Messy Christmas

Taking care of two mobile kids is a study in entropy. Now that he can walk, he loves grabbing random objects and toys around the house and dropping them off in a completely different place. He likes digging into our recycling bin and redistributing empty cartons and bottles around the house. She is always moving toys from one room to another. I'm constantly battling the clutter of plastic kitchenware, books, doll house furniture, empty Tupperware, stray wrappings and stickers.

Life is messy in more ways than one. The day doesn't always go as we predict. They don't always sleep, eat or act the way we think. Sometimes, like today, we find ourselves spent. We're helping to plant a church, which means I show up before dawn to set up the band and play for worship; D gets the kids ready his own and then ushers. We stay afterwards for lunch. We all come home pretty exhausted. And it's darned hard to be patient with each other and two fussy, irrational kids.

I was reading Mary's story to E today and it struck me how messy the whole journey to Bethlehem and labor in a stable must have been. Somehow we have romanticized the whole tableau; turned it into something with cute barnyard animals and soft lights. The last time I went to a barn, it stank. The last time I was pregnant, I had a hard time sitting on the floor of our new furniture-sparse house, much less on the bony back of some donkey. It would have been easy to be grouchy, to wonder why a reservation wasn't made, to think things were going all wrong, when instead it was exactly how it should have been.

So yeah, things are not all perfect around here. There a shoe under the couch because dee-dee fished it out and was walking around with it in his mouth; there is a plastic purple fork on the sofa because I was lying there pretending to be E's patient and that was my "medicine." But Jesus began his life in an unexpected place, in the dirt and hay. I think when he told the little children to come to him, he must have been someone who didn't mind their loudness and clamor, their untidiness and stickiness. So it's okay. Sometimes I get so stuck on wanting the day to go my way, on fighting all the spills and messes, that I forget the point of it all. I forget to be present. This Christmas, I want to be present in the unexpected. I don't want to be so intent on the inn room that I miss the king in the stable. I don't want to be so irritated by the mess and unpredictability that I forget to see my family for what it is and be grateful.

Relating

D talks sometimes about how it’s easy to see each other primarily as respective childcare units. Tickets towards navigating the daily grind of childcare intact. We discuss which kid we’ll put to bed, whose turn it is to give them a bath, who should prep the diaper bag while the other changes clothes. We switch off kids if we sense the other person needs a change. We each take care of both kids alone enough to appreciate when the other person is around to help, but it can get to be where we see each other as more functional than relational.

This is in nearly comic contrast to how we related before we had kids. We’d talk about things like, what have you been thinking about lately? What has God been teaching you? What passions do you have in life? How has your family shaped you in this or that way? What personality strengths and weaknesses do you have and how does that fit in with mine? What ministry or vision do you feel God is leading you towards for the future?

And aside from talking, we’d think about the other person. Think of small kindnesses we could show, surprises we could buy, ways we could pray. Wonder how they were feeling as they went through the day. Plan an experience we could share. Encourage the other person to develop hobbies or other friendships.

It’s that element of thought and focus on the other person, for their own sake, not in relation to something else, that is the easiest to lose as the demands of life grow. I used to wonder at older couples in restaurants who barely speak to or look at each other the entire time, but it’s not so hard to see how that happens.

It can get like that with God too, more functional than relational—God, get me through this day, answer this list of things I want—instead of, God, who are you? How can I learn more about you today? Am I listening to you?

It used to be that I could get to that place easier, get over myself, set aside time; now it takes more effort. It helps to plan ahead for regular dates, to have helpful material, to put aside distracting media. With God, it helps to make the effort to go to church, have a small group, meet with someone I can share the answers to those questions with. This stage of life is just how it is, and some days are about helping each other get to the point where both kids are in bed, then zoning out afterwards, and that’s okay. But they aren’t the most important priority in our lives—just the most demanding sometimes—and it’s good to remember that.

Caregiver Fatigue

It’s been a hard week. Everyone but me got sick. D was holed up in bed. The kids got fevers followed by a state of permanent fussiness. Dee-dee has to be held constantly and has a meltdown at the slightest provocation, meltdowns that can last for over twenty minutes. E has taken her usual particularity to an extreme, losing it if I don’t do everything a certain way, refusing to eat most things.

It isn’t long before I start feeling the familiar symptoms of caregiver fatigue. I feel trapped, like I want to yell really loud or get out of the house, but I can’t. Every little thing the kids do tick me off. I can’t deal with another meltdown, another crumb falling into the carpet, another mouthful of unwanted food spit across my shirt, another cramp in my legs when I’m holding him while bending down to pick something up. I start bitterly comparing my life with my husband’s—he doesn’t have to take care of the kids all the time, his life is so much easier—or with that of other people (conveniently forgetting single parents or mothers of twins).

Most of all, I lose perspective. I feel like the kids are doing this to me on purpose. I feel like my whole world has narrowed to this house that gets messier and grimier, to heating up leftovers no one wants to eat, to washing the same sippy cups that get the annoying grime stuck in the straw parts that I can’t get out. I lose sight of the fact that I wanted to take care of the children more, of the help that I do have, of the fact that this will pass as they recover. I lose sight of who I am, what I do, aside from being a caregiver.

The closest way I came to feeling this way before I had kids was when I’d get burned out at the end of some ward rotation. I’d feel sick of wearing pants with drawstrings all the time, of eating peanut butter and graham crackers; I’d get mad at every stupid consult and social admission. But at least then there were other people on my team, people taking shifts with me or that I passed off patients to. In this motherhood thing you can feel very alone. All day, I’m trying to keep it together with the kids, be the better person, but there’s no one to speak for me. No one to understand what I’m going through. No one to point out what I might be losing sight of at any given time.

I cycle into this state every so often—a place of anger, resentment, bitterness and depression that eventually leads to some realizations. That I need time and space away by myself to regain perspective. That I need to remember who I am by doing things I enjoy for myself, both one-time experiences and cultivated interests. That it is okay to pay someone to watch the kids for all of the above without feeling guilty. That we need to constantly reevaluate the complicated balance we maintain of work, childcare and ministry to see if the things that are most important are staying that way. That we need to clarify expectations and needs with each other without placing blame or communicating resentment.

