A New Kind of Productivity

Kekoa and I have developed a bit of a routine in the mornings.  My alarm goes off.  He's usually already awake, so I sleepily change his diaper and then crawl back into bed to feed him.  While he eats, I doze, read, or do absolutely nothing. 

When he finishes, I pretend to be asleep.  Sometimes I'll roll over so he can only see my back.

And thus begins the great joy of the mornings.  Little hands poke at me, saying, "Mommy, wake up!"  His little head burrows into me.  He jabbers and sqawks and prods, and his legs kick wildly in the air.  Then...I sit up, open my eyes wide, and say: "Boo!"

Let the giggle-fest begin.

We tickle and tell stories (his storytelling ability is rather like Faulkner's: wildly incoherent but somehow captivating) and play peek-a-boo.  We kiss and snuggle and then he flies on the wings of Airplane Mommy.  "It's a bird!  It's a plane!  It's SuperBaby!"

We are early wakers. But we can hardly be called early risers. It may be quite some time before we're "up" in the ordinary sense of the word: dressed, breakfasted, doing housework. 

I love those mornings.  He loves those mornings.  And I know they are teaching him a world of lessons: Love.  Trust.  Language.  Laughter.  Muscle Development. 

But some days, it can be a blow to my pride.  Josh comes home and asks, "So what did you do today?"

Um.  I, uh ... showered (maybe).  I fed the baby...often.   I made dinner.  I emailed a friend, took a walk, read a book.

I'm used to "quantifying" my productivity.  I prefer, when asked about my progress, to be able to say: "I outlined my paper due next month."  "I organized a year's worth of our company's financial records."  Or at the very least, be able to explain my apparent unproductivity: "I sat in a meeting.  For three hours."

You can't quantify a child's snuggles.  You can't measure contributions to his "confidence meter."

Sometimes I find myself giving embarrassingly specific answers to Josh's question, trying to make it sound "productive." In doing so, sometimes those little details become less a byproduct of love and more of a game of oneupmanship - not as a competition with Josh, but to myself.  A laundry list I can check off, incontrovertible proof that I have done something with my day.  Did the baseboards need to be wiped down again?  Probably not, but I did it anyway.

I know in my heart investing in Kekoa is the most valuable thing I can do.  But I still want that concrete evidence for myself: I'm not wasting my time.  I'm not mooching off Josh's paycheck while I sit at home and help myself to whatever catches my eye in the pantry.

I love our mornings together, just Kekoa and me.  I cherish them enough that I don't mind so terribly the sense of laziness for still being in my pjs long after start of business hours.  It's a new lesson for me:   productivity isn't always measured in word counts and employee evaluations. 

In fact, when it comes to the business of raising little people, it almost never is.  So I'm trying to just enjoy it, because right now, for perhaps the only time in my life:

My work is, quite literally, play.

Hello, Grandparents!

As you probably know, it's my five-month birthday (how could you ever forget???).  It's been quite an eventful month for me.  I think you'll find in my letter that I'm practically grown-up by now, because I'm doing awfully grown-up things.  I think I must have hit a growth spurt as well, because Mommy and Daddy are constantly saying things like, "Oh my goodness, remember how TINY he was?"

 

And in my five month picture, the bib fit me better than it fit Kekoa teddy, who has very narrow shoulders.  I thought that was very nice, especially since it has lovely fringe around the bottom that I love to eat.

 



 

 

My musical education has started early, and I spend some time each day faithfully practicing my piano.  I did petition Mommy for a REAL piano that doesn't require quite so much tummy time, but she reminded me of three things: (1) Beethoven sawed the legs off HIS piano, so I'm right up there with the greats; (2)  I couldn't reach the pedals anyway; and (3) most people with real pianos have only lame black-and-white keys instead of my incredibly awesome multi-colored ones. 

 

That made me sad. Those poor dears with black-and-white keys.  I don't know how they stand such poor technology.

 

 

 

 

Another big boy thing I've done this month is eat real food.  I don't like avocado, I'm okay with pears, and all in all I much prefer the spoon (or my fingers!) to any actual food.  Also, I discovered that my high chair is best used for my piano while Mommy and Daddy are eating.  Voila, perfect solution to the excessive tummy time problem!

 

 

Mommy says we're taking a break from real food until December.  But I take that to mean baby food; grown-up food is still fair game.  The other day I managed to get my hands (and mouth) on a piece of chocolate Mommy was eating.  It tasted much better than the avocado. 

 



I've gotten pretty good at sitting up when I want to (if I don't want to, then I just flop right on over), so now I'm into jumping.  I LOVE jumping, spinning, twirling...and monkeys.  I really love monkeys.

 



 

Like Daddy, I'm an avid gamer.  Like Mommy, I really prefer cooperative games to competitive games.  And my uncanny ability to invent games is quite remarkable.

