Cute as a Button?

This is what most of our days look like lately.

"They" say that 3 months is when babies really start evening out, start developing a schedule, start waking less during the night, but Lily apparently missed that memo. Instead, our sweet-tempered, easily scheduled, all-star nurser has turned into a difficult, unpredictable little screamer who has left her parents exhausted and exceedingly confused. And, while I understand that babies will be babies and that my love of a routine will not translate into Lily actually keeping one, the last couple of weeks have felt, at times, even more challenging than those first two weeks did. Once again, I don't always know how to soothe my daughter, I can't predict when she'll need to nurse or need to nap, and I find myself over-tired, under-nourished, and lacking patience at the end of the day.

I suppose I'm learning what it means to be a mom in these moments, and--while it seems like it will be so much easier when she can tell me what's wrong or entertain herself for a few hours--I know those stages will come with their own challenges, too. Sometimes, it seems like her toughest moments are designed to help me grow in my flexibility with whatever the world throws at me. I'm learning that a screaming baby doesn't surprise the people around me nearly as much as it surprises me, that sympathetic looks from other moms as she wails in the grocery store don't mean they think I'm doing a bad job as a mom but, rather, indicate their empathy for the exhaustion and frustration they can read on my face. I'm also learning to ask for help, to know when I need to let Jeff take over or when it's okay to knock on a neighbor's door and hand her over for fifteen minutes while I take a shower. And, though they seem few and far between these days, I'm also learning to appreciate moments like the one in the picture below more than ever.

Everyone keeps telling me our sweet little Button will come back, and I know she will. Sometimes I just wonder how long I'll have to wait--because 3 months doesn't seem like nearly the utopian existence that I thought it was going to be.

An addendum: I've been thinking about this post all day, and I feel like it's really important for me to add this note at the end of it. For over two years, I have read posts like this one on the blogs of women I love, the blogs of women who have little ones. I remember thinking over and over how desperately I wished that I had the problem of a son or daughter who cried too much or who needed constant attention--because that would mean I had a baby. I know many of you who read this blog are hopefully waiting for the day you'll hold your rainbow in your arms, and I await that day by your sides. In no way is this post meant to be a "woe is me"--it is simply the moment I'm in.

Why Moms Need a Break

I love my daughter. And I have had time away from her since she was born two months ago; Jeff and I even went on our first Lily-less date last weekend. However, until today, I had no idea what a massive difference there was between running errands by myself and actually having a day just to be on my own.

Jeff has been working long days this week with a lot of evening commitments. Last night, he asked if he could go out with one of the other dads in our neighborhood after work, and I was more than happy to say yes; C. is a great husband and a great dad, and Jeff needed the time with another guy. As expected, the boys had a wonderful time, but what I didn't expect was what Jeff told me when he got home. Basically, he declared today a "Mommy Break Day," meaning that he would take Lily while I took the day to do whatever made me happy. I couldn't get over the incredible gift of time I'd been given!

So, today, Lily spent the day with her daddy in Georgetown. They walked the waterfront, fought to find a place with a changing table in a mens' room (seriously, world--it's acceptable to assume dads don't have little ones to change?!?), and had bottles (beer for Daddy, milk for Lily) outside in the sunshine. And while all that was happening, I had my first pedicure in nearly a year, had lunch with my awesome friend M. out in the sunshine, drank the first cosmo I'd had since before I got pregnant, and sat outside with a glass of wine, happily reading my Kindle without a care.

It's one thing to be a husband. It's another thing to be a father to a daughter. But it is a completely different thing to be a father to your wife. Today, Jeff gave me the gift of Mommy's Break Day, the gift of time with myself and with a close friend, the gift of realizing I am still someone independent of Lily. And, while I couldn't wait to snuggle my little peanut when I got home, I'll be remembering that cosmo in the springtime sun for many days to come.

Why Grammar Still Matters

At back to school night every fall, I like to talk to parents about our writing program. I'm incredibly proud of it; my school produces writers who range from "solid" to "exemplary," and our alumni come back every year to say how well prepared they were for college level writing courses. Because I teach freshmen, I teach many of those fundamental skills at the outset, but the road isn't easy. It takes a great deal of practice to become a proficient writer, practice that my students get as they write paragraphs throughout the fall and essays throughout the spring. However, as any athlete knows, if you only practice a skill once a week at best, you're unlikely to improve. It's the daily practice you need.

And so this is what I love to tell my freshmen: you write more today than I ever did. It's true. I had to pick up a phone to find out the homework assignment I'd missed; writing a letter took a great deal of effort and really only occurred when thank you notes were required. I couldn't just text a friend to see what I'd missed in class or email a friend in England to wish her a happy birthday--but my students can, and they do. They write countless times every single day, though they rarely make the connection between the quick tweet about the essay I just assigned and the writing of the essay itself. Yes, there's a degree of brevity in their daily communications, but it's still a chance to practice.