I’ve gotten somewhat better. I play in a worship band and have been teaching a resident lecture series, both of which account largely for why I’m much happier around the house. We're helping to plant a church, which has helped us focus on something outward together. I’m working on the concept that paying for help is okay. I control my temper around the kids (slightly) better. I try to recognize the signs earlier. I try to displace my anger less and talk through issues more. 

It’s a work in progress, but I think the biggest thing is realizing that this thing called caregiver fatigue exists. It’s not that I’m a bad mother or person. It’s not that I’m not cut out for having kids. It’s not that my kids are abnormally bad. It’s not that my life is unfair or horrible. It’s just what happens when you are constantly giving to meet demanding needs. You just can’t do that forever; we don’t have inexhaustible reserves, and that’s okay.

One Year Old

I'm pretty sure the reason why kids are often spaced two years apart is because they get so darned cute right around a year. It's this golden window, between about nine to eighteen months, where they are nothing but adorable, tottering and crawling around, all grins and babbles and chub. Old enough to be sleeping through the night (mostly), self-feed, and self-play; too young to say "no" or throw tantrums. You get lulled into thinking, why not another?

Journal Excerpt

I’ve noticed one very endearing thing about her: she likes what I like. She loves Legos, probably because I like personally like Legos. When we were living with my parents while house-hunting, and it was too hot or I was too tired from being pregnant to go out, we would build things with Legos all morning. She got a huge dollhouse for her birthday, which I may be more excited about than she is; my new hobby is hunting online for cheap deals for dollhouse furniture. She plays with the house for hours, exclaiming, “I love it!”

She goes to sleep with a pink stuffed bulldog purse (as tacky as it sounds) held next to her face. I asked her tonight, why do you like the pink dog so much? And she said, “because ma-ma gave it to me.” It was a dog she’d seen at a consignment store and wanted, but I told her we were getting other things, and she gave it up. I went back later for other reasons, and couldn’t resist getting it for her as a surprise.

She is also charmingly brain-washable when it comes to buying things. She’ll run up excited about a toy, I’ll tell her, hm, I think it’s not a great color, maybe we shouldn’t get it, and she’ll pause and say, “yeah. Not a good color.”

I know this won’t last forever, but I’m enjoying it while I can. I can’t see myself getting excited about cars or superheroes, so we’ll have to see how it goes with him.

Attitude

I remember my attending in residency, the only one who liked talking about being a mother—she would tell me not to prescribe these drops after cataract surgery to prevent risk of macular edema and then offer to check if my car seat was installed right—she used to say, there are three big milestones with kids. When they start sleeping through the night, when they stop breastfeeding, and when they get potty trained.

E sailed through all three with surprising ease and little effort. Because she was so sleep-deprived in daycare during our residency years, she conked out for twelve hours every night starting at three months. No exceptions, except maybe violent illnesses or severe thunderstorms. She self-weaned after my milk ran low. She potty trained in a day without a single accident, which I attribute to the fact that I dreaded the idea of a personal encounter with poop so much that I put it off until she was nearly three. She heard the word “lollipop” and the rest was history. I told her once that she could pee in the pool, and she looked at me like I was crazy.

Not so with dee-dee, our dimple-cheeked bundle of grinning stubbornness. He refused to take the bottle and was driven in for me to nurse every three hours at work. My milk ran low and I had to fill the bottle with orange juice to get him to take it. And he still, at ten months, does not reliably sleep through the night, regardless of what we do. Once every three or four days he’ll cry, mostly briefly, but enough to wake us up and leave us sleep-deprived the next day.

I remember my mom saying once that taking care of children is a privilege. Maybe it’s because I’m tired, but I’ve been viewing each day as more of a chore. I wake up each morning feeling exhausted, counting down the hours until I leave for work, hoping he naps so I can prep dinner and/or give E the solo attention she needs to avoid a descent into whininess. I get to work and count down the hours until I leave, seeing patients or operating nonstop. I arrive home to clingy kids and more chores, counting the hours until their bedtime. Then I spend an hour or so trying to feel like I have my own life, before waking to start it all again.

Those are the days I work. For the other four days of the week, I have a one- to two-hour spell of time off in the afternoon when their naps overlap, but it feels much the same.

It’s strange to realize that here I am, with two adorable kids, and most of the time I just feel tired and want them to be sleeping. I fantasize about weekend vacations without them. I think more about how to prevent spills and what to cook for dinner than how to enrich their days. I’m getting by rather than being present in the moment, playing defense rather than offense, being reactive instead of proactive.

Some of that probably just means I need time off or a full night’s sleep. But some of it is in my mind and choices. When I live in my grumpiness instead of in the Spirit; when I complain instead of being thankful. When I take them for granted.

But that is what’s so difficult about having kids. They wear you down, physically and emotionally. You get so used to doing things because you have to that you forget about doing them because you want to. I know bringing them up right—demonstrating Christ, teaching important things, discerning specific needs—is a privilege. I know my mood determines the mood of the entire house. I know we want our home to be a place of safety and peace. And I sure know now that none of that is possible unless I’m asking God for help. I’m trying to change my thinking, to enjoy each day. And I’m praying he starts sleeping regularly through the night.

Birthday Letter

Dear E,

You turn three years old in a few hours. It is the night before your birthday, and I am sitting in the living room typing while waiting for the chocolate cake to finish baking. This is the first time you understand that it’s your birthday. Every few days for the past month you ask me first thing in the morning, “is it my birthday yet?” This morning I asked, “do you know what day it is tomorrow?” and you said, “it’s someone’s birthday—it’s E’S birthday!” I ask you, “who do you want to invite to your birthday party?” And you always say, “dee-dee.” “Anyone else?” After a pause you add, “Daddy, Mommy,” like an afterthought.

It’s hard to believe you are three! You are really grown-up now. You know how to press your hand against my forehead to see if I have a temperature. You know how to change Eric’s diaper by yourself. You wipe up his drool, remove choking hazards, refill his Cheerios. You know how to put on the nursing cover and unclick your pretend-bra to pretend-nurse your dolls. You can go potty by yourself, wash veggies for me to stir-fry, wipe up spills by yourself.

