches to eat in the car!), makes me feel like an incredibly good mom.

So to be completely honest, doing this is at least a little bit to make me feel good about the job I’m doing as a mom. Which is probably totally hypocritical.

Amazing how much three little sandwiches can lull a mom into a false sense of competence, isn’t it?

But how hard could it be? It was a place geared for kids, so it couldn’t be as difficult as, say, visiting the dentist, grocery shopping, or walking down the street.

My kids believe they’re bored and living in near-prison conditions by the end of the average commercial break, so naturally they rejoiced, especially when they realized we weren’t, say, visiting the dentist or grocery shopping—because, hey! sandwiches! Oh, and the dinosaur place.

All until we got inside.

Which was, of course, Mommy Code.

Naturally, once she got out of the stroller and played with the exhibits, she loved every minute.

But when it was time to leave, she began complaining again.

Rebecca had already complained over 12,000 times (approximately) that she didn’t wike dis p’ace, that the dinosaurs scared her, that she didn’t like the noise, that world peace was taking so long to achieve, that gravity was a cruel mistress, &c.

Having exhausted all her logical arguments, Rebecca devolved into vowelless mumbling arpeggios in the key of whine.

Being the kind, understanding mommy that I am, I’d kind of had it.

I was unprepared for the sight that I found waiting.

I’d naively assumed that because it had been four days since the last time anyone had vomited, we were puke free.

Not so. Not so.

After wallowing in the horror! the horror! for a minute, I leapt into Competent-Mommy-Mode. (If you’re counting, that’s mode #3 after spontaneous & fun and fed up.)

Unfortunately for competent-mommy me, rather than using a floorplan with flow-through to the lobby, this museum had funneled us into a closed circuit, hiding the exits to the lobby behind doors with ominous warnings, like emergency alarms were going to screech if we came too close.

Rebecca, of course, is still crying, now covered in cold puke. I’m trying to reassure her, and yet get her to remain completely motionless—because she’s sharing this stroller with Rachel who has miraculously remained clean so far. Hayden is trotting along after us as fast as he can. This stroller was not built for jogging.

After running through the same tracks about three times, I finally gave up and opened the surely-alarmed doors that were about ten feet from where we started.

Who’s doing the pleading? Oh, it’s me.

And hello, lobby (with no emergency alarms).

Finally, after cleaning up my daughter, her clothes, her hair, her shoes, her stroller, and me, using mostly my bare hands, and clothing her in the spare jackets I’d brought for her and Hayden, I plopped Rachel on my hip and maneuvered us all out to the car. And I could move into Mommy Phase Four of the day:

Two hours ahead of schedule!

But I think the real punchline came just after dinner that night. Rebecca was convalescing on the couch, until round 2 began. Hayden ran to tell me—and mid-shout . . . well, that should probably be censored, too.

Have you been through Pukeageddon? Share your war stories!

Both girls do love to play with baby dolls and stuffed animals. My in-laws just gave Rachel a stuffed caterpillar that’s a miniature version of her lovey, “Callie” (they didn’t actually know about Callie). We call the little one “Baby Callie,” because we’re imaginative like that.

But today, before and after her nap, Rachel has adopted a new favorite:

Yes, a book. But what book?

Oookay. She also bawled for twenty minutes when Rebecca took it from her (and started screaming when I took it to turn it around). I think she hadn’t quite gotten through it yet. But she does like the sound of flipping the pages.

(I don’t know why I have this book.)

As you can imagine, this didn’t really motivate us.

We were just on vacation at my parents’ house (home again; feels so good not to have that trek hanging over my head!). Hayden was reluctant to eat his Venetian pasta rolls. My dad hastened to assure him, “It’ll put hair on your chest!”

My brother-in-law joined in. “You want a hairy chest, don’t you? Like Papa, right?” (My dad.) “Like Daddy?”

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “Papa has a hairy chest. So does my dad.” He dropped his voice to a mutter. “So does my mom.”

At the time, I knew anything I said would’ve made it worse. But I think I missed the obvious punchline:

“See? It works!”

What silly phrases from your childhood come back to haunt you?

I know I’m not the only one being smothered with an endless chorus of requests, information, statements, status checks, questions, and, let’s be honest, stalling while a child thinks of something they wanted to say.

It doesn’t matter if there are 28 other adults in the room capable of getting that glass of water, or if Daddy is already holding the cup—seriously, I think they think every question/sentence has to begin with “Mom.” Like, it’s not grammatically complete without “Mom” in it.

