Mourning My Dear Friend, Fertile Myrtle

I suppose I should start by warning you that this post is about lady business. Dudes who read my page: you could benefit from reading it all, as someday, it may pertain to a woman you love, but feel free to turn away at any point. I promise I won't be offended. What I'm about to share is so deeply rooted in my mom-ness, and simply writing about it for you is healing, so would you please bare with me through this experience?

Now, let's get to it.

I have had a lot of nicknames throughout my life. Some were cute, some were mean, many were the result of little kids unable to say my real name. Elizabeth is a mouthful for children in any language, as we've learned. One nickname that my dear old dad bestowed upon me as I was popping out two babies in one year was Fertile Myrtle. As I announced that second pregnancy, I distinctly remember him saying, "Well, I guess we can just call you Fertile Myrtle, like your mom!" As more years passed and babies kept coming, the silly name lingered. Last Thursday morning, I had to say good-bye to Fertile Myrtle forever. It was so much harder than I imagined.

I had always considered my fertility an abundant blessing. Four pregnancies resulting in four healthy children was pretty incredible. I knew it to be true. I was defying statistics, so I was thrilled to be Fertile Myrtle for most of our married life.

She consciously retired after number four was born, but the possibility of her creeping in for one more April Fool's joke was never far from my mind.

Ever.

So, I went along the past five years, raising our four kiddos with no room or reason to add any more, yet my baby fever never broke.

Ever.

I always wondered, "What if...?"

Always.

Then, within the last year, the possibility of me actually permanently losing my fertility became a reality. I would need to have a surgical procedure for my own health, and the end result would be the end of this life I have always equated with who I am.

Fertile.

Woman.

Mother.

Gone.

As my surgery date grew near, the most unforgiving nag in my mind was not typical anxiety over pain or nausea or anesthesia or the laundry that would pile up during my recovery. It was the conscious steps being taken to strip away this beautiful gift I received upon my own birth. My gift of fertility.

On that early March morning, as my doctor popped into my hospital room to prepare for what would be a routine procedure for her, I suddenly felt the urge to stall. I knew that as soon as she said, "See you in there," it would be the end of an era.

Deliberately removing the lining of a woman's uterus to improve her health would be nothing unusual for my trusted and gifted surgeon. All in a day's work, as the saying goes.

Losing that precious cushion, which was the very first resting place for all four of my babies, would prove to be a grievous moment for this mama.

Knowing, from that day forward, that my body would no longer be a safe haven for any future surprise chocolate fans was difficult for me to swallow.

I grasped at the right words to explain my thoughts.

Women my age are just now starting to have babies.

I know we don't need any more kids, but I would always want more.

I just don't know if I'm ready....if I can do this.

It's so final. It's irreversible.

Witnessing my inner and outer struggles, my doctor graciously asked if we needed to postpone my surgery.

Then, my husband did what he does best. He cracked a joke, "Would you please stop dreaming about having more kids without me?"

And, there it was. Our laughter. The laughter that had guided me through every difficult moment in our eighteen years together. It's what I needed at that very instant. After punching him in the arm, I sighed a few more times, gave the all clear, and the rest is history.

It's been less than a week after having said farewell to my lucrative gig as Fertile Myrtle, so I don't know how long it will take for me to truly accept this next phase of my life. My days of housing and cradling babies in this wonderful womb of mine are officially finished, but I am truly thankful for the many years it served my bouncy babies so well.

Here I am, expecting number four, holding a drawing that my recent preschool graduate had given to me. It says, "I Love You, Mama." When our last baby was born, our other kids were only 7, 5 and 2. Wow, Fertile Myrtle was really busy!  

 

A woman's fertility is such a delicate subject. I wonder if anyone else who has gone through circumstances like mine felt a similar range of emotions before surgery. Even if you had no previous plans to have more children, was the permanence of it all difficult for you to handle? Would you be bold and share your experiences with us? I'd love to hear from you!

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There's No Use Crying Over Melted Crayons

One of the most rewarding parts of sharing my life with you guys is hearing how my words make you feel. How they move you. How you relate to them. How when you read them, you believe they could be your words.

