Been meaning to announce our newest family member to my blog for sometime… but as he is my fourth, things have been busy. Yesterday, however, my little babe turned 4 weeks old and I realized just how fast time has flown by.
So meet Silas Davies Born July 2nd Jonas my six year-old illustrated the big event Those black things are my shoes- cause you don’t wear shoes in bed.
Oh and I’ve adopted this next drawing as my “after birth” picture, because I look way cuter here. We all love Silas with a forever love that runs real deep. And we went ahead and bought a truck with a front bench seat so we can all fit. (Well, that and my hubby needed it for work)
So now were six.
Feelin pretty stoked about it too.
It’s the combos that do me in. No not the yummy ones you find at restaurants.
The ones that go like this:
Too little sleep. Crying. Temper-tantrums.
poop. poop. poop.
Three poops for the 3 bathroom catastrophes Sammy, my two-year old, gave me today.
“Mommas not gonna clean it up” I told him the last one. As I stand at the door of the bathroom with the baby strapped to me. “Momma’s all done cleanin up your poops.”
“ohhh” he groans with his pants around his ankles. And gives his butt a swipe with his hand.
He pulls his hand up and groans more as he sees its covered in poop. This is terrible- so he slides his hands down the sides of his face in distress. I call out that there is poop on his face now and he grabs his hair… then leans on the closet.
I hate poop. Why can’t it just stay where you want it too?
I can see this isn’t gonna get any easier and put down the baby.
I clean. And then like I said- I don’t do combos well. I cry.
Sammy stares naked at me sitting on the lid of the toilet bawling. Naturally about stinky poop and my loathe for it and “Why? oh why??”
He looks concerned. He says “sorry Momma.”
and I say,
“I forgive you”. And as I speak the words, I try.
Today I read to the kids from the Bible that God is kind and compassionate and slow to anger. I told them- “not like Momma who gets mad easy”.
I wanna be a better Momma. One who is those things.
The good news- I can say “God I’m sorry”. And he says ” I forgive you child.” and…
He doesn’t even have to try.
Bed rest again.
Only this time (compared to Sammy, my 3rd pregnancy) it’s not in the bleak of Winter.
The birds are chirping, I can sit on our deck in the sun and watch the kids hunt caterpillars.
I can count butterflies instead of snow flakes.
Yesterday, my dear hubby took the kids out all day to help with Dr.s orders.
At first it was very relaxing and restful. I slept on and off recovering from the contractions at the hospital the night before. I finished my book, folded all the laundry I could reach, and only had one lunch to prepare.
Then around noon the silence got to me.
I missed the chattering children.
There was no one to bring me useful things to do…
There was too much time. Time to think about “ME” and wallow in the long days to come. I felt bored and broken and sad.
And I realized just what a gift my children are.
That for all my complaining about how much work they cost me- that work keeps me sane. They’re my dear little friends. I experience life with them.
Moments that rock me, and leave me struggling with change- barely ripple their pond.
To see them carry on as normal, somehow helps me to carry on too.
To remember everyday is for playing, reading books, and sharing snacks.
My three little gifts are helping me through the wait for Gods fourth gift. Who’s health is more important than clean bathrooms, and a dirt free floor.
We’re all pitching in.
With my husband strong at the front taking the brunt of the work. My kids as my elf helpers and chatty companions. Our dear new friends at church lending hands and food. And my Jesus, filling my mornings and low times with his words of encouragement reminding me that he goes before me and I’m not alone, and neither is my little one.
Were gonna make it.
All of us.
As a team.
I won’t have to eat another hospital ‘sandwich’ till ‘Show time’.
Sunny and hot, sitting in a lawn chair watching your kid play soccer.
Outdoor lunch in the yard under the sparkling sun.
Then Thunder and lighting.
Rain like a waterfall curtain.
Clouds of steam billowing from the hot pavement, and the tin roof pounding like urgent drums.
The temperature drops, and cups of cocoa find excepting hands.
Beneath an umbrella, Jonas runs out a basket of cookies and a thermos of cocoa to his Dad and Uncle in the garage.
Then with light and cracking it moves.
The storm passes.
The sun shines. It’s incredibly green. Impossibly bright and new.
“Mom! There is the HUGEST puddle at our house. Can we use the umbrella to float across?”
Lately as I tucked Elise, my four-year-old, into bed at night she has had Daddy on her mind.
The first night she was praying that everybody in the family would have a good sleep, when she paused. Gave a thoughtful frown and continued, “well except for baby and Daddy. They’re nocturnal. So I pray they would have a good day.”