You notice everything, learn fast, and talk a lot. You ask me if I’m sad when you sense something is going on. You tell me where to find something I’ve lost. You inform me something is “junk food.” You tell me God is in heaven and also in your heart. You say, “ouch—I bumped my ulnar nerve!” when you hit your elbow. You can locate the clavicle, esophagus and intestines. You can read entire books by heart, flipping through and reciting each page. You never forget anything I say, even if it was days ago. You can chatter just as fast in English or Chinese. Everyone remarks on how sophisticated your vocabulary is.

You are imaginative—you can play grocery store, aquarium, hospital, or classroom with the same few toys; you love stories. You are musical—you sing all kinds of songs and you love to dance. You are artistic—you can draw an accurate cartoon figure, and you love crafts. You are very neat—you wipe up specks of dirt and place your food carefully on tissues to keep the table clean. You are dextrous—you can assemble Legos built for kids twice your age. Your dad asks me a lot, “is this normal for someone your age?” but we don’t know.

Here is a list of the things you like: chocolate. Gummy bears. Sucking on lemons. Hand sanitizer. Stickers. Band-aids. Fruit snacks. Swimming. Swings. Gymnastics. Drawing scribbles in notebooks. Paint. Taking care of your dolls and animals. Where’s Waldo. Play-doh. Fairy tales. Your three security blankets.

Daddy says all the time that he wishes we could have more children exactly like you. You amaze and surprise us every day. I tell you this when we sit in the glider at night before I tuck you into your crib. I tell you that we love you, that a lot of people love you, that you are precious and special. You are smart and kind. You bring us joy and laughter. We are so thankful you were born three years ago. I think we will be a little sad when you get older.

Love, 

Ma-Ma

Arrived

I remember being shocked in college at having just midterms and finals, instead of the quizzes, tests, and projects of high school (that, and using spiral notebooks in place of three-ring binders because there never were any handouts). As time went on, the tests got spaced farther apart, and more expensive: just one test per semester. Then per year. I finally passed the last one this year, and the next one won’t be for ten years.

It’s strange how there are pretty much no more external motivating events in my life. No deadlines, major tests, competitions or performances. No milestones, like getting married or having kids (except having more kids, but we’re not able to imagine that yet). If I ever anticipated a point of arrival, then I’m here. I’ve accomplished my training and established a career, have a family, bought a house, am investing in community and near family. I’ve regained my figure, become financially stable, and when I have free time it really is free time: for once in my life, I don’t have to be studying.

The strange thing is, I’m not automatically happier. Instead of my better self emerging now that my external life has plateaued, my worse self is showing up: my selfishness, my laziness, basically my belief that I can live life on my own effort. I am more consistent about seeking entertainment than about my spiritual life. I’ve read novels, gotten addicted to television shows, but I can’t say I’ve grown much spiritually. The entertainment starts as a way of combating the exhaustion of twelve hours of non-stop childcare followed by non-stop work, then develops into a way of escaping from the weariness and mundaneness of life, then just becomes habit. I’ve always thought that Satan doesn’t need to scare us or shock us; he just needs to distract us.

I go through cycles where I realize I need to be more spiritually consistent, and then I am for a while before my natural self takes over once again. But I think what I lose out on most is the big picture: what we are here for, what matters. A clear picture of the larger mission and purpose, and enough awareness of it to take me through the daily grind with purpose and joy. I get too deadened by the prosaic things that life seems to have boiled down to: counting the hours until their naps, counting down the patients until clinic ends. A constant succession of washing dishes, cleaning spills, changing diapers, wiping drool. My only goals to get enough sleep (which never seems to happen), to read this or watch that.

In a sense, life is purer now. It is more obviously about what it has always been about: the struggle to give up myself, to know Christ, to be him to the people I see every day. My natural inclinations are more obvious. The absence of purpose is more obvious. My struggle with habitual sins, my pride and selfishness are more clear. Before, all that external stuff made it seem like I was going somewhere, like I knew myself and had it together. Now, it’s just me, and the drool-wiping and the twentieth cataract. I either know what I’m about, or it becomes clear very quickly that I don’t. I either live out what I believe, or it becomes clear very quickly that I’m not.

Ups and Downs

On any given day at home with the kids, I run the emotional gamut from total joy to total frustration. There are times I feel so touched I want to freeze the moment forever, and times I am so frustrated I wish I could get out of the house and scream.

Sometimes she spontaneously hugs me and says, “mommy, I love you!” Or, “mommy, are you sad? It will be okay.” Today after I got home from work, she muttered quietly to herself while playing nearby, “mommy, miss you.” Sometimes she puts two-and-two together and says something so clever, or insightful, that I am momentarily speechless. Sometimes she will giggle hysterically, or throw her arms in the air and dance, or lie quietly with me.

But sometimes she drives me up the wall. She will keep yelling what she wants, over and over and over, completely ignoring my responses, as if she hasn’t heard me say no, and why. She will whine all day. She will say she wants to eat something, then change her mind and refuse to touch it once I’ve gone to the trouble of getting it ready. She will do a million little things that I technically can’t discipline her for, but which build up gratingly on my nerves.

He is the same. Sometimes he’ll pull himself up and wiggle his butt, or clap on command, or grin so big I feel like my heart splits open. Sometimes he’ll cry every other hour through the entire night. Or be so fussy he starts wailing the minute I try to set him down.

And it’s the same with the two of them in combination. Sometimes he’ll shriek in happiness and crawl towards her, or she’ll hug him and stroke his hair. She’ll take care of him when I’m preoccupied, wiping his drool, jiggling toys in his face, distracting him from a dangerous situation by stuffing Cheerios in his mouth. Sometimes they will both have a meltdown at the same time, or her meltdown will wake him from a nap just when he finally fell asleep.

This is why any given day at home is so exhausting. This is why I don’t know what to say half the time when D asks how the day went. Um, it was exhilaratingly cute and inexpressibly frustrating? You had to have been there? This is why work is so much easier. It takes a lot for someone to upset me in the clinic or operating room, and even then it doesn’t nearly approach how frustrated the kids can make me. Marriage certainly has its emotional highs and lows, but they happen more like once a month instead of five times a day.

