Breaking News! My Children Do Not Eat Vegetables

I have a fuzzy memory from when I was about 23 or so, sitting at a breakfast restaurant, eyeing the table next to me where a family of five was trying to eat together. There was the mom and dad, of course, and three unruly toddlers. I still remember the misplaced disdain that washed through me as I watched the scene unfold. Mom and Dad were desperately trying to get their kids to eat something—pancakes?—and the kiddos were making a giant mess of syrup and spilled milk. I sat at my own quiet table, full of haughty pride, thinking, “My children will never be like that. Surely not.”

This is me, right now, eating my humble pie.

Present

The sun is setting slowly, sinking into the clouds that look like they are sitting right on top of the green blue of the Caribbean.

I take a sip of my wine and watch mostly-old couples stroll hand in hand on the beach. Most of the guests at the resort have gussied up for the evening full of dinner reservations, just as I have.

What love looks like (for me, right now)

“Mommy, talk me,” Auden says from the backseat. “Talk me, Mommy.”

I hit pause on my podcast for the third time and look in the rearview mirror to the backseat where my almost-three year old begs for my attention. Driving used to be my quiet time. Key word: used.

 “Talk me!” He says again.

He means that he wants me to make conversation with him to pass the time, to answer his questions—the questions I’ve of course already answered.

Anger Out Loud

I go from mother to monster in just two seconds.

“Stop that!!!” The words spill from my mouth in an animal-like growl, too loud and too ferocious to ignore.

My almost three-year-old looks at me, stunned, and tears immediately crowd the corners of his eyes.

But it’s too late. Words keep spilling from me, just a few more shouts. “I SAID STOP THREE TIMES ALREADY!”

“Okay Mommy,” he whimpers, his lower lip actually trembling.

Immediately regret slams into my chest. Shame quickly follows, settling right there by my lungs, ready to stay with me for the rest of the day.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” I say right away. “Mama shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.”

I can see from the look on his face that the damage is done, that there’s no going back, that there’s no rewinding time. I give him a hug, pat his back, apologize again.

What’s in a Name?

Auden

            I knew my son’s name halfway through the pregnancy. I felt the little butterfly-like fluttering of his movements within me for the first time during our trip to Ireland, and that’s about when Rob and I decided on the name.

It was very uncomfortable traveling halfway across the world at 22 weeks pregnant, but I hadn’t anticipated that when planning the baby-moon months earlier. On the eight hour plane ride, I needed to get up to pee at least six times. Once there, I slept horribly in the hotel room, as that’s when my legs started to cramp during the night and my hips ached from stretched ligaments. I plastered a smile on my face when we walked from museum to museum, but I couldn’t stop from complaining about my aching back and incessant need to find a coffee shop so I could pee yet again.