I laughed and patted my jumping belly, “Baby might be nocturnal but why do you think Dad is?”
“Well…” she pierced her lips together in a knowing fashion and twisted her hair between her little fingers, “he hunts at night.”
Then the other night she was worried that robbers might come into our home. I told her exactly what my Mother told me in regards to the same fear.
“Well they wouldn’t come up here, cause they would be too afraid of Daddy.”
“Why?” she asked
“Because Daddy would beat them up.”
“Oh…” twirling her hair in thought she looked back at me, “what does that mean?”
“To beat someone up? Well to kick and punch someone. Lots. It would really hurt.”
She said no more about it that night. But tonight as I began to straighten the sheets around her she blurted out, “I wish I could see Dad punch an kick robbers.”
“What?” It took me a moment to remember where this was coming from.
“You know, I wish I could see Daddy punch’n, and kick’n bad robbers.”
She was admit, and I found myself reminding her that for that to happen there would have to be bad robbers in our house- which we don’t want.
Tonight she also prayed for the little Toyota truck Sam is fixing to sell called Rusty.
“And I pray Daddy could get Rusty running… Not like the kind where you go running down the street in shoes, but like the kind where it starts and drives.”
Someone loves her Daddy. The night hunt’n, punch’n, kick’n, robber beater, poor truck Fixer.
And ya know, it’s kinda
how the rest of us feel too.
That moment when you’re talking your 4-year-old through the process in how to go down the loose gravel embankment on her bike; and your 2-year-old decides to break free from your “Wait” command and just show her.
Then that split second reaction that has you barreling down the hill after him- having flung you stroller to the side- screaming “SAMMY SAMMY! Dear God! SAMMY!”.
Your so pregnant you WILL your legs to go together and run, because unless Sammy turns his bike with the trail he will go over the rock bank at the bottom- into the rushing spring creek.
But God is faithful and Sammy wobbly steers his runner bike from the edge and straight down the narrow path to chase after his big brother.
Then there is that other moment.
When you gather your deserted buggy and try to catch up- but your 6 month pregnant body makes you pay for your little run. Your pelvis thinks its broken and proceeds to make your legs stick out of the sides of your body as you waddle and wobble down the path after your speedy toddler.
My 2-year-old is officially faster than me, and I don’t stand a chance. My 3 children wait up ahead, for ME to catch up… Sniff sniff
My elderly neighbor in her nineties asked me if I needed any help moving.
“After all,” she said, “I’ve moved 27 times.”
I, on the other hand, have only ever moved twice. And I’m not even sure if the first time counts, since all I owned was a single bed, a trunk, and a dresser.
The second time wasn’t much of a move either. My hubby owned a moving truck and we only moved a few blocks away- we barely had to pack.
This move is a FIRST in lots of ways.
First time moving out of the Okanagan.
First time moving to a house we OWN.
First time renting a moving truck.
First time moving with more than one child (we’ve moved with Jonas as a baby).
And First time moving Pregnant. Six months pregnant.
With just under a month to go, I had my first moving nightmare last night.
Change stresses me. Pretty sure boxes stress me. And weirdly mixing contents in a half filled box stresses me. Like I wish my “Music” box didn’t have a ball pump and extension cord in it- cause that has nothing to do with music. Mix matched boxes is made worse by trying to not pack things were going to use in the next month.
The kids wanted to help me pack in the kitchen this morning. But they each wanted their own box and and soon it was a competition as to whose box Mom had put the most stuff in. Thankfully though, in one of the kitchen bowls I was packing, a bag of balloons fell out and they immediately lost all interest in packing.
I’m really excited for our new adventure. And trying really hard to just relax, take big breaths and not worry about the approaching moving day.
Spring is in the air, and all it takes is a step outside to clear the head.
I only wish I could do more of my packing in the sunshine:)
I’m sure you’ve been there. You know, wrestling a stack of papers in an over stuffed binder and one page somewhere in the middle isn’t quite fitting- and it’s SO finicky and frustrating! Only I bet you, unlike me, didn’t have an ongoing narrative of what your toddler was doing at that exact moment. “Mom Sammy opened the front door. He’s outside with Elise’s high heals on. Mom he’s going down the steps…”
Blast theses papers!!
“He’s in the MUD!! WITH ELISE’S HIGH-HEALS!”
I probably said AARG. The papers slid every which way out of the binder. I opened the front door to find