I think this is why parenting is a spiritually formative experience. You either rely on God, or you go crazy. There’s no room for middle ground, for getting by. No space for idle torpidity. There’s no looking good at church or small group, no hiding your bad mood from your spouse at the end of the day. Either you operate in the Spirit, or your natural selfishness and weariness emerge with flying colors. Kids don’t have filters. They let out all their joy; they push all your buttons. Going along for the ride with perspective, helping the best and worst moments count towards something meaningful and build towards something bigger—that’s not something you can do on your own.

An Omer of Manna

“And when the dew had gone up, there was on the face of the wilderness a fine, flake-like thing, fine as frost on the ground. … It was like coriander seed, white, and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.”

When she got out the Bible for lesson time, E turned randomly to Exodus 16 and said, “tell me this story!” and it reminded me how much I like that chapter. It’s like reading a fantasy novel, where things seem pretty ordinary until you stumble upon the part with the magical stuff on the ground. I love the tone of curious wonder. I love the sense of the mist lifting, the nothingness of hot, dry plains transformed into something wondrous. The imagery of pure white blanketing a Wilderness of Sin. I like how God made it a bit sweet, and very fine. How it was malleable, boilable and bakeable. How it was the perfect buffet: those who gathered much had none left, and those who gathered little had no lack.

And it happened every day, I told her, every day for forty years. For longer than I’ve been alive, they ate the same thing. Every night, they had nothing left. Every morning, they had to trust that the same, inexplicable miracle would happen again. Only on the night before the Sabbath did they have enough for one more day, so that once a week they rested. Can you imagine living on faith that long, for something as basic as food?

There was one exception: the omer that was stored for the generations, so they could see, feel, smell, taste the evidence of God’s daily faithfulness for those forty years, of his people’s dependence on him alone for their sustenance. So their children would know, would remember this song in the night, this daily bread.

It makes me think: where is my omer of manna? How much of my life is lived in daily faith and dependence? Am I spiritually consistent? Am I intentional about displaying evidence of faith for my children? Am I wandering where God wants me to be? Am I noticing what he provides before me?

The people tested every instruction. If I keep a little extra, will it really get infested with maggots? If I go out on the seventh day, will there really be nothing to gather? Each directive had to be repeated twice. But I test things all the time too: do I really need to be fed by God every day? Can’t I hoard spiritual capital? Get lazy about spending time with God without consequence? Get along pretty well on my own? Do I really need to suffer in the wilderness? Can’t I just seek a comfortable life?

The things that are outside of natural order and self-will are hard to remember, hard to be consistent about. I guess we all need our omer of manna. To remember.

Chubby Little Fists

When I recall E in a highchair with Cheerios, the words “delicate pincer grasp” come to mind. Less dexterous if no less determined, he has figured out how to achieve the same result by stuffing his entire fist in his mouth—if only by osmosis, as the bits dissolved by saliva squeeze their way through clenched fingers. I’m more impressed by his will than his way, but well, I’m impressed.

Two Together

When I’m feeling down or aimless, I look at these pictures. Wish I could say I meditate on the Bible, but nope, I look at pictures of them together.

They are so cute together. He flaps his arms in his excited way when we first see her in the mornings. She helps give him a bottle, she chews off and de-peels pieces of peaches to stuff into his mouth. When she sees him crawling towards dangerous spots she gets in his way and distracts him with toys. She wipes his drool and reads him books. She’s never mean or violent to him no matter how much he disrupts her life.

Her crib is her special space; everything in it has been hand-picked (typically by being stuffed in when she thinks we’re not looking). She loves it when he gets in. It’s one of the few times they are both contained enough for me to get some pictures in.

Summer

This is the first year in a long time I feel like I’ve been able to appreciate summer. For the last two out of three summers, I was pregnant, sweltering my massive way through high-banded maternity pants and seeking air conditioning whenever possible. For the last say ten years before that, I was in the clinic or hospital. I don’t really remember summer. I sort of remember it being hot as I walked to my car.

This year, we’ve gone to the beach and the community pool. E adores water and would stay in there forever if I let her. I’ve visited friends. Made popsicles. Got a tan. Worn lots of summer dresses. Chopped my hair short. Enjoyed my regular clothes (strangely I am cumulatively losing weight with each pregnancy, though I chalk it up to being too busy with childcare to have a significant interest in food). Barbecued. Gone on walks. Ate lots of watermelon. Picked blueberries and strawberries.

This is also the first year we have a garden. While the children napped today I picked a bunch of cherry tomatoes. I typically don’t like tomatoes, but these aren’t tomatoes—they melt in your mouth, taste like candy, and are still warm from the sun. I mixed them with fresh sage, mozzarella, aged balsamic, olive oil, fresh cracked pepper and salt. I ate it, alone in the quiet, and could only think, thank you, God, for summer.

Thank you God, too, for having a summer this year. A breather, a time we’re not moving or working all hours or expecting a baby. A time just to be, the four of us, and me alone, with sun-kissed vegetables and the bright day outside.

Parenting

“Never before have parents been so (mistakenly) convinced that their every move has a ripple effect into their child’s future success.” –Madeline Levine

“Parents want their kids’ approval, a reversal of the past ideal of children striving for their parents’ approval.” Jean Twenge and W. Keith Campbell, professors of psychology

I was reading this New Yorker article entitled “Spoiled Rotten: Why Do Kids Rule The Roost?” which contrasts American kids with those in societies where children are better behaved and take on more responsibility at an earlier age. A six-year old in the Matsigenka tribe sweeps every day and catches and serves crustaceans for meals. Children in France eat adult meals rather than snacking constantly, behave well in restaurants, and don’t live in houses where toys have overtaken every room. Parents in America are too much at the whim of whatever their children want to eat or play with. They don’t discipline or say “no” often or well enough. They try to control and monitor every aspect of their children’s lives. Their kids must eat organic food, learn five instruments, and go to a top college.

There is a lot of truth to this, thus the emergence of books like “Bringing Up Bebe” and blogs like “Confessions of a Mean Mommy” (neither of which I’ve read completely but both of which I so far mostly agree with).

My parenting inclinations have been influenced a lot by my mom, and our own personalities. I ate sushi while pregnant (as I hear women in Japan all do?), and had the occasional glass of wine. Not to mention the fact that I chewed sugar-free gum and ate deli meat. We let both our babies cry it out (my mom says it’s good exercise). I expect E to be able to have a thirty-minute quiet time, help with simple chores and with her brother, and be polite. She knows she is not allowed to scream (she gave herself a time-out for this once) or throw.