(Hint: it doesn’t, and it is.)

As I’ve written this and made the lovely illustrative graphic, without exaggerating, I can safely say my kids have called my name 10 times, and asked for one nonspecific thing. My favorite was when Rebecca was sitting next to me and said “Mom . . . But, Mom. . . . But, Mom . . . But, Mom—I bettay sit atta table.”

I know they’re not purposefully trying to wear me out—it’s just a happy coincidence that I end each day three “Mom?”s away from a psychotic break.

Maybe I should stop encouraging Rachel to learn to say “Mama.”

What do your kids do over and over and over and over ad nauseam, ad infinitum, ad delirium, ad mortem?

Motherhood is a peculiar journey. We never know what our children will be like, what their future holds, nor how it will change our path in life.

I certainly never expected to have a child with mental disabilities. The last nine years have been filled with experiences I would never imagined could be a part of motherhood. But along with the frustrations and stress, there were many joyful moments of success and pride. There are a few lessons I’ve learned during this crazy journey called motherhood.

Love Yourself

The most important criteria of being a good mom is loving yourself. We give so much of our time and energy to our children that it’s easy to get burned out. Don’t be afraid to take time for a girls night out, a long soak in a hot, bubbly bath, or just some quiet time in your car with a drink and book. Whatever relaxes you or makes you happy, find a way to squeeze it in. I’ve had to pick and choose which hobbies or talents to make time for over the years.

For many years, I went once a month to a weekend scrapbooking event. Then my focus changed to writing, so I figured out some time during the week that I could take a few hours to go to a bookstore and write without munchkins pulling on me. If you take the time to decompress from the everyday routine of being a mama, then you will be a much happier person, mother, and wife.

Cross Perfection Off Your List

I used to get so discouraged after visiting a friends whose homes were always spotless. I felt like such a failure that I couldn’t keep up with all my mommy duties and housework like these other women I looked up to. But then, my Relief Society president gave a lesson one Sunday and told us that we needed to cross perfection off our lists. Our Savior Jesus Christ is the only perfect being who ever lived on Earth. While we need to strive to keep the commandments and be good Christian women, having a spotless house, perfect highlights & nails, or the kids with the best grades are not things are not requirements to get into Heaven.

It’s perfectly fine to have mountains of laundry to wade through, toys strewn across your house, and be in desperate need of a haircut. In fact, its absolutely normal! In the last four years, I’ve rearranged my housework. Every Saturday, our family works together to clean the house. Everything gets picked up, vacuumed, and scrubbed. Then during the week, I try to do one or two loads of laundry each day—taking the weekends off. My laundry baskets are never empty and the weekend is the only time my house isn’t cluttered with toys, but I have so much less stress because I’ve accepted that our house isn’t perfect. It’s lived in and the family living there is happy and loved.

Laugh Often

Be quick to laugh, rather than get upset. This is actually difficult for me and I am constantly working on it. But our family is definitely happier when mom’s not a crank. Looking back at some of the most stressful mommy moments, I can see that when my hubby cracked jokes and made me laugh, I relaxed enough to think things through better. And my shoulders weren’t constantly tied up with tension knots. Shared laughter is something the whole family will remember forever.

One of my favorite quotes is “Live, Laugh, Love.”

Remember to live your life rather than be focused on perfection, share laughter with your family, and love yourself so you can give the best of yourself to your family.

About the Author
Danyelle Ferguson is the mother of four angels-in-training and the author of (dis)Abilities and the Gospel. You can find out more about her on her website: www.DanyelleFerguson.com or on her blog: www.QueenOfTheClan.com.

Photo of girl hugging herself by Evan Long

I didn’t know whether he’d ever heard of “a spider doing push ups on a mirror,” but he did just hear the brain sucker joke the other day . . . but apparently I hesitated too long because he just told me.

“It’s my hand scratching my other hand.”

One of Rebecca’s favorite foods (and there are only a few she likes at all) is peanut butter. She knows where to find the knives.

The other day she brought me a butter knife and something from the shelf where we keep peanut butter. In the end, she didn’t like the prunes.

Rachel found her feet!

Things I’d hoped would never be uttered in my house:

“No, we can’t eat POOP!”

“That fly just landed on Rebecca’s diaper. Oh—then it keeled over.”

Hayden and I were grocery shopping a few weeks ago. As usual, he asked for something on just about every aisle. Twice. Three times. I unflinchingly said no.