Lately, I've learned that these words of mine have a tendency to bring on some tears. After bumping into people at school, around town and online, I've discovered this common theme of crying. I'm honored to be able to move someone to experience such extreme emotions. I am a deeply feeling person, so I suppose that's why I communicate that way through my writing. I love taking you to that place in motherhood where you might be afraid you're missing out on the daily growth of your child, so you pay extra attention to the little moments. I enjoy transporting you back to your childhood, playing in the yard with your hard-working dad. I know from experience how much strong friendships can make or break a woman's journey through adulthood, so if I can help you think about your own girlfriends and how much you cherish them, then I've done my job as your go-to blogger.

On the other hand, I also love to make you laugh. When my readers tell me that their car is also a junk bus or that they clipped my article from the magazine and sent it to their daughter, I couldn't be more proud. You guys are still telling me about your laundry horror stories. At least once a week, I hear from mothers who say they, too, stink at laundry or dishes or some other horrid household chore that has become "ours" by default.

Isn't this the way of motherhood? One day we're crying, the next we're laughing? These swings of the pendulum can even exist within the same day or the same hour for some of us. It has happened to me, on a random Monday in March. Would you read and listen and think about if it ever happens this way to you?

Working in a rush before school yesterday, I discovered that several different colored crayons had been dried with a load of clothes. The entire inside of our dryer was coated in a layer of blue wax, with small flecks of yellow, green and red dotted throughout as well. The clothes, belonging to all four kids, suddenly had the appearance of a funky tie dye mixed with toddler "art."

So many thoughts ran through my head when we uncovered the mess.

None were poetic.

Many were profane.

We reached out to Google and Facebook for advice, of course.

I wanted to take pictures for you guys, but I was so overwhelmed, I just couldn't.

I reminded myself to be thankful that certain pieces of clothing were not in the load.

Mark left for work, knowing it all would be waiting for him when he came home in the evening. 

I secretly wished he would say "screw it" so we could finally buy a new dryer.

We didn't have time to tackle any of it in the morning. I kept telling myself how much worse my life could be, and then we left to go on about our day. The rainbow colored dryer and speckled clothes were going to be dealt with later, because I needed to drive Marshall to the public library for a field trip. The sun had only risen a few hours earlier, and as we were walking along the sidewalk, I spotted something incredible. Just in front of the steps that led up to the library's main doors, we noticed one lone tree. No longer was it white with snow, as it had been for so many months. Instead, it had turned to a healthy brown, with little bits of red popping up all over its branches. Itty bitty red buds! I stopped to stare at them, to make sure I wasn't imagining them. They were real.

New life!

Spring!

It's coming, and we need it. Winter tends to brings drear and clouds and gloom. Blah. Spring brings sunshine and colors and cheer. Yes! In honor of Spring and new life, I'm writing a tear-free post today!

A full day has passed since I found the melted crayons, and this is what I know:

The dryer is cleaned, thanks to my husband's elbow grease and hours of scrubbing. The clothes are not, but they're only clothes, and we have more. I'm no longer worried about what I was worried about yesterday. That mess is in the past, and now I will move on to the next, while we celebrate the joys that are sprinkled in between them.

Dumped Legos...Birthday boy...Forgotten homework...Cello concert...Lost glasses...Reading lover...Ruined jackets...Art showcase.

My blog's tone changes often, just as mothers do, just as children do, just as seasons do. The tearful posts, the lighthearted posts, the informational posts, the "we've all been there" posts...they are all here for you. I hope that the right ones find you on the days you need them, and that you'll come back for more.

Tell us about your laundry mishaps. What do you love about Spring? Do you experience the ups and downs of motherhood? If you ever think of a topic you'd like to see covered on Mama Loves You and Chocolate, Too, just shoot me a message.

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A New Job Title for Moms: The Nap-Person-Teller

What do you suppose would happen if we attempted to draft a resume to cover all of the jobs we tackle during our years as parents? I wonder which ones would stick out as the most frequent, the most valued, the most loved or even the most despised by our kids.

Somehow, I've been sprinkled by an abundance of love from the nap fairy, so all of our kids have continued to take daytime naps until they started school full-time. Since Marshall is still in preschool, which just spans seven and a half hours each week, he's still a part-time napper. He doesn't want to be, obviously. We know that all kids scorn the idea of stopping their daytime romping to sleep, because it is so dreadfully boring! He's no different, and he is especially aware that he's the only remaining napper in the house, a title he views as unfair.