At the same time, there are things I’m working on. I used to give her snacks during the commute to childcare back in Baltimore, and it took me a while to wean her, and myself, off the idea that she needed food in the car to stay quiet. I habitually held her in restaurants and stores until I realized I could expect her to sit quietly in grocery carts and high chairs. I sometimes do things for her that she ought to do herself, because it is easier and faster; my first instinct is often to mollify her, rather than expect her to accept a “no” without fussing.

On the one hand, parenting a certain way is a matter of ideology, of realizing what you believe, in the context of how you were raised and what society assumes. I don’t think my every action will determine her every outcome. I don’t think my giving in to every cry or demand shows her constant love; quite the opposite. I don’t think she is the one in charge of our lives or our moods, though she has obviously changed how we live. I believe the better I expect her to behave, the better she behaves. The more I teach her, the more she absorbs. The more I repeat positive things rather than nag her about negative ones, the more she repeats positive behavior. I don’t believe her worth is based on achievements or comparisons, any more than I believe mine is.

On the other hand, parenting is a matter of practical endurance. The strongest beliefs can be worn down, and following through with them requires time, energy, forethought, and a supernatural amount of patience. Otherwise you end up doing what is easier, which is often not what’s best.

So it’s good to read things, to get advice, to regularly remind myself of what I believe. It’s easy for parenting habits to succumb to societal trends or my own selfishness and laziness, like anything else that no one else is closely watching. But I suppose the things that no one else sees are often the things that are the most important in the end. Funny how life works like that.

Journal Excerpt

She is all talk and noisy business. She’ll be at the play table, explaining at great length to me what flavor drinks she is serving her animals and what she just bought at the supermarket for them. Meanwhile he is like this silent land rover in the back. No noise, just a determined glint in his eye while he goes for whatever object in the room has caught his interest, leaving a trail of drool in his wake. He feels like the harder one to watch these days, because he’s more silent yet more prone to injury. She announces everything she’s doing and feeling so it’s easy to spot mishaps a mile away. If in doubt, she asks: mommy, do you think I can walk down the stairs without holding the railing? Do you think I can put the cup of water on the table without the coaster?

He grins and looks happy and rarely cries, but don’t be fooled: if he wants it, he gets it. He is not distractible. He does not announce his intentions. He does not heed advice. If he wants that large bottle of hand sanitizer, he will slowly crawl, face-plant, drag and push his way there. If he wants to be fed in the middle of the night, he will cry for two hours until he is. If he doesn’t want to eat those nasty carrots, he will shrink his mouth into a little dot that cannot under any circumstances be nudged open. While smiling and pretending nothing is the matter.

Dee-Dee

It is well and truly amazing how much he smiles. He smiles at the slightest provocation, in the middle of crying, at strangers across the room. When people look at E, she stares back with her eyes widened, her nostrils flared, and her mouth closed. When I attempt to illicit any other facial expression for the camera, she scrunches her eyes shut and bares her teeth in a strange grimace that makes her look more like she’s getting ready for a root canal. When people look at him, he grins so hard he dimples his cheek fat, drools down his shirt, and squeezes out any food in his mouth.

On Having It All

Okay, so everyone and their mother has been talking about Slaughter’s article “Why Women Still Can’t Have It All.” I confess I haven’t read it, though D paraphrased it to me. But here, in case anyone is interested, is my opinion on having it all.

If by “having it all” one means achieving as much in your career as you could without kids, and being as present a mother as you could without work, then you can’t have it all. One would think an idiot could figure that out, but it is a surprisingly personal and difficult realization, probably because it goes against something to realize that we face this by being women, and because it contradicts the preceding trajectory of our lives. I’ve seen most women in my field work through this at one point or another, some much later than others.

I figured this out January 2010. I had gone back to the hardest residency rotation of the year three months after she was born. She was in a twelve-hour daycare, and we were still struggling to pick her up on time. Once, the daycare closed due to a blizzard, I was scrubbed in operating, D was placing a line in a patient in the ICU, and one of us had to go pick her up. D left in the middle of his procedure, picked her up, and by some miracle we found a friend to watch her for the rest of the day.

I felt a lot of pressure at that point in my training to obtain surgical numbers, and was working over twelve hours a day. She was only awake twelve hours a day, and spent those hours at a daycare where she didn’t eat or sleep well, since we couldn’t afford a nanny on two residents’ salaries. I lost my milk supply without time to pump between operating. D was doing what he could and we were both praying we wouldn’t have to take call on the same night.

I remember standing in the shower one night and thinking, this isn’t worth it. No career is worth this. I saw what the women who gave everything to their jobs were like and didn’t want to become them. I decided at that point that if I couldn’t find a part-time job, I’d quit. I became the first part-time faculty hired at my institution, but eventually moved from academics to private practice for various reasons, one of which was that the pay wasn’t enough there to even cover childcare costs.

Up until that then, I always did what it took at work. I purposely picked the hardest rotations in med school if I thought I’d be trained better, and the same sentiment led me to Hopkins for residency. But I think seeing what women were like there in the long run, seeing what a toll work took on our marriage, laid the groundwork for what ended up being a very easy decision.

Because I think there is something about realizing you can’t have it all that allows you to have peace. You have to let go of that notion, you have live according to what you believe to be more important, or nothing else falls into place. The sooner you figure that out, the better. I am glad there are women breaking the glass ceiling, but that is not me, not now. Just because I could, doesn’t mean I should. And that also goes for men and being fathers. It also goes for not shortchanging your marriage for your career.

I realize I’m lucky to be in a field where part-time work is productive and lucrative. I still see patients and operate: I am not a leader in the field, nor the most productive surgeon in the area, and it will take me longer to build experience, but that is a small price to pay for being there for my kids. That is a small price to pay for being there for my husband.

I wonder sometimes if this outcome was worth all the training, but I think it was. It gave me a certain standard and approach that makes me feel I offer something unique clinically and surgically, it taught me efficiency and an inability to be fazed by difficult situations, and it helped me realize being somewhere prestigious is not really worth the price. All of these are qualities that enrich the time I do spend at work, allow me to do more at work within the limits I set, and give me peace about those limits.