If they have smartphones, it's even easier; spellcheck is a built-in feature that auto-corrects their every missive (sometimes with humorous results). However, while the spelling may be correct, the grammar may not be, and that's where the opportunity to practice comes into play. If they pay attention to those homophones, to those quotation marks, to those commas and apostrophes, they may just find their next grammar quiz scores slightly higher than expected. And, if they've got grammar-savvy recipients on the other end of those missives, they're also sure to impress. As I explain it to them, ignoring grammar when you type is like walking into an interview wearing ripped jeans and a holey sweatshirt, for your linguistic prowess is how you present yourself online.

Now, if you're reading this blog, chances are you're also someone who values the written word, who finds that sometimes things are better expressed through fingers on a keyboard than a tongue in a mouth. Perhaps you even write a blog of your own or participate in an online community or text more than you call. Maybe you're already a grammar superstar, but maybe--like my freshmen--you still sometimes tilt your head first to one side, then to the other, and then just simplify the problem by typing out "it is" rather than figuring out where that pesky apostrophe goes.

And so here, my lovely readers, are two of the most common grammar mistakes explained. Take 'em or leave 'em, but know that, if you already apply them or if you start to now, you'll suddenly be walking around your technological world wearing a snappy little outfit instead of those ripped jeans.

Your versus You're

The GIF above, of Ross explaining grammar to Rachel, is one that I frequently see posted online when folks get frustrated with improper grammar--and Ross has got it exactly right. Here's why: an apostrophe does one of two things: it creates a contraction or indicates possession. (It never ever ever makes something plural, but that's a lesson for another day.) In the "your / you're" case, the apostrophe is creating a contraction, which means that two words are being smushed together (contracted) by leaving a letter (or two) out. So, when you write "you're," you're really writing "you are" and just eliminating the a and replacing it with an apostrophe.

Its versus It's

The same basic principle applies to this one as to the previous one, but there's a little twist. Let's say I want to write the following sentence:

The car is lying on the car's side.

Grammatically, that's just fine; the apostrophe in "car" makes it possessive, as the car is the owner of the side. But it sounds a bit redundant, right? So let's take advantage of a pronoun to fix the problem:

The car is lying on it's side.

Seems logical, right? If "car's" in the first sentence was possessive, then "it's" in the second sentence should be possessive too, right? But here's the rub--you actually just wrote this sentence:

The car is lying on it is side.

Stupid complex English grammar, right? See, possessive pronouns never take apostrophes; it's the reason you've never seen "her's" or "his's" or "their's." By their very nature, possessive pronouns are, well, possessive, so they don't need a little apostrophe helped to show that. As a result, what you really wanted to write was this:

The car is lying on its side.

Here's the cardinal rule: any time you write "it's," you mean "it is." No exceptions, okay?

Hope Found

The little face that gives me renewed hope each morning.

Two years ago, nearly two years to the day before Lily was born, I wrote this post about the pain of losing hope in a future I had always dreamed of. I think about that post often because the walk I describe in it has been such a symbolic one for me throughout the past two years. I have walked around the paths surrounding our neighborhood while grieving the pain of a miscarriage, while celebrating the prospect of a new treatment cycle, while feeling the discouragement of another negative pregnancy test, while talking quietly to the growing Button in my belly. And today, with the burst of spring weather at long last, with the bright sunshine that has come after such a long, cold winter, I finally walked while pushing Lily--our miraculous little daughter.

Right now, I am struck by how many of my dear friends are in places where hope has failed them before. One is today meeting with a specialist to go over the plan moving forward from her most recent miscarriage, two are anxiously awaiting the outcome of the treatment cycles they're currently in the midst of, others are patiently walking through the next steps in journeys to adoption or fostering. All of these women and men deserve to be parents--have hoped and prayed and longed to be parents--and yet are in a holding pattern of waiting, wondering if hope will find or elude them this time.

If you're reading this today and feeling a dearth of hope, please don't think for one moment that I'm writing platitudes, telling you that it will all work out perfectly, that the job/house/spouse/baby will arrive exactly how you want it to and the way you've always dreamed, that bumpy roads lead to the best outcomes because they're so much more worth it, that Lily's smiley face at the top of this post should make you feel all better. While some of those things may be true, all of them aren't--and certainly not for all people in all circumstances. However, the only story I can tell--the only story this blog can tell--is mine. And this story--happily, joyfully--is one of hope found after hope lost, one of hope renewed after hope shattered.

I hope and pray yours is, too.

Dear Lily: Your daddy sings off-key.

Dear Lil' Lily,

As I type this, I'm watching you squirm on the monitor screen next to me. You've been inconsolable for more of the day than is normal for you (a period of time which, I imagine, is infinitesimal compared to many infants your age, but it still feels abnormal to us). In particular, since we gave you your bath this evening, you've been crying. It breaks our hearts even more than it ever has before because you now cry real tears, salty droplets that well up at the corners of your big, round eyes, then spill down your soft, chubby cheeks. Real tears that we kiss and rock and shush away--but tonight to no avail.

