Sipping Lemonade

Motherhood is a badge of honor.

I loved being pregnant.

I felt no shame as the scale rose in number with my first born. As my hips widened. As my stomach grew from a moderate-flat (ish) to a round, hard watermelon. I felt no shame as my curves curved more — and then more again. My face shape changing from square to round. My feet and ankles turning into well-buttered dinner rolls.

I loved the company of the baby within me. I’d talk to him in the shower. My husband sang lullabies to him. We wrote him letters. We dreamed of his face.

When I was out and about, I felt as though the world knew who I was. Like a nun wearing a habit or an engaged woman rocking her big, shiny rock — the baby within me was an outward sign that I was full of love. That I was in love.

That love was in me.

Motherhood is a tribe.

My husband went to a college with a longstanding tradition of pride. He — like most with the same alma mater — still wears his college ring.

We’ve had old men stop him in airports on the other side of the world and say, “Bob Jackson, class of 1960.” They shake hands. They lock eyes. They know something about each other.

I think motherhood is quite the same way — except much more so.

We see each other in line at Chick-Fil-A. We smile encouragingly in cry rooms. We help each other to cars in parking lots. We coo at other babies in restaurants. We may not have been but mild acquaintances at work — and then, a new mom comes back from maternity leave — and we talk openly about breast milk and afterbirth and all sorts of personal anecdotes.

Because one little person has suddenly made us all one tribe.

Motherhood is hard.

With colicky babies in our arms, we’ve sobbed right along with them. We’ve felt disappointed in our own weakness. We’ve wondered if we’re cut out for it. We’ve never felt so vulnerable, so incapable, so unprepared.

I hugged a total stranger at Target last week while she cried with three children in her cart. “It’s so hard,” she said. Her husband was deployed in another country. Her parents were deceased. She felt so alone.

Her 6-year-old turned to me and said, “She cries all the time.” I told her that’s because mommy loves her so much — she can’t contain it within her. It can’t help but pour out.

And that wasn’t a lie.

Even when it’s hard, it’s only because we love them so much.

Motherhood is purpose.

We have a goal. We have an advocacy.

And though we still, at times, may wonder who we are or what we’ve become, there is a sense of “everything is right in the world” when a baby falls asleep on your chest while you sleepily sing, You Are My Sunshine.

In that moment, you know you are capable of many great things.

Motherhood is joy.

My kids are, quite frankly, hilarious. Little comedians. They make me laugh — and not in a condescending way. Real belly laughs.

They make me tear up often out of pure pride. How did you learn that? I think. How amazing you are! I feel.

I enjoy being with them, teaching them, learning from them, taking walks with them.

They surprise me every day.

Motherhood is a journey.

I told my mom on the phone the other night, “You know, people always say you never know what it’s like to become a mom until you are one.” And it’s true.

It’s one of those rare, real miracles that — until experienced — is never quite the same in theory.

I had my last baby au naturel (no epidural or pain meds) — an experience that, to a degree, has summed up my brief mothering experience as a whole.

For a moment it was hard — so hard that I felt as though the lower part of my body was being ripped off. There was no way I could be prepared for it. I wasn’t sure I could do it again. I had moments of relief, moments of grace, moments where I knew this journey was so precious — and then, she was born.

All 9 lbs, 13 oz of her. In my arms. Against my body. She was happy. She was healthy.

And I thought: For her, I’d do it 100 times over.

She is worth it.

They are all worth it.

Motherhood is worth it.

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“It’s not personal, it’s business.”

People say this all the time in business relationships. Hurt somebody’s feelings? Overlooked somebody’s good intention? Insulted somebody because of their shortcomings? It’s not personal, it’s business. There’s a greater goal at hand—bigger things at stake—more urgent to-do’s than making sure you feel good about yourself. And quit being so needy, anyway.

[I never fully subscribed to this attitude in the business world: but really, this blog post isn't about business.]

It’s about marriage.

And it’s about the fact that I’ve noticed and read and thought a lot lately about the success rate of marriages, the behavior that makes marriages successful—and the behavior that, well, doesn’t.

I don’t know it all, I’m young (relatively) and have been married a short time (relatively) and truly have an absolutely amazing husband (no lie). But I do have 3 kids under 4 years of age, a husband with his own company and a slew of my own pet projects and I have—at times—seen how it’s easy to fall into the trap.

The Business Partner trap.

It’s a trap that happens when two young lovers suddenly have shared children and bills and chores and extracurricular activities — and now have a lot more to do than serenade each other with sweet nothings. When both people are exhausted at the end of the day and are too busy making sure the business happens that the personal falls to the wayside. And then… Hurt somebody’s feelings? Overlooked somebody’s good intention? Insulted somebody because of their shortcomings? It’s not personal, it’s business. There’s a greater goal at hand—bigger things at stake—more urgent to-do’s than making sure you feel good about yourself. And quit being so needy, anyway.