I'm not particular about these naps, meaning he doesn't take one every day, and we don't plan our life around whether or not our very old preschooler will have his nap time. They're just a quick break in what can be pretty long days, once in a while. Once he's tucked in with his three favorite blankets laid over him in just the right order, his doggie, and whichever other stuffed animals are invited into the bed that week, he immediately drifts off to sleep. His naps are magical! They're spectacular! They're replenishing! I'm not letting him give them up yet.

Although his naps are so wonderful, Marshall forgets every single time how easy they are. So, when we have a stretch of an afternoon when we don't need to leave the house, I ease Marshall into the idea that he'll be having a nap. Like all things with small children, some days go more smoothly than others.

A couple of weeks ago, I must have really interrupted Marshall's fun flow by issuing his nap plan. He tried so hard to find excuses to stay awake. When he saw that I was not backing down from his matter-of-fact reasons, he resorted to what really hurts his feelings when he's in a fight with one of the other kids: name-calling. With his forehead crinkled and eyes squinting at me, he mustered up the harshest tone he could, to call me this...The Nap-Person-Teller.

Actually, it went like this, "Mom, you always want me to take a nap. You always tell me I have to take a nap when I don't want to...You're, you're, you're the Nap-Person-Teller!"

Well, that was a new one, a job title I had never been given before by any of my other kids. The poor kid finds naps so deplorable that he meant it as an insult. Yet, it's an honest portrayal of one of the many jobs I do around here. I am that person. I'm the official Nap-Person-Teller.

If I were to list that job description on my resume, it's clear that every mom reading it would know exactly what it means.

Right along with:

-Boo-Boo Kisser

-Rock-a-Bye-Baby-er

-Lost-Lovey-Finder

-Best-Tuck-er-In-er

-Delicate-Baby-Nail-Clipper

-Tooth-Puller-Out-er

-Birthday-Favorite-Foods-Maker

And the world famous job title for all moms:

-Just-One-More-Story-Reader-and-a-Drink-of-Water-Bringer

How do you feel about being the Nap-Person-Teller? What other mom-jobs do your kids need you to do, that they may or may not appreciate just yet?

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Why Don't Moms Get Medals?

I have this beautiful mom friend who's always inspiring me with the stories she shares about her own life with four children...all girls. She's one of the first people I met when we moved into this town, and she welcomed me with the most endearing gift of her friendship. She's always the first to offer help for anything, so of course she brought us dinners during my pregnancy bed rest, and later when Baby Marshall was born. No matter how humble she is, or how much she hates it when I tell her that I think she's a rock-star mother, I have to set the scene for you. Her home is incredible; her children are starlets; her smile is dazzling. She cooks and bakes everything from scratch, and she's the epitome of everyone's favorite school mom. Basically, she's amazing!

I guess I kind of idolize her, as she's actually able to pull off that impossible "Supermom" status, a title, which, frankly, nobody really wants. Though it sounds flattering, the second one of the many balls we're juggling drops, somebody...somewhere, will be watching and relishing in our failure. Sadly, you know I'm right. With Cathy and me, our relationship stems from a mutual respect of mamas in the thick of it all. No need to be perfect, no need to prove that we're the best. We're just there to share in the craziness of having so many kids in such a short amount of time.

So, when we met up during our annual holiday cookie party (remember my peaceful December?), she talked to me about what had been an extremely hectic afternoon in her house. That's one of the perks to sharing my business with the world. Women know that I'm the first one willing to be honest and admit defeat. I welcome them, with their ups and downs, into this cozy, comfortable, judgment free-zone with my manta: parenting is hard.

Cathy and I stood side by side in our friend's impeccably decorated kitchen, surrounded by hundreds of the most delectable cookies in every imaginable color, shape and flavor. She was ready to decompress from her stressful day at home, with the allure of butter cream icing, chocolate shavings and confectioners sugar to serve as the best remedies. Cathy had been suffering with an unforgiving headache all afternoon. Then, her four girls came home from school, busting through the door with the same levels of noise, liveliness and desires that they do every day.

