Find Some Peace Tonight

One of the few photos of me since I became a mother of four....

Today was one of those days. I think it actually started last night. I was surfing a Web site with salary information for public employees. These weren't just any public employees. They were people I work with, know and love, in some cases, and in other cases, not so much. Let me tell you: the disparity in wages is just unbelievable.

I finally hauled myself off the Internet and into the shower, where I continued to think about how some people are paid far more than they are worth and how others never will be paid what they deserve. Because, really, aren't we all human beings? Don't we all bring something useful to the table?

And I've said it a hundred times in my life if I've said it once: I hate money. I hate how money makes people mean. How it prompts people to do things they shouldn't do and give up things they should never give up. How it defines us and how it divides us.

I often struggle with my status as a part-time working mother. I'm not a working mother in the way those that work full-time are working mothers. And I'm not a stay-at-home mother, since I'm gone from my house for ten-hour days three days a week to work. I'm in the middle. And while I would love to make more money, I do believe I have the best of both worlds.

But as the Sarah McLachlan song goes, There's always some reason / To feel not good enough / And it's hard at the end of the day. I think that's where I started this bad day, in thinking, while toweling off after my shower last night, that my salary was somehow subpar, that if I could just muster up the energy, the drive, the gumption to bite the bullet and go full-time, we might just realize our dream of moving to the country. That the kids could run and play outside in their own trees and on their own acreage and that they could finally have the pets they want.

So I went to bed in a funky mindset. Thankfully, I was smart enough to know it. I started to craft a prayer to make myself feel better and bring myself back into the happy place of gratitude. "Dear Lord, thank you for this husband, this good man, lying to my left, snoring. Some military women don't get to hear their husband's snore for months at a time. Thank you for this healthy baby snoozing in his bassinet to my right. Some babies aren't so healthy. Thank you for my kids sleeping peacefully in their beds. Some kids don't have safe, warm places to sleep..." And it helped.

Alas, I still woke up today to rain and gray skies both inside and out. It was a day for napping on the couch, for giving in to gloom, for being a quitter. But I couldn't be a quitter, because I am a mother.

So I struggled through my blues, and it wasn't pretty. I had a fight with Max and needed hot tea for my sore throat because I yelled at him so loud. What is wrong with me? I nursed and cajoled a baby to sleep about eight times, only to have his older brother Colby shriek so much that he woke him right back up at least half of those times. My bad mood seeped into Lily, who was a bull all afternoon.

And now, hours after the kids have gone to bed, my head is still pounding.

But I know there will be days like these. It's one of the tough things about my job as a mother. The one that doesn't pay in dollars, but in hugs, kisses, heart swells and pride. The one job I know I am meant to do.

While I am not paid what I might be worth, I value motherhood. I know there are so many of you in my shoes. I get you. I appreciate the job you do in trying to raise kids that will be a part of a better society. We should all be millionaires. In the ways that matter, we already are.

Elevating the status of mothers everywhere starts with us. We have to value our work and each other and get this done.

May you find some comfort here.

Going Through It

It's been a somewhat long weekend of keeping four kids fed, bathed and happy while running to several different social functions. I had fun in showing off our new beautiful boy, as well as some of our new photos, to family and friends.

Some of the family in town included my youngest uncle and his wife, who are expecting their third in a matter of weeks. When we parted ways today I jokingly told him to feel free to call us for advice anytime and that we would tell him we didn't have any. And then I said the truth: "There's no easy way around it, you just gotta go through it."

Because sometimes the growing pains are excruciating. The baby's cries added to the radio and the random squeals and protests and singsong voices of older siblings in the car can be just deafening. Sometimes finding peace and sanity is no more realistic than winning the lottery. And, sometimes, you can't remember why you married the person you married.

But then you remember. The older brother lets the baby suck on his finger and the crying stops. The squealer falls asleep. You push away the fog of your bad mood to accept the random kiss your husband offers as you pass, again, in the hall, sometimes like ships in the night.