Jesus never said we could have it all. He never said having it all is the key to happiness, or the point of life. It is an illusion, driven perhaps by our desire to fulfill ourselves rather than ask God how he wants us to serve. Am I glad I still work? Yes, because I believe God has given me a gift and skill set to keep up which I can use for his kingdom. I believe it makes me a healthier person and thus a better mother. Am I glad I stay at home most of the week? Yes, because I can know and steward my children, which I often feel is the harder task. Am I glad I can support my husband’s career, and have at least some time for our marriage? Yes, because I think marriages always take the back burner to work and kids. Is everything perfect? No. We’re always reassessing, adjusting. There’s a certain messiness that I’m starting to think is just life. But there is peace. Perhaps less outward ambition than I used to have, but more peace, and that’s a trade I’m willing to make.

And Then We Had Kids

Having kids is tough on a marriage. The popular romantic plotlines involving two people solidifying their love by having a baby (Knocked Up, Life As We Know It, The Back-Up Plan) is bollocks. The bonding over having a baby is definitely outweighed by the stressors.

Don’t get me wrong—it is a real privilege getting to see D as a dad. It reveals a whole side of him that I wouldn’t have known otherwise. But it has changed our marriage. I would say having kids changed my life more than getting married, so perhaps it’s no surprise. Things that were easy before are harder now—getting time alone, sharing hobbies or ministries. Things that were hard before are harder now—arguing well, communicating about sex. Before our conversations sounded like, “what have you been thinking about lately?” “what do you think about this book/movie/article?” Now they sound like, “does he need a diaper change?” “when did he last feed?” “did she get a bath already?” “here, you feed/change/hold/play with her while I feed/change/hold/play with him.” Sometimes we debate exciting issues like, “who had a harder day?” “whose turn is it to ­­____?” or our favorite, “who is more sleep-deprived?”

With the kids, we are always giving and giving. When we get a breather, we try regain a sense of ourselves; it’s not natural to turn around and give to each other, or even think about each other for more than a few minutes.

You go along for a while like this, and it seems okay, but then a fight happens, or a long late-night discussion, and you realize your marriage does not have inexhaustible reserves. Your selfishness comes out more; your emotion for the other person wanes. It’s like a bank account: you can’t keep withdrawing without making deposits. A parent dying, job issues, childcare, absence, big tests—those all withdraw on our relational capital. Thinking about the other person, praying for them, spending quality time, being purposeful about growth, being honest about weaknesses that need work—these are deposits.

I went back and read letters we had written while dating, and it’s incredible how much we invested in our relationship. D has this notebook where he had actually written ideas for things he could talk to me about or questions he could ask me, which he obviously had thought a lot about (no wonder our phone conversations were so good).

We both understand this is a stage in life, one in which our kids deplete a good amount of our physical and emotional reserves. Navigating how to build up our marriage right now is something we’re figuring out. I wish people talked more about how to do this; I wish we had more honest and outstanding role models. Who impresses me with how much they cherish and grow their marriage? It’s hard to think of a lot of examples.

We’re trying a few things. We have the luxury of weekly dates with my parents around to watch the kids. We try to take a few minutes to pray together regularly. We understand that our relationship with each other is the least clamorous, but most important, one in our lives, and that’s a start.

Journal Excerpt

Sometimes, when I come home, she runs up to me, shouting MA-MA! MA-MA! and hugs my legs over and over and says I LOVE YOU! I MISS YOU! and then it’s all sort of worth it.

Idiosyncracy

I suppose each stage with her has its challenges. I remember when she wanted me to repeat everything over and over. Singing “The Wheels on the Bus” ten times in a row in the car made me want to go bang my head against a wall, and it felt like that would never end, but it did.

The challenges now are her idiosyncratic demands. She wants me to sit here, not there. She wants to eat this, in this particular bowl, with this color spoon. She wants her food cut up to specific dimensions. She wants her cup next to the cup holder, not in it. She wants me to tuck her in along every spot of her sides and feet when she goes to bed—woe unto me if I’ve missed a single one. She wants to unscrew her toothpaste bottle herself but wants me to put the paste on; she wants to hold the toothbrush herself but wants me to make the brushing motions for her.

It’s plain exhausting. Fail to follow her particular wishes, and I get anything from a mild protest to screaming and crying. I spend some days picking my battles from minute to minute.

I think some of this is her desire for greater independence and control—it’s the inevitable tension between wanting to do something herself, yet sometimes not being able to, and therefore wanting to tell me exactly how to do it instead. It’s like a G-rated preview of the teenage years: I want it that way!

A lot of it is also her personality: she’s always been a sophisticated and precise communicator, sensitive to and observant of her environment, and concerned about the welfare of others. Her verbal skills have extended to giving a detailed rationale for everything: she can’t be polite because her boo-boo hurts and as a result she is unable to speak. She doesn’t want to swim anymore because she spotted a gnat in the pool five feet away. She wants me to change my seat because my butt is getting sore. She needs to go upstairs right now because her bunny is crying and needs to be picked up. She doesn’t want to wear shorts in 100-degree weather because she needs to cover up the boo-boo that she got two months ago that isn’t even visible anymore.

Maybe one day I’ll look back and find all this charming, but right now I mostly find it hard not to lose my patience. I navigate between explaining, distracting, bribing, ordering, and yielding. At least he doesn’t say much. He just sits staring, eyes big with wonder as he listens to her explanations: don’t eat that, dee-dee, you might choke. Don’t be scared of that bug; sister’s here with you. I won’t leave you, don’t worry. Mommy’s going to get rice cereal for you; she’ll be back. You should play with this toy, not that one…

Journal Excerpt

This is her newest stalling tactic: “one more minute!” Let me play one more minute before my nap! Let me stay one more minute before going home! Why would you deny me one minute?

At the same time she’ll hold up two fingers. Which is oddly appropriate because of course she has no concept of time.

This is similar to what he does when he doesn’t want to eat something (which right now is ground chicken or avacado). He purses his lips shut and cries with his mouth closed, which sounds like a pitiful “mmmm, mmmm” while he looks up at me with an expression that says, why? Why would you feed this to me? Why??