My current favorite is quite simple, really: I hold my hand up to Mommy's mouth, she kisses it, and then we both laugh.  I'm telling you guys, it's a RIOT.  I'm thinking of marketing my creative skills to Hasbro. 

Well, that's all for now!  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I'm already plotting how to get my hands on some of that sugared-up sweet potato casserole, or maybe some pumpkin pie.  With so many cousins to distract the adults, I'm thinking we can pull off quite the raid. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

just don't swallow

You know that scene in Ratatouille where Anton Ego breaks in on a press conference?  Linguini is happily -- arrogantly -- fielding questions when Ego's initimidating string bean of a body pushes through the crowd.  Threats are made.  Taunts are exchanged.  And Linguini makes what he believes to be the parting shot:

"You're awfully thin for someone who likes food!"

The crowd gasps.  Anton stops, turns, and spits out, "I don't *like* food.  I love it.  If I don't love it, I. Don't. Swallow."

I've been reading a lot lately.  In fact, I've been procrastinating on a full introduction to solid foods because then Kekoa won't need to nurse as often, which means I won't get to read as often.  Sad.  :(

But the inevitable happens, as it always has in the past.  I pick up a fabulous book.  I remember how wonderful reading is.  I go on a "reading binge," where I frequent the local library and read as if my life depended on it. 

And then, that book happens.

You know, the book that has been highly touted and critically acclaimed.  The book that is on every single "100 books you must read" list.  The one about which you must be able to converse intelligently if you want intellectuals to give you the time of the day.

The book that bores you to tears.

You fight, you struggle, you claw your way to the end.  Or maybe you don't - it doesn't really matter.  Because when you finish, you are defeated.  You are an un-intellectual (or worse, an anti-intellectual).  You obviously do not appreciate great art when you read.  Your soul must not be developed highly enough to understand, to commune with the truth you encountered.

The binge is over.  You can go back to real life now.  And when someone says, "Have you read _____?"  You may or may not be able to say yes.  But whether you finished it or not, you will be forced to hang your head in shame and mumble assent as they gush about how that book formed their soul. 

And of course, to say that their soul was formed by an utterly dry, completely pointless, overly wordy piece of junk that somehow wormed its way into the classics wouldn't be at all nice.

This time around, the book for me is Catch-22.  It's not that Heller isn't clever.  It's that he thinks he is clever, and therefore feels the need to repeat his clever joke again. and again.  You thought it was funny when one bureaucrat signs his name as "Washington Irving" to official documents?  Well then, it must be twice as funny if TWO officials sign their names as Washington Irving. And maybe throw in a John Milton for good measure.

It's not that the book shouldn't have been written....it's just that the 450 pages could have been written in 100, and probably shouldn't have exceeded 200.

So anyway.  I didn't finish it. 

But!  I am happy to report that I am still reading.  Because at last, I have come to the place where I  don't have to cram that dry lump of a book down my throat. 

Because if I don't love it, then I don't have to swallow it.

"Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails...

...that's what little boys are made out of."


Kekoa has a cold.

The main result of this is that my clothes, arms, blankets, sofas, and carpet look like we were invaded by a hostile force of angry slugs leaving glistening trails of slime behind them. 

I'm feeling a certain enmity toward slugs right now.

Someday (!) all my kids will be old enough to understand the concept of a tissue.  If I'm lucky, they may even be able to use one all by themselves. 

Until then, laundry calls. 

4 Months Picture Post!

Dear Grandma, Grandpa, Nana, and Papa,

I know we just got to see most of you (we missed you, Papa!), but you know how I am.  Always changing and stuff like that.  So I'm going to tell you a little bit what it's like to be FOUR months old!

This is me and my Kekoa teddy at four months old.  We're the same height!  I'm pretty good at sitting up now with a little support.  I can sit by myself for a few seconds, but then I usually faceplant and I don't really like that.

 

Fall is here.  I don't know exactly what that means, but mommy says it everytime she bundles me up.  I really like being changed, so it's great to wear extra clothes!  I like to stretch out changing times so that I get as much attention as possible.  

 



 

Sitting up isn't the only skill I've been working on.  My feet are my new favorite toy!  I love to suck on my toes.  

 

Also: for some reason, Mommy is obsessed with matching my diapers to my outfits.  I'm not sure why, because they're just going to have to be changed anyway.  Girls.  Anyway, that's why there's a picture of me in my underpants.  I'm so embarrassed.

 

 

I also liked playing with my fingers for the first half of the month, but I'm over it now.  That was soooo two weeks ago.

 

We had a hurricane here last week.  You guys were all worried about us, but I don't know why.  I love hurricanes!  They brought three of my favorite things:  Daddy stayed home from work for TWO WHOLE DAYS, we had a pajama day, and Daddy read to me before my naps.