And, just as quickly, the peace is broken. Somebody hits somebody, milk spills on the carpet, a forehead slams into a doorjamb, or any combination of similar catastrophes.

At times, the minutes pass like hours. Yet, somehow, there's never enough time to get it all done. The to-do list grows almost, but not quite, as fast as your cluster-feeding nursing newborn. The hard thing--as if there is only one--is finding that balance between getting through the day and not wishing time away.

Because I believe what they tell me. I'll want these little people back. I'll miss the handprints on my windows, the smell of the tousled hair rubbing up against my nose, the sheer softness of their skin and the simplicity of their thinking.


So I'm going to keep on keeping on. I'm going to remember one of my many mantras: faith, grace and selflessness. I'm going to go back to work when I must, and burn the candle at both ends to make it all work.

And I'm not even going to try to get around it. I'm going to go through it, and I'm going to make sure I make it worthwhile.

Thanks, again, to the lovely Kristin Pottmeyer for these amazing photos.

Leaving My Footprint

I'll be slipping into bed soon with mixed feelings on the day. I can't even believe I'm saying that given the success I had in getting things done, namely, my first real workout in a long time. I also juggled an unusually fussy baby with batting emails back and forth with my best friend and bride-to-be, designing and ordering birth announcements and thank you cards and making dinner for my extended family. While I did some of that, the boys--okay, Max--finger and toe painted my kitchen linoleum blue. Blue is his favorite color.

I think, from the looks of Colby, that he may have helped just a wee bit. (And, in the mess of the cupboard, he found a binky, which I've been limiting...)


I have been keenly aware of my place in this world lately. Right now, it is home with my newborn and family. I find my happiness and success in making a complete meal every night, keeping house and growing children. Alas, I can't be on paid leave forever. If I could, I would.

Because there is so much joy in a home. In making a place yours. In spending the day with your kids, who are perfectly imperfect.

And I think that's where I am going with this.

The daughter of friends is battling brain cancer and a young girl in the next town lost her battle today with a similar brain cancer. And a day of helping my first-grader make the bus stop on time, playing hot potato with my crying newborn just to get a moment with both hands free, and throwing two healthy, raucous boys into the tub again after they paint my kitchen floor blue? It's paradise. Really.

And so, in spite of all the good in today, my heart is heavy for others. As someone said of the little girl that passed away, "Her wings will take her where her feet could not."


But we're all still here. Where will our feet take us?

While I'm still not sure how far I'll go, it is my hope that my footprint will be one of gratitude, of happiness and of love. Life really is beautiful, just the way it is.

On My Toes

My kids are doing their fair share of keeping me on my toes (as much as humanly possible). All four of my children are learning at warp speed right now. For Lily, it's first grade wonder. She's really into the solar system all the sudden, among other things. Above is a picture she drew during my last weeks of pregnancy. When I found it in her backpack, I laughed out loud, even though I was alone at the time.

Max, my preschooler, is really getting bookish. He's finally crafting, wanting to do his homework, coloring well and asking really cool, thoughtful questions. He even made me a potholder this week!

Colby is expanding his vocabulary. He can now say "baby" and "mine." I'm beginning to take his "binky" away at times so that he'll be more likely to learn to talk. Daddy reported tonight that he knows how to whistle a bit, which dismayed Lily, who is definitely a late bloomer on that skill.

Luke is starting to have long periods of wakefulness. His mind is taking in so much right now about the world in which he lives. He seems to be on the brink of smiling. In the past couple of days, I've seen what I call "pointy lips," where he seems to understand he can control them and just might break them into that magical shape we call a smile.

Thank goodness for all these kids. While they might be the source of my tiredness, my foggy mommy brain and my forgetfulness, they do keep me thinking, moving and improvising.

The other day, way too early in the morning, Lily had me spinning in her web of questions. "Mommy, did they have question marks when you were little?" "Did they have questions marks when you were a baby??" "Why don't question marks look old when you write them?" "Who wrote the first question mark?"

And, later that day, from Max: "Mommy, how do animals burp?"