But the thing is: businesses may be able to thrive under those conditions, but families do not.

That’s because what makes a family successful is not money and checklists and job descriptions and who has it harder—it’s love. And love is the outcome of very different skill sets. Love is not business, it’s only personal.

“This is the meaning of truest love, to give until it hurts.“—Mother Teresa

I read this blog post today by a guy who had been married twice and divorced twice. He sat in the room with a bunch of friends and family for his little sister’s engagement party — and everyone went around the room sharing “marriage advice.” He realized, when it came around to his turn, that he didn’t really have any advice for making a successful marriage. All he knew was what not to do — things that had failed him. Things he would do different if he could go back and do them again.

And as I read “16 Ways I Blew My Marriage,” I thought of these same sentiments. These very common things (that I think all married couples can relate to) are not what lovers do. Some are even what enemies do. But many are what abrasive business colleagues do. They’re about their own agendas. They criticize (maybe even “constructively.”) They pressure and label and keep each other at an emotional distance. And at the end of the day? If it’s not working out?

“You’re fired.”– Donald Trump

And it’s easy to see why this happens — family life can feel like a job. Being a mother is harder than any office job I’ve ever had — and being a father, a husband and running a company is a big load to hold. But unlike business partners, we’re not made to fulfill our job requirements and check out—we’re made to constantly check in. To move closer together when days are tough. To give until it hurts. To give the benefit of the doubt. To not keep checklists or scorecards or “Hmm, is that in my job description or yours?”

Marriage is not business, it’s personal — where the person you married is your most important job. Even when it seems there is so much to do—nothing is more important than the person in front of you.

“I think the world today is upside down. Everybody seems to be in such a terrible rush, anxious for greater development and greater riches and so on. There is much suffering because there is so very little love in homes and in family life. We have no time for our children, we have no time for each other; there is no time to enjoy each other. In the home begins the disruption of the peace of the world.”—Mother Teresa

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Today is World Down Syndrome Day!

A day that takes place on 3/21 every year, representing the 3 copies of chromosome 21, which is unique to people with Down syndrome. Before Kate was born, I would have barely noticed this day — but today, I celebrate it with a full heart.

Whether or not you know someone with Down syndrome, there are many ways to celebrate with the Down syndrome community. After all, when it comes to love, acceptance and awareness of our differences, we’re all in this together.

Here are some ways to celebrate:

1. Share your favorite blogs and stories of families with Down syndrome or other special needs on Facebook, Twitter, by email, or wherever you share. Here are a few of my favorite blogs from parents of children with Down syndrome: Noah’s Dad, Enjoying the Small Things and Just Showing Up. Why is this important? For many parents who receive a prenatal Down syndrome diagnosis, they feel scared and alone — as they have never even met a person with Down syndrome, let alone understand what the diagnosis means. The more we share the reality (and gift!) of Down syndrome, the less we are scared of it.

2. Take time to mindfully teach your children about compassion -- and there are so many ways to do that. Expose your children to people who are different than them, talk to them about our differences while emphasizing what we have in common — and set an example by embracing those that others may be weary of. Also, compassion and kindness are examples set not just in how we treat people with “special needs” — but in how we treat everyone: the Target cashier who is going slow, the person who cuts us off in traffic, the coach who doesn’t play our child enough.

3. Celebrate your own special talents. Kate may have Down syndrome — and while many choose to look at this as a disability, I see it as an incredible strength. Some things are challenging for her — while other things come much more easily for her. The same goes for my other two children. We all have different abilities — and today is a day to celebrate those.

4. Get involved in your local Down syndrome community. In a rut? Looking for a way to volunteer and change your life? Find the local Down syndrome society in your area. Volunteer. Help. Make friends. And experience first hand how people with Down syndrome may learn a bit differently — but they teach us so much more than we teach them.

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They came into the cry room about 20 minutes after the service started.

It wasn’t completely packed — there was still room for them, so they occupied two empty chairs at the end of the second row.

They didn’t have any kids — and were but kids themselves. Teenagers. Obviously looking for a place to hide to avoid being at church. Perhaps their parents had forced them?

She had frizzy, greasy red hair, pulled into a worn scrunchie. Dirt under her nails. Bad posture. He had acne and glasses and well-worn clothes. Their body language told me that their social skills were lacking. They slumped, frowned, and acted strange — a strange that could be concerning. Were they picked on? Were they angry?

Other parents popped their heads in with fussy toddlers to see if there was room. There would be if the two teenagers weren’t hiding out, I thought. I was disappointed with my own irritation.

The boy left briefly and returned with a shoe box full of old purple church bulletins. They whispered something — and then, they started folding.

Page after page, they bent the corners, licked the creases and ripped the papers apart. The pastor talked, the parents herded their young — and the awkward teens folded.

I found myself distracted by them. It’s hard enough to focus with children, I thought.

