Parenting

A Good Mama

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When I was pregnant with my first daughter, my mother said something to me that I didn’t quite understand at the time.

“Don’t get all caught up in what makes a good mama or a bad mama. Just love your baby and have faith.”

I nodded and rubbed my itching belly.

After Mini Me was born, I spent a year in New Mom Haze. Diapers, breastfeeding, and sleepless nights defined my existence. I read articles that said my baby should be doing one thing or another by a certain age, and I blamed myself when she didn’t hit said milestone.

I compared myself to other moms, the ones who talked about using cloth diapers and had perfect babies who slept all night and walked at 8 months.

What a crock.

I wish I had known then what I know now. Sure, those babies slept all night, but they probably had to be in bed with their parents, which was often wet because the diapers leaked. Or, those parents ate Ramen Noodles out of paper cups because they couldn’t find time to wash dishes.

In other words, nobody’s perfect.

I see things more realistically the second time around. Lil Ma is a sweet girl. She giggles when you pretend to sneeze, and she is fascinated by socks. She also is quite stubborn. When Lil Ma doesn’t get her way, she cries at a glass-shattering frequency. I have yet to figure out how to deal with that.

And that’s ok. As my girls grow up, I will no doubt make mistakes. Instead of getting caught up in the “Good Mama, Bad Mama Drama,” I will continue to love them and have faith that I’m doing what’s best.

A Few Words on Wednesday: Five Minutes for Daddy

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This isn’t the best photo, but I love it because it shows my favorite family moment. After dinner, Hubby gets on the floor, and the girls climb all over him. Little toes and knobby knees poke him in the eye, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

They took it easy on him this time. Mini Me asked for his help designing a dress with her handheld video game, and Lil Ma joined in.

I doubt that I say it as often as I should, but I married a great guy. I couldn’t ask for a better husband or father for my girls.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Five Minutes with Mini Me

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Last night, my daughter picked up a magazine, got in bed next to me, and started reading. I put down my own magazine and watched her. Here was my baby, with legs crossed and ankles twirling, reading an article about birds.

When did she get so big?

The past 11 months have been a blur. Working a new person into our family has been an all-consuming whirlwind, made especially challenging by the fact that said new person’s super power is the ability to cry for two hours straight.

No doubt, there have been times when Mini Me has felt a little neglected. I can think of several moments when I have been covered in spit-up, poo, tears, or a combination thereof, and I delivered this response to my questioning eldest:

“Not now. Maybe later.”

Most times, my big girl seemed to take it in stride. Other times, though, she did or asked for something that she knew would grab my undivided attention. Like the time she said she was considering a return to thumb sucking.  (I replied than anyone who could rationalize thumb sucking did not need to practice it, and then I prayed that she would agree. Thank goodness she did.)

I’ve been kicking myself for not spending more one-on-one time with her, so when she asked if she could stay up a few minutes and read with me, I quickly agreed. It started as five minutes, but morphed into 15 as we discussed birds and butterfly gardens. We also talked about camp and her upcoming trip to Arkansas with her grandmother.

It was the best discussion I’ve had with her in a long time. I saw how much Mini Me has matured in the past year. She’s funny, smart, extremely tenderhearted, and WAY to grown up to be eight. But I’m sure that’s just the mom in me talking.

Of all the things I’ve tried to invest five minutes in, this is by far the most important.

Just Ask

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I met my Hubby in 2002, and I almost let him get away. I had just wrapped a spin of dating that was both comical and sad. I needed a break. That, though, is a tale for another day.

At some point during our dating phase, my future hubby told me he was no stranger to housework. I fell in love shortly thereafter.

Two years later, we were living together with a baby on the way. Future Hubby didn’t want me taking the stairs to the basement to do laundry, so he washed load after load complaint free.

What he did not do, however, was fold it. He routinely delivered me approximately five loads of laundry crammed into two baskets. I would thank him quietly, then spend the next two hours rolling my eyes while ironing wrinkled clothes.

This song and dance has continued occasionally throughout the years. After our second daughter arrived, Hubby stepped up his efforts to help around the house. Now he brings me eight loads of laundry in three baskets.

As I smoothed out a pile of Onesies, I wondered why I never asked Hubby to fold. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but the frosty reception I gave him whenever he dropped balled up laundry at my feet wasn’t any better.

So I decided to give it a try. “Hey babe. Thanks for doing the laundry.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind folding the laundry after you wash it? If it sits too long unfolded, then I have to go back and iron it.”

“Ok.”

I couldn’t believe it was that simple. I had wasted so much time grumbling, and all I had to do was ask. I wonder how many other things I’ve let bother me when it wasn’t necessary.