Ah, the thoughts of childhood. Aren't they so much nicer than the questions we ask ourselves, like "How am I going to make ends meet this month?" or "Did I send the yearbook money to school yet?" or--seriously, for me lately--"Is it the weekend?"

I asked that very question this morning as my mom, sis, niece, Lily, Luke and I made our way to Parkersburg and Vienna for some much-needed girl time and shopping. (Sorry Luke... you're stuck with me for awhile.)

And, this time, the answer to that question was yes. It is the weekend. I'm striving to be more like my kids, to pay more attention to the wonders around me and less to the mundane things that drag me down.

And I'm aiming to stay on my toes.

The Kids Are All Right

The details of my life, my musings and my wonderings continue to float about my sleepy, hormone-riddled mind. I'm swinging back and forth between feeling sufficiently efficient and overwhelmed. I don't feel terribly unlike myself or incessantly chained to a newborn. Instead I feel important in the way that I have not chosen to be, but just am. I have moments without Luke, say forty minutes in the grocery store across town, when I remember him at home, startle and wonder if he's awake and needing me. It's like I've grown another appendage that can sometimes be removed, but not for long. To put it simply, it's like I've gained another 8 pounds of my heart, living outside of my body.

I'm also aware that I need to take care of myself. The first twenty pounds have melted off, and now the work of getting the final twenty-five off must begin. At this point, I just want to hydrate and to be mindful of my meals. I am trying to curb the sweet tooth a bit and choose the colorful fruits and veggies instead. And I'm being gentle with myself. I'm completely aware of the amazing thing my body just did by growing and nurturing a fetus and birthing a newborn, and by what it is doing now by keeping a newborn completely hydrated, fed and growing with only my breast milk. And I'm remembering that I thought the weight wouldn't come off completely the other three times, but it did.

As if the care and keeping of Luke and me isn't enough, there are four more members in the family. It's hard, but I think we're doing it. I think we're not only surviving, but thriving.

I'm so proud of Shrek for the father he is. He truly gets better and better all the time, and I am more in love with him than ever. It's been so great to see how he's finally not rattled by the rattling screams of a newborn. When you're a first-time parent, or even the second or third time around, those cries make you feel like the apocalypse is near and that the clumsy, slowness of your fumbling fingers on the diaper tabs and the endless snaps and buttons are to blame. But, at some point, you realize this is what babies do. Newborns--or Roberts newborns, at least--don't really like being naked and cold during bath time or diaper changes. They like to express their discomfort. But Shrek and I? Well, we don't take it personally.

So, we're nearly four weeks in on baby number four. As a family, we've managed a high school basketball game, two Masses, and a long trip to Athens for a meet and greet at my workplace. With Shrek and I dividing up the kids and conquering, we have been able to do much, much more. We've even managed a movie date night at home complete with wine and much laughter.

We're not following any manuals. We're finding our own way, trusting our guts and loving one another. And it's all working out. It's a crazy life. Our hands and our hearts are full. And the kids are all right.

Getting It Right

My mind has been working overtime. I tell you: the details float around my head like you wouldn't believe. I am trying to stay on top of so many things: paperwork, bills, memory keeping, laundry, dishes, preschool, first grade, gymnastics, visitors, emails, on and on... oh, and the care, keeping, feeding, diapering, bathing, chauffering and sleeping of my four children.

I'm doing a decent job. I keep telling myself this--that not writing in my journal for more than two weeks is completely normal for my situation, that my mind can only remember so much, that I am doing a really good job at not sweating the small stuff. That, basically, I need not be so hard on myself. I shouldn't be my toughest critic. That I really can't feel guilty for two opposites at once: feeling bad because I can't keep up on all the things I want to do, yet alternately feeling bad for trying to catch up when I should be sleeping. It's crazy!

I do know this: random memories keep popping into my head at strange times. For instance, just yesterday I remembered how I caught myself, sometime around 5 a.m. the first night we were home with Lucas, burping him upside down. I'm not kidding. I was very tired and very groggy, and something wasn't quite right. Upon patting down the baby, I realized his head was where his legs should be and his legs were where his head should be. No lie. I laughed about it then, and I am laughing now.