As Cathy was scurrying throughout her kitchen to produce a healthy dinner, she was also busy overseeing that all of those kiddos were set for sports and finishing their homework. While her head was throbbing, she chopped, simmered and sautéed. The dog was barking; kids yelled throughout the house as they searched for their work-out gear; somebody needed help with her math problems. It sounded like a typical night for most parents I know. Pounding headache, needy children, demanding pots and pans. Everything and everyone instantaneously screaming for attention.

How does a parent decide which way to go? What do you think was last on the list to be addressed? We all really know. Moms come last.

Cathy is a master of the multi-task, as many parents are, especially during meal prep time. She handled it like the pro that she is.

As the meal which she had painstakingly prepared was finally ready to be served, she proudly brought it to her family. Just when she laid the food out on the dining room table, she thought to herself, "After everything I just went through to make this dinner come together, I deserve a medal." Even through all of the madness, it turned out to be a delicious dinner, one which adults would enjoy and appreciate. As for the children: well, we know how kids can be with food.

Did anyone present her with a medal? How about a trophy? A ribbon?

Nope, nada.

Maybe a groan about having to eat vegetables. Probably a quick "Thanks, Mom" as they scurried to finish the rest of the night's activities (which also required mom's help). Do you know what mom's prize was? Some dirty dishes, a bunch of half-eaten food and the chance to do it all over again, every day, for the rest of her kids' lives.

Is that enough?

Is she being dramatic for asking why moms don't earn medals? Of course not. She's one of the most extraordinary moms I know, and her children are respectful, intelligent and a delight. She's doing something right. What's awesome about Cathy is that when she told me this story, she was laughing. She knows what she's in for with this motherhood thing, and she's learned ways to stay sane through the repetition of her life as a mom. It's so much fun...and remarkably therapeutic...to talk about what we're going through, especially with others who are in this life, too.

All moms have hard days. We all experience times when we feel nobody appreciates us or values the time and effort we put forth to take care of our family and homes. It doesn't mean we would do it differently. It doesn't mean we aren't grateful for the chance to have these children, or to be with them all the time or that we should be teaching them better manners (all stuff someone might say to tear down a parent who gets real about how hard it is).

It just means that we'd like a little credit. Sometimes.

For now, we have to settle on knowing that we are winning at motherhood, even if we don't actually hear it or have physical hardware hanging around our necks to prove it. Let's ask ourselves these questions:

Are our kids growing? Do they hear our voices as they drift off to sleep? Do they have milk in their tummies and blankets to warm them at night? Do they know what books are? Are they showing up for school with clean clothes and full bellies? Do we tell them to brush their teeth? Do we cook vegetables that they may or may not eat. Are they laughing? Do they hear that we love them? Are they asking for our help? Do we shower them with hugs and kisses? Do we take them to the doctor and dentist? Do we rescue them when someone hurts their feelings? Are they seeking our opinions?

I know you can think of a million other ways you are winning at motherhood. It's all these little tidbits throughout our days, that we meticulously manage without a second thought, that make us champion mothers.

So why don't get moms get medals?

Really, what could we possibly do with one more trinket, let alone with all of the medals we'd be winning for the many years of championship mothering yet to come?

For Cathy, a tiny scoop of validation for her hard work was dished out later that evening, when her tray of homemade goodies won the prize for Prettiest Cookies of the Night. See, I told you she's a rock star!

What are some ways you know you're winning at motherhood? Let's cheer ourselves on right here!

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It Will Get Easier...A Lesson Passed on over Frozen Custard

With my youngest son turning five recently, I've begun to worry that I might lose some of my street cred with the moms of really young kids. Maybe you'll start to think I'm out of touch with the issues that mamas of babies and toddlers face. That my days in those dirty diaper trenches are over, so I can't relate to you anymore. I'm here to tell you that although my days are different now, I have not forgotten what it was like to live as a stay at home mom with very, very young children, all needing me at one time, all crying, all wanting to be fed, or changed, or read to, or played with, or driven somewhere, or you know how it goes. My friends and I who are moving past the baby stage look back and wonder how we did it. We laugh, our eyes glaze over, and we say to each other, "How did we ever survive?"

A few weeks ago, I was out to lunch with Marshall. We had a quick bite at Culver's after I picked him up from preschool. I had spent the morning alone, shopping and running errands without anyone tugging on my leg or asking for candy in the check-out lane. I'm sure I look like a weirdo when I walk through Target and talk to all the moms with babies, as I feel lost without any of mine with me. I stop and smile at every single baby who is strolled past me. Everywhere. I can't help it. So, after a few hours of eyeing all the babies that were not mine, I was so happy to in fact have my own child back in my company.