But your daddy hasn't given up on you yet.

For nearly an hour now, he's been holding you. He's rocked you in big swings and bounced you in small hops; he's patiently taken a half hour to feed you three ounces from your bottle and offered you back your pacifier each of the times you've spit it out. And, with a soft, gentle voice, he's sung you everything from Billy Joel to Oklahoma to Elton John (via Moulin Rouge).

And he's sung every single one slightly off-key.

But here's what amazing, little girl: you don't know and you don't care. That voice is daddy's voice, your daddy's voice, and it means that you're safe, that you're cared for, that the world around you is suddenly a more familiar, less scary place. And even though you're still tossing and turning, even though we doubt we'll ever sleep tonight, you're no longer crying inconsolably--because you seem to understand, to know and to trust, that your daddy loves you. And that makes everything alright.

Your daddy loves us a whole lot, my sweet little girl.

(Now could you please go to sleep?)

Love,
Your mommy

Lily's Duckies--Here They Come: A Bathroom Makeover

We love our townhouse, and, when we found it over two years ago, we were delighted to realize that so many of the rooms were already move-in ready for us. For example, we loved the bright yellow walls and adorable drawer pulls (they are little pieces of silverware!) in the kitchen, the red accent wall surrounding the fireplace in our living room, the finished basement complete with a chair rail, and the (laminate-but-it's-better-than-wall-to-wall-carpeting) hardwood floors throughout. In fact, the only things we really didn't love were the paint colors in the master and guest bedrooms and the state of the three and a half baths.

Two years later, we've Jeff has painted the master bedroom, and you know all about the guest bedroom that turned into Lily's nursery. But the bathrooms have fallen by the wayside, in spite of our best intentions. The same sky blue is in our master bath, the heinously ugly gardening wallpaper is still peeling off the basement bath walls, and the half bath on the main level lacks any kind of beautiful pedestal sink or eye-catching wall color that we've been drooling over online. However, Lily's arrival gave us the perfect reason to focus on the upstairs guest bath!

With basic white walls when we moved in, the bathroom worked fine with the pre-existing bath set we had. However, the French bistro / wine theme didn't seem so appropriate for a newborn, so we set to work.

The process began months ago, right around Christmas, when Jeff finally removed the 1980s-esque make-up lighting fixture (that still graces our bathroom) and got creative in replacing it with a new one we liked much better.

Now that we'd established a brushed bronze for the fixtures, we set to work on the faucet. The original one was just a silver basic one...

Which Jeff worked hard to replace...

With a pretty brushed bronze one that looks like an old well pump!

Inspiring the rest of the bathroom makeover was an adorable Pottery Barn set of towels, shower curtain, wastebasket, and tissue holder, kindly given to us by friends at church who were done using it for their daughters.

Because I knew Lily's bath supplies would require extra storage, I found a white cabinet on Amazon, then painted matching ducks on it.

But, before we could continue the project by choosing a new paint color for the walls, someone decided to make an early arrival into the world! As a result, it was nearly a month later when Jeff finally stayed up until 1am one morning, painting the "accent wall" a crisp Mediterranean blue.

After that, all that was left was the finishing touches, completed during Lily's afternoon nap earlier this week!

It was months in the making, but that's pretty perfect for our daughter who was years in the making, right?

Up next: the basement bathroom of topiary terror...

It's a good thing I didn't write this post yesterday.

Yesterday was a horrible, very bad, no good kind of day.
Yesterday, I wondered why God had chosen me to parent this little girl.
Yesterday, I couldn't stop crying.
Yesterday, I kept thinking "I hate being a mom."

But today...

Today, I've realized that 4 consecutive hours of sleep can work wonders.
Today, I've learned that reaching out to other moms and being honest about what I'm feeling is beyond reassuring.
Today, I've figured out that "sometimes I hate being a mom of a newborn who can't tell me what she needs."
Today, I know that I am not perfect and neither is Lily, but I am the perfect mommy for Lily and she is the perfect daughter for me.

It's hard to explain how much guilt is tied up in being a new mom, especially for me, especially given my personality, especially given the journey it took to get here. It's a challenge to admit that it's a huge adjustment to be home all day yet to accomplish seemingly nothing, that I can get to a point where sleep eludes me because I'm too exhausted, that I believe that I'm failing my tiny daughter. Thankfully, I'm surrounded by friends and family--both long-distance and right in the same room--who reassure me that everything I'm feeling is normal and that this phase will be over soon enough.

While Lily is the same newborn today that she was yesterday, today is much brighter, much more manageable, much more joyful. Today, I looked down at her sweet little face as she nursed and reveled with delight in holding my daughter in my arms. So, while there will be more yesterdays in our future, I'm writing this today to remind myself that the todays will come after the yesterdays and that joy does come fresh with each new morning.

I'm doing my best, little Lily. We'll get the hang of this yet.