Another mom popped her head in — and they offered their chairs and retreated to the floor. I couldn’t see what they were folding, but they kept their heads down, occasionally whispering, looking up, staring into space.

I could focus better when they moved from the chairs in front of us. I didn’t have to keep Kate from trying to reach for their pile of pages. I was more… comfortable.

Soon mass was over.

Most of the parents had cleared out — and we were alone with the two awkward teenagers who barely made eye contact let alone smiled. And then, the boy approached my boy. Through wiry glasses, he looked down at my eager 4-year-old who simply smiled up at him.

And in his sweaty teenage hand, he held the most beautiful, intricately folded, purple origami box. Each side made of multiple pages woven together.

“See, you can take the top off,” the teenager said in a sweet voice to my boy, “You can hide treasure in it.” And then, he handed it to him. “Here, you can have it.”

I watched my son slowly take the box out of the teenage boy’s hand and realized I had also built a box today — but I had not recognized the treasure inside.

I looked at my husband and said, “Well that was a surprise ending.” He chuckled.

Because in that cry room, the most charitable person was not a rule-following mother — trying to pay attention — irritated with the people around her.

It was a boy with dirt under his nails, who spent the entire service preparing to give the best he had.

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My 4-year-old asks a lot of questions. Lots of why’s and how’s and when’s.

And sometimes he takes a few minutes to express his thoughts. He’s working through what he’s trying to say — and he’s thinking of the best way to explain himself.

And though the questions and the explanations and the long pauses can seem a bit wearing, requiring a lot of mommy-patience on a busy day — I always do my best to listen. To really listen. Every time.

I try my best to answer every question. I work hard to never finish his sentences for him unless he asks for help. I let him work through his thoughts and then I give him a thoughtful response. And sure, if we get too far into the “Why game” — but why? But why? But why? I find a way to gently direct our attention elsewhere, but otherwise: I do my best to acknowledge that what he is saying matters. And I want him to feel that it matters.

I read an article in the New York Times today about ending the “R-word.” (Retarded.) As a mother of a child with Down syndrome, I am sensitive to this word — but not overly so, as I know that many of my friends, coworkers, etc, who have used it around me certainly mean no harm. But still, I do feel it’s important to be aware of it’s implications and potential hurtfulness — and the article articulates this idea very well. In the article, John Franklin Stephens, a man with Down syndrome who serves as a “global messenger” for the Special Olympics, was quoted.

One thing he said especially stuck with me:

“The hardest thing about having an intellectual disability is the loneliness. We are aware when all the rest of you stop and just look at us. We are aware when you look at us and just say, ‘unh huh,’ and then move on, talking to each other. You mean no harm, but you have no idea how alone we feel even when we are with you.”

I thought to myself: I never want Kate to feel that way. I never want any of my children to feel that way. I never want them to feel the “uhh huh” and move on.

And the thing is: we do it too often to each other, “disability” or not. We do it to our children. To our spouses. To our friends. We half-listen to their feelings while thinking more about what we want to say next. We smile politely at the quirky cashier at Target who tells us about her day, humoring her with a quick head nod and going on our way.

But we never stop to think how lonely that may feel. We assume they don’t notice that we don’t notice them.

I’ve found that whenever I think somebody doesn’t really have anything to say, it’s because I haven’t listened to them. I never want to move on or move past the people I love. Whether it’s my eloquent husband, my precocious 4-year-old or my sweet Kate, I want them to know that I can’t wait to hear what they have to say next.

“This is the problem with dealing with someone who is actually a good listener. They don’t jump in on your sentences, saving you from actually finishing them, or talk over you, allowing what you do manage to get out to be lost or altered in transit. Instead, they wait, so you have to keep going.” ― Sarah Dessen

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Just watch this 3-minute video. The last words that Tim says are the same words I thought throughout the entire thing!

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You’ve heard the phrase – first world problems?

If you search the Twitter hashtag, you’ll find status messages of people who know that what they’re complaining about isn’t really worth, well, complaining about.

Here are some search results on Twitter:

I ate all the rye chips in my Gardettos mix first. Now they’re gone. #firstworldproblems

The pouch of my Mac & Cheese won’t tear open. #firstworldproblems

I got ice cream on my shirt because I was eating it laying down. #firstworldproblems

(I especially like this one:)

Hardest part about birthdays today is liking all the Facebook posts. #firstworldproblems

And today, after spending $36 — and 2 hours — to get my hair cut with a purse-unloading toddler at my side, I was tempted to be super grumpy that — for the second haircut in a row — I didn’t really get the bangs I asked for.

I know, I know. #firstworldproblems

And then I got home and looked on Facebook and saw a posting from a friend who is traveling right now. She had posted some pictures of the Third World that brought me back into the real world.

And I thought — huh. My hair is just fine. In fact, it’s perfect.

It’s good to keep perspective.

Because no matter what world we live in, why waste time complaining when we should be counting.

#countingmyblessings

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