Finally, Hayden had had enough. “Why do you always say no?”

“Because it’s my favorite word,” I quickly replied.

“Well, my favorite word is yes.”

“Great—so, if I told you to clean the whole house when we get home, you’d say yes?”

He only hesitated a second before he said, “Yes!”

Sadly, I decided quiet time was more important than enforcing our child labor contract.

Share your cute kid stories!

1. Make one day of the year that special day we all remember our mothers, and it’s okay to forget them the other 364 days. (And bonus on leap years!)

2. No matter how hard you try to keep your expectations low, your children still act like they do every other day of the year—disobeying, fighting, crying and sloughing off. Even though it’s your “special day.” (Is it just that they don’t care, or do they actually hate you? Maybe their therapists know.)

3. Everyone shares stories about the most wonderful mother in the history of creation (usually theirs), reminding us once again that we SOOO are not that. Even though it’ll probably be our kids saying those same things in 20 years.

4. Major takehome of Mother’s day: whatever the heck it is moms do all day/year long, it’s roughly equivalent to the value of a bouquet, a card, and one day off a year. Or half a day.

5. An alarming percentage of women who are now mothers have “an issue” with their own mothers. I don’t really get this one, but whenever I did a group writing project about mothers, I had people tell me they couldn’t participate because of this. And, thus, celebrating motherhood is bad.

6. The perceived emotional negativity of every little argument with you is enhanced approximately 10,000% because it’s the one and only day of the year they’re supposed to be thinking of you.

7. Our four-year-olds with the I-can’ts will doubtlessly refuse to join in singing one measly little not-even-very-mother-oriented song in church. Even though we completely expected this, and spent the whole week trying to encourage and prepare him, it will still hurt. Of course, it hurts a lot worse when the second the song is over, he throws a tantrum because he wants to go on the stand (to sit with his dad, best of all). And it’s even better when he smacks his sister with a book 10 minutes later and you have to drag two crying children out of the chapel again. But then you just have to laugh. Because Mother’s day sucks.

8. Inevitably, some well-meaning person (usually a man) suggests we should do this every day. No. Please.

Um… no personal experience in there or anything.

Had a disappointing—or hilarious—Mother’s day? Share—because sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying.

Photo by Chris A

Genetics at work: my mother and my daughter

As a mother of very young children, I can tell you exactly how demanding and frustrating babies and toddlers can be—but I’ve come to believe that a babies’ cuteness is, in fact, an inherited defense mechanism against some of their most motherly-frustration-inducing behaviors. My evidence:

1. Cuddling: Although waking me for the eighth time in six hours is decidedly not a good way into my good graces, a quiet, sweet, snuggling baby is pretty tough to stay angry at.
2. Gurgling giggles: It’s five AM and the infant thinks it’s time to get up for the day. But before I can burst into tears, she sees my face and wham—instant gales of excited laughter. Even if I’m not quite as happy to see her at that hour, it’s hard not to forgive her when she’s just so happy to see me.
3. Nap time: When I reach my wits’ end, I know it’s time for a nap (for me and/or the kids ). This can be a double whammy, especially if the baby or toddler is obviously tired but still averse to said nap, and spends half an hour screaming—because when they finally succumb to the much-needed sleep, it’s all the sweeter to peek in on the peacefully slumbering angel (and pray it lasts!).
4. Baby talk: Sure, you can argue their articulatory muscles aren’t fully developed enough to appreciate the nuances of the lateral approximate, but let’s face it: somewhere in his DNA, my son knows that “I yub you!” melts even an annoyed heart faster than plain old “I love you.”
5. Stoic tears: Okay, this one might not be entirely genetic, but who wouldn’t forgive a tantrum from tiny child who bravely insists that he must wipe his own tears?

What other naturally cute behaviors have you seen that totally take the wind out of your frustration?

But on this day, the scale was out so I stepped on. And, of course, at two and a half months post partum, I was disappointed with the reading—in fact, I’d even gained weight since the last time I’d ventured onto the scale.

That night, as Hayden brushed his teeth at the sink, I lamented to Ryan that I was still struggling with my weight. To illustrate my point, I stepped on the scale.

“Oh, I don’t believe this!” I exclaimed. “Since just this morning, I’m like ten pounds heavier!”

Ryan smiled sympathetically, reached out—and took Rebecca from my arms. That’s one way to lose the baby weight.