I just had to call a good friend to relate a quick funny story yesterday. While I was on the phone, the boys ran amok and the baby fussed and started to root around for a snack. Somehow, I rubbed my eye and wa-la! My contact was gone... As in, it could have been anywhere on me, on my shirt, on the baby, the Boppy, the blankets, or even in my eye, and I could not find it. So I squinted my way through the next twenty minutes of mayhem and finally resorted to opening yet another new contact. I told Dave last night that I had a gut feeling it was still in my eye somewhere, but that I couldn't tell. And, just now, I remembered how this morning, after I settled back into bed after the 4 a.m. picnic Lucas has established and as Dave was rising to go to work, I rubbed my eye and out it fell. I handed the contact to my tired, befuddled husband and told him to put it in an empty case I remembered was laying on the bathroom counter.

And I made a pact with myself to pick up the video camera today because, as I told my sis yesterday, I didn't think I'd picked it up since she filmed some of the baby's first moments after delivery. After I finished the DVD today and reviewed it, I found that I had filmed much more than I thought and had no recollection of doing it until I saw the clips.

All of this really just points to the fact that my brain is on overload. It's tired and excited and overwhelmed by my newly enhanced (again) life.

In spite of all my doubts, my oops moments and my shortcomings, I am okay. I am really focusing on the kids, the essentials, the moments that take my breath away.

I might be wearing mismatched socks, Colby may have worn no socks at all under his barn boots today and I may feel like I have more socks to fold than the Duggars, but I'm okay!

I'm finally here. I've arrived. I'm savoring all I can, and I'm finally getting it right.

True Love

I had a lot of crushes growing up, as I know most teenage girls do. I pined over a great number of boys, boys who did nothing to deserve my adoration. If you were a teenage girl like I was, the difference between you and me is probably only that I have all of those embarrassing emotions captured in my journals. While I almost never have time to go down memory lane anymore, it's a blessing where those years are concerned. Some of the want is so raw and so ridiculously dumb that it hurts to read.

I was pretty grounded in that had one prayer for God in the midst of all that teenage angst. I wanted someone, simply, who loved me as much as I loved them. And now? Well, my life is full of those people, some of whom knew me and loved me before I even knew myself.

But there are more. There's Shrek, for one, who has made our love a challenging, yet rewarding and worthwhile, experience. There are our four kids, who bask in my love and give it so freely in return. And there's you, dear reader, who I'm sure would love to sit down with me, over coffee, and just visit, if we'd just find the time to do it.

There are so many beautiful people who have helped to show me what true love is. And that's what Valentine's Day is about. It's not the commercial train wreck that tries to make us believe our lives and love relationships aren't good enough. It's not the diamond jewelry that none of us can really afford. And it's not the dumb heart-shaped hot tub on vacation that will probably end up giving you an infection of some sort.

No. True love is what remains when all else fails. It's the one real letter you actually want to open amid the endless bills that are your mail. It's the four-year-old who knows you're about to cry and leans his head on yours and saves you from your own silliness. It's the call from a friend that reminds you just when you are teetering on the edge of sanity that you're not alone in your pile of laundry, dishes and mismatched toys.

And, for me, tonight, it was dinner at home with my husband and kids. It was perfectly timed garlic bread made entirely by my seven-year-old, my dead-on replication of my favorite retired Olive Garden dish: Chicken Vino Bianco, and the small glass of Beringer white zinfandel I enjoyed with my meal. (Oh, wine, how I missed you...)

And true love is what I felt for my Luke, pictured above, who is struggling through his first head cold. It's my husband on the loveseat, me happily pecking away on my laptop on the couch, the elder kids asleep upstairs and our little one snug beside me in his Boppy, snoring through his tiny little stuffy nose.

It's really not wanting anything more than what I have.

Happy Valentine's Day... May true love find you when you need it most.