A Few of My Favorite Things

She is the perfect embodiment of that phrase about one man’s junk being another man’s treasure. She acquires random objects with careful deliberation: a plastic tube for holding coins, my old school pins, two stray toothpicks, one earring, an assortment of coins. It’s strange to see old childhood relics making an appearance, and I’m now glad my parents didn’t throw it all away. She collects anything with a lid: glass jars, plastic yogurt or ice cream cans, used pocket-sized hand sanitizers.

She puts them all carefully together in various bags and containers she finds. She’s terribly sneaky about finding some knick-knack at my parents’ house, then secretly stowing it in her diaper bag to bring home. Once my mom caught her at it and told her, it’s okay, you can take that, after which she kept repeating, “grandma said I could take it!” Since it was probably something that would have gone in the trash can, I wasn’t too surprised.

I used to be worried about her losing them, until I realized she knows exactly where all of them are. Where’s that paper clip? I know, ma-ma, she says; it’s in the green container upstairs (it’s strange how grown-up-like she is when she talks to me now; it’s all “Ma-ma, let me tell you” or “listen for a bit, ma-ma”). Then I started wishing I could lose them, just to avoid having random trash-like objects strewn everywhere around the house.

When I tidy up these days, it reminds me of her. Sometimes I feel like taking a picture of the things I find: her stuffed dolphin and chick sitting side-by-side in the middle of the door to his room, when she put it there for him to play with (and instead nearly tripped us with). Her dolls and bears sitting in the bumbo chair, swing, or high chair. Stickers everywhere. I have to check my clothing for random stickers before going out. Once she stuck a big rainbow sticker in the center of D’s black T-shirt and he wore it all day without noticing.

She reminds me sometimes: it’s the little things. She forces me to stop and notice the little things, and that’s good.

Letting Go

He’s at this curious stage of development where he’s quite good at grabbing things—his range of reach is impressive—but unable to voluntarily let them go. He hoards Cheerios in his dimple-knuckled fists, but can’t do more than wave them around while drooling madly. Sometimes I pry his fists open later in the day and find stray Cheerios inside; more often he loosens his grip at random moments and I find them littering the floor.

It’s interesting how letting something go requires more advanced development than grabbing hold of something. It has to be learned; it doesn’t come naturally. Of course parenting requires learning this too. You have to let go of predictably sleeping through the night, of peeing or showering whenever you want. You let go of hobbies that used to define you—being a pianist, a writer. You let go of working, or socializing, or serving in ministry the way you used to.

At some level this all has to be processed, grieved over, and accepted, and it happens in different times and ways depending on one’s gender or personality. It took me a long time to understand that D needed to grieve over the loss of the life we had, when it was just the two of us. When we could spontaneously eat out, or travel, or go out for a movie. And it took me a while to realize that, despite being more of a homebody and wanting to be the one taking care of the kids, I needed to not let go of everything so much and keep regular time for myself—not as a mother, or wife, or doctor; just for me—or things would fall apart rather quickly. It took me a while not to feel guilty taking time for myself.

And of course parenting requires letting go of your kids themselves. Having two kids helps with this. The biggest thing I’ve learned since dee-dee came along is that you think you are controlling the way your kids turn out, but you’re not. We’re doing the same thing with him we did for her, but they are completely different. She slept through the night at this age; he does not. She ate anything; he doesn’t. She glared at strangers; he smiles so much people five rows down in the airplane were making faces.

And even she is unpredictable. Suddenly she’s sharing, or being polite, when I haven’t changed anything I did. She’s extremely particular, and extremely nurturing, when I don’t recall teaching her to be either. Just shows that you have to plug along, be consistent and pray a lot, and let go of some of the rest.

Sometimes when he’s fallen asleep in my arms, I look down at him and wonder, who will you be? What will you do with your life? Will you be just as stubborn? Will you stand for what matters? I hope every step in his life will be one made in safety, made in righteousness, and made for the kingdom, but I don’t know. Sometimes I hope he’ll stay this small with me forever. Sometimes I wish he could wipe his own butt and put himself to bed. I suppose we let go of wanting what we don’t have, of being able to control what happens, in order to really gain and enjoy what matters.

Checking In Again

Hello; anyone there? I have to confess I almost forgot this blog existed until someone I hadn’t met before told me tonight that she reads it. D mentioned this later and said I should start writing again, now that I have more time.

A lot has happened in the past year: we moved three times, bought a house. We had a second baby; went through the death of D’s dad and two funerals. I started a new job; D started two new jobs. We both went through intense studying to take the boards; he took the written one last fall, and I just finished dragging the family to San Francisco in what was the most harrowing trip ever so I could take my oral boards. Most of the above was happening at the same time.

We’re finally at a place where things are not so crazy. Dee-dee is at that age where they get easier and you can start to see the light at the end of the tunnel. He sat in a grocery cart seat for the first time today; the two of them sat side-by-side, and D and I strolled beside them like normal people. I didn’t have to strap on the Bjorn or lug in a stroller. E remains genuinely fond of him, and has gotten old enough to do stuff like run upstairs to grab diaper and wipes, give him toys and read books to him while I’m busy, and stuff his mouth with Cheerios. Unfortunately she’s also old enough to unlock the front door when no one’s looking, which explains why I sometimes find the door swinging open on windy days.

Work is settling down too. It’s such a huge relief to be done with the last big test—that is, if I find out I pass. I’ve been cramming the same facts so many years in a row I won’t know what to do with myself. I’ve settled more into work and almost feel guilty enjoying private practice this much so far—it’s efficient, I have the flexibility to do the clinical work and procedures that I like, and am getting paid more than I ever have for working the least that I ever have. There are people who take notes for me, write scripts, field calls, schedule procedures, even walk patients from room to room.

What I haven’t done a lot of lately is process. A friend asked me recently, what has God been showing you? and I drew a blank. So maybe it’ll be good for me to try to write more. We’ll see.

On Expecting

French parents, she finds (and she does research to go with her observations) parent within an overarching framework of strictness called cadre, within which the kids have quite a lot of freedom. (Whereas the typical American parent today might not be strict at all, but at the same time might be limiting freedom with obsessive childproofing and helicoptering).