Over lunch, Marshall and I talked about his friends at school, what his snack was for the day, who the special helper was, and what he wanted to do when we went back home. We had a big kid conversation. It was back and forth...quiet...interesting. I might even go as far as to say it was easy. We were munching on that greasy goodness that only comes from Culver's, while a mother and her three young children were sitting at the table behind us. Her meal, with a baby girl and two toddler boys, was far from easy. I must have heard her direct her children to do something or stop doing something fifty times.

Stop touching your brother.

Eat your lunch.

Don't climb under the table.

Stop blowing bubbles with your straw.

Sit up nicely.

DO NOT EAT food off the floor.

Please don't squeeze the baby's face.

Would you just eat?

Leave him alone.

I'm serious...stop!

If you don't eat, then you won't have any ice cream.

Quit pushing each other.

 

Why are you acting this way?

 

Would you please just listen to me?

As the meal went on, I could hear her frustrations escalating. I could hear the kids becoming more antsy. I was wondering why she was lingering in the restaurant, why she wasn't picking them up and leaving. They weren't bothering me, because I have been that mom a million times, but I could tell that she was upset. I once walked out of Red Robin with our food going straight into take-out boxes, because four whining kids couldn't handle the wait. These kids had finished their meals and their ice cream sundaes, yet they were still sitting there, seeming to torture their mama. Maybe this was her first outing in days, her only chance to have a hot meal that she didn't have to prepare herself, so she was trying to make the best of it.

Marshall and I finished our creamy frozen custard and began packing up our table. I had already made up my mind to stop to say a kind word to the mom on my way out, but what I saw when I turned around really surprised me. I saw the reason why that mom hadn't already left the restaurant, even though her children were clearly pushing her over the edge. Her husband had come in late to meet them during his lunch break. He was wearing his work clothes, a mechanic's uniform, and he was just beginning to eat his meal when I said this to the young family:

"It will get easier."

That mother, all tired and ready to pull her hair out, let her frazzled face and frustrations relax for a minute. I saw the relief in her eyes when she gazed up at me and my big boy with hope. She asked with a desperate inflection in her voice, "Really?"

We talked for a few minutes, and I found out that her children were ages 4,3, and 1, the exact ages that my first three were at one point. There's something about learning that another mother is traveling a similar path on parenting that creates a connection for me. I explained to her that I had been that mom, too. My kids drove me crazy in restaurants....in the library...at the store. Wherever. Now they go to school, and I'm alone sometimes during the day. She started to unload more to me, that her oldest will start school next year, and that she hopes it will make life a little easier. I assured her that it would. I congratulated the couple on their cute family. I wished them luck, encouraged them to keep taking the kids out, and we went on our way.

On our way out to the car, one of my best friends in the whole world called me. It was perfect timing. She has four kids as well, and boy, were we in the deep mama trenches together for many years. She and I would call each other day after day, week after week, saying, "How did our moms do this? Will it ever get easier?" She's the friend I called the time I left Red Robin in tears, swearing I would NEVER take the kids out by myself again. I called her from every parking lot in town where my kids threw fits. She would lift me up, bring me back to reality, and I would do the same for her. I told her about the young mom in Culver's. We giggled at how we were that mom, and it really wasn't that long ago.

So, to all of my readers with wee ones:

I am so glad that you're here! I know I joke about how much the world has changed since I first became a mom--like how we had to develop film, but most of it is still the same. Feelings, struggles, insecurities. Milestones, accomplishments, celebrations. Those aspects of motherhood are constant. If my 92 year old grandmother can reminisce and empathize with modern moms, then so can a woman who hasn't given birth in this decade.

Thank you for continuing to read this blog! Thank you for trusting me through this journey. If you know someone who could use encouragement through parenthood, I would be honored for you to pass along my site.

Please, share your feelings here in the comments, any time. It would be so cool to have a dialogue start that might even lead to another post.


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The Mama Can't Go Down

We experienced one of those weekends around here that I anticipate with dread as soon as school is back in session. I know it will happen; it's always just a matter of when. More than half the people in the house were really sick. I will not go into the gruesome details, but the germy culprit was the terrible stomach flu that attacks our house every.single.year.