What strikes me is that French parents (or anyway, Parisian parents) aren’t afraid of their kids. And when you’re not afraid (that he couldn’t possibly sleep through the night at 3 or 4 months; that you couldn’t possibly expect your two-year-old to entertain herself for ten minutes at a time; that there’s no way you and your friend can drain an entire cup of coffee while it’s still warm, if your demanding preschoolers are underfoot) you are free to just assume that these things are possible. – Denise Schipani, review of Bringing Up Bebe

One thing I’ve been discovering is that kids really do live up to what you expect of them. If I can’t expect her to sit quietly in the grocery cart the entire time, she doesn’t. If I do, she does. If I expect her to have patience and not whine, she can. If I expect her to say “please” and “thank you” every time, she can. If I expect him to sleep through the night by this age, he can, more or less. If I expect her to walk next to me instead of being held because I’m holding him, she can. If I expect her to lay quietly on her blanket for quiet time, she does.

Like in any relationship, I can’t spring an expectation on her at the last minute, but if I explain carefully and repeatedly to her beforehand what I expect, and act like I know she can do it, then she surprisingly often does. I tell her, “every day we’re going to have quiet time: this is time when we make no noise. You can lie quietly on your blanket and think about God; it is not time to sleep. Or you can play quietly with your toys. Mommy will be quiet too.” And she does it! She lies quietly on her blanket for fifteen minutes and I get time alone to do my bible study or lie down. When I tell her quiet time is over, she leaps up and says “I can be loud now!” Yup. When I ask her what she thought about, she always pauses and then says, “God.” When I ask her what she thought about God? she always says, “loves me.”

I think the key is preparation and repetition. Bringing snacks or activities if I expect her to sit quietly. Telling her beforehand several times. Being consistent in expecting the same behavior every time. But mostly it’s a change in my mindset, to think more proactively about how I’d like her to be, instead of constantly reacting to how she is. My natural temperament is to be a more permissive parent: to think, “would it be that bad if I gave her what she wants?” instead of “is giving her what she wants the best for her?”

Asking the latter all the time is harder, and a lot more tiring. There are days or weeks when I pick my battles to preserve sanity (those are the days she goes on her walks in her fleece pajama onesie stuffed into black dress shoes), and that’s okay. And what I expect is tempered by knowing her own temperament and limits, and that’s okay. But sometimes I give in because I’m too lazy. Or because I’m afraid of her reaction. Or because I hadn’t thought out what principle to set. And that I’m trying to work on.

One thing that helps me figure out what I should be expecting of the kids is to remember that they are number three on my list. Number one is God, and number two is my husband. I structure the kids to what is essential for me to grow in relationship with God, and for me to have a meaningful time for my marriage, or it all goes haywire in the end. It might mean that they allow me time alone with God, or to go to church; it might mean they sit quietly in their chairs so I can talk sanely with D over dinner, or go to bed early enough for us to have time alone.

It does take more effort, and there are periods when I’m more consistent about certain things than others, but I’m starting to be convinced that it’s worth it, whether I see the results now or not. We’ll see how it goes.

The Mythical Balance

I’m beginning to think that work-life balance for mothers is a myth. It doesn’t exist.

On one hand, I’m all for equal work rights for women, and mothers. I felt insulted when I interviewed for a part-time job and they implied they didn’t want to pay a regular salary because they weren’t sure of my work ethic if I was just working three days a week. So just because I have kids and want to work part-time you think I won’t work as hard those three days as if I wanted to work full-time?

On the other hand, I’m now convinced women just can’t work the same way as men when they are mothers. Maternity leave retards your work and makes you rusty surgically; there’s no way around it. When you’re seeing patients or doing surgical cases every ten minutes, taking twenty minutes every three hours to pump slows things down. I’m always rushing in at the last minute and leaving as soon as I can to nurse him as much as possible. I’m happy our nanny is having a baby, but it makes childcare arrangements in the meanwhile more difficult. Hire a man, and you simply don’t have any of these issues.

Do I feel bad about work? Yeah. I wish I could be there for my patients five days a week. I wish I didn’t have to get through this re-learning curve after being out of the OR for eight months. I wish I could linger as long as I want in the office getting stuff wrapped up. That’s just the basic stuff; that’s not even wishing I could be having a more prominent career or earning more. I’m doing good work, not partner-track work. I’m doing good work, not field-changing work. I’m doing some work, not my best work.

Do I feel bad about leaving my kids? Yeah. I wish I could keep little e.e. on his natural schedule rather than having to interrupt his sleep or keep him up so I can feed him right before I leave. I wish E didn’t have to keep meeting new people who are taking care of her when mommy leaves (though she doesn’t seem to mind). I wish I didn’t have to leave D with the kids after his long day of work when I’m gone in the evenings.

Do I think I have a pretty good gig? Yeah. I’ve found a rare career in which I can work a light three days a week and earn more than most people do working full-time; in which I can dictate my own schedule, have dozens of support staff, cut into the body and get to know people in clinic. I work mid-afternoons to early-evenings, which leaves me the entire mornings with the kids even on days I do work.

I recognize that I’m a better mom when I get regular time away from the kids; that I’m a better person physically and mentally when I’m participating in the work world. I feel pretty sure at this point God doesn’t want me to give up my surgical skills entirely. And I know it’s particularly hard when the kids are young, when I’m still nursing. So maybe I’m there 90% of the time for the kids and 60% of the time for my patients and surgical skills and that’s okay. There will always be a part of me that wants it to be 100% and 0%. And 0% and 100%.

In the meanwhile, we’re taking it one day at a time. Which means I’m waiting until the last minute to change into work clothes so he doesn’t get slobber all over dry-clean shirts. I’m coming out in my scrubs to nurse him in the back seat of my dad’s car in between cases. I’m making follow-up phone calls while juggling him in my arms during my days off. I’m trying not to get too anxious about doing cases I haven’t done in a year.

I’ve been rediscovering how great hymns are while teaching them to E, and my favorite one lately is, tis so sweet, to trust in Jesus. Just to take him at his word. Just to rest upon his promise. Just to know: thus saith the Lord. When I sing that to her in the dark before her bedtime, it feels like I’m singing that to myself as much as to her.