Every year, without fail, it rips through here like a tornado, leaving kids and adults moaning and groaning, ruining plans and shifting the washing machine into overdrive. One by one, the members of my house fell victim to this strong virus.

Lucky for us, this time around, I wasn't hit by the virus at the same time as everyone else. As Mark was lying in bed, he whispered, "I'm so glad you're not sick, because the mama can't go down!"

I was busy being caretaker, hopping from room to room, dropping off saltines and ginger ale. Changing sheets, cleaning buckets, wiping foreheads. Rubbing backs, telling my little sweets that everything would be alright, when in all reality, I had no idea when it would be over. We moms don't really know when the fevers will break or how long the suffering will last. We just keep wishing that it will be over soon, that we can take it all away from our children. Watching my kids writhe in pain and misery really forced me to focus on their health.

For a few moments, I retreated to the family room couch to take a break. I flipped on the TV in an attempt to drown out the worry I had been feeling for my babies. While I laid there, with the snow falling outside my window, I counted my blessings for the 362 days of full health that my family does experience during the remainder of the year. Yes, we suffer (and I mean suffer) through the stomach flu every winter, but overall, my children are in wonderful shape. I am ever-so-thankful for their health.

One by one, just as quickly as that mean virus had knocked them down, they have been picking themselves back up again. The children have been bouncing back to wrestling, yelling and laughing. Of course, I'm still on edge, wondering if or when the last two will fall. That means one more kid and me. If you don't hear from me on Thursday, you'll know that the mama did, in fact, go down.



The Professional Stomach Flu Survival Kit
 

 

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My Key to Making Connections

Over our many moves, I've somehow invented a persona for myself as the "Welcome to this Group Lady." I tend to join an organization and then implement my human welcome wagon. It's sort of my thing. My friend likes to call me a "Bringer Togetherer." (Please read that term with air quotes). It's what I do. I don't remember when I started to feel this urge to bring people together, but it is now innately a part of my entire being, and I really just cannot help myself.

Not everyone has this natural tendency to embrace the newbies. Not everyone even has an ability or desire to seek out someone who might look a little lonely or lost or in need of a warm welcome. Somehow, I do have this tendency, ability and desire. I once heard the term, gift of hospitality. I suppose I might possess this gift, if it does in fact exist.

I have tried to use this gift of mine to reach out to people who are new to motherhood, in town, church, school, an organization, the country, whatever! People often ask me what my secret is to connecting with these fresh new faces and helping them feel at ease in their new or unfamiliar environments.

I would say that the number one key to making connections with new people is...

to SMILE!

It's the easiest way to lessen the stress of any new or difficult situation. It's the simplest way to let another person know that you see them and are open to having a conversation, answering their questions or holding their baby while their toddler darts down the hallway.

A smile really can go such an incredibly long way.

Have you ever walked into the library carrying a baby, diaper bag, and a really loud three-year-old who still doesn't understand what you mean when you say, "Whisperrrrr?" Did anybody give you a friendly smile during this common fiasco of motherhood, or did you receive the stink eye from a library patron who wished your kids would just Shush?

Do you remember the first time you took your children to their new school? Did people smile at you when they walked by or when you came through the door, or did you feel invisible through the halls and as if everyone already knew each other?

I can remember many of my experiences in places that were not so positive. If I hadn't been the outgoing, in-your-face type of person that I am, I might have slumped away from ever going back or trying to put myself out there again. Instead, I've simply embedded those negative encounters in my brain and used them to benefit others who will be in similar situations in the future.

Obviously, not every person is meant to be the Welcome Lady. Your husbands would probably prefer that you are not. (Mark asked me this morning to please stop signing up for everything, as I was waking up before dawn to prepare for a welcome event at school).

We all have different personalities and different gifts.

However, I am quite confident that most of us are capable of making that aesthetically pleasing facial expression known as a smile.

Please, try it. We never know who we can touch and who needs our kindness today. You might make a new friend in the process!

 

 

Do you consider yourself to be a Bringer Togetherer or a person who likes for people to reach out to you? Can you tell us about an experience you had when you felt especially welcomed or especially unwelcomed somewhere? How has that shaped how you reach out to or shy away from others?

 

 

 

 

 

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