 

We're reading A Very Hungry Caterpillar by a guy named Eric Carle.  I'm a fan of his.  It all started when Mommy read A Grouchy Ladybug to me.  I liked the pictures so much that she pulled out the other Eric Carle books we had: A House for Hermit Crab and The Tiny Seed (Mommy's friend Molly gave it to me!).  I love the big, bright pictures, and sometimes I like to hold the book (I'm still trying to figure out how the pages work).  Now we always read books before naptime so that I'm calm enough to sleep.

 

 

Again with the matching diaper.  Mom!

Anyway, those are the changes of the last month, and there are LOTS more on the horizon.  Because of my reflux, the doctor said it'd be a good idea to start me on solids soon, and I couldn't agree more.  I'm so jealous of my cousins who get to eat real food, and I'm always trying to grab at Mommy and Daddy's food.  Once I managed to get a handful of ketchup and I licked it ALL off my fingers.  Yum!  Next time I'm going for the whipped cream!

I'm still a little guy - 13 pounds - but Mommy says that's not a surprise at all considering my genes.  And she says that I should be grateful because she can carry me longer.  I do love being carried, so I guess that's a good thing.  I'm sleeping much better now, so we're all a lot happier.

Love you all!

Kekoa

These are the broken days

There used to be a name for days in which at least one member of our household cried.  We called them bad days.

Now we call them normal days. 

There's a new kind of day now.  They are the days where the baby wakes up choking on his own congestion and we pin down all four of his flailing limbs and suck the snot out with a bulb syringe.

The days when dad barely makes it two steps in the door before the baby is thrust into his arms and the wife is clinging to his neck.

These are the broken days.  The exhausting days.  The fridge-is-empty-because-no-way-was-mom-going-to-wake-baby-up-for-grocery-shopping days.

We have the stereotypical romantic days too, holding baby in the rocking chair as he gazes up adoringly.  Plump baby hands grasping fingers.  Sloppy baby kisses on the cheek.  Waking up to baby coos and gurgles (dear manufacturers, why is that not a programmed alarm feature?)

But I've come to realize:

That the easy days are a manifestation of the love I build up on the broken days.

I don't choose to love him when he nestles secure in my arms.  My love for him isn't growing.  I'm simply feeling.

I choose to love him when I'm siphoning the snot out of his nose at two in the morning.  And believe me, it's not a feeling.  It's a cold, hard reality. 

I love him, and it is hard.  I love him, and sometimes I wish it wasn't quite so much so I could give away the awful responsibility of a mother's love.

I think I love him most on the days when I'm so broken I'm just not sure how I'm going to make it through the day as his mommy.  Let alone four more kids. [or just one more.  At some point impossibility has no degrees] 

Someday, he'll be an adult holding his newborn son for the first time and I will reminiscence and tell him how much I loved his own little baby self.  And he will think I loved rocking him, holding him, tickling him. 

He will be right, of course.

But he won't realize that in my mind, I'm thinking of the baby whose nose was always running and whose little legs were simply too skinny to create a tight diaper seal.  I don't love him in spite of the broken days.  I love him because of them.  Because they force my love to grow enough to overcome, sacrifice, withstand.

The broken days cannot be separated from the lovely.

To Teach a Mind

Tonight there was a thunderstorm.  A huge clap shuddered our third-story apartment and woke Kekoa up.  He cried.  I comforted.  He cried some more.  I picked him up.  And he fell asleep in my arms, as I read on the couch.

And as I lay him back so I could pack Josh's lunch, I looked at his sweet sleeping face.  I love when he sleeps.  It is then he is the universal ideal of what a baby should be - adorable, innocent, sweet, cuddly, pudgy.  Reality when awake, of course, is noisy, awkward, lovable, messy, and demanding.

And as I looked at his face, with a little dribble of drool trailing out of the corner of his mouth, and his padded tush, and his dimply little elbows, it hit me hard, all over again.

I am responsible for feeding this little boy's soul.

He will grow up and meet his sin nature and meet my sin nature and Lord willing, meet my Savior and welcome his Savior.  He will learn to read and Lord willing, he will learn to love.  He will watch my face, my tone, my actions and he will make them his face, his tone, his actions.  And then he will be a teenager and he will do the opposite, for a while.  And then he will choose.  He will choose the way he perceives to be better.

Holy cow.

For a moment I was crushed under the serious weight of responsibility.

And then the weight was lifted as I remembered:  I am only the feeder.  I am by no means the shepherd.  

I am responsible to teach and show him the way of goodness and truth.  But I am not responsible for whether he follows that way.  I am responsible for loving his soul. But I am not responsible for saving it.

Because heaven help us if I was.  Guilt, fear, pain would reign supreme in my life.

And grace would not.  Because if I were responsible for his life direction, then how could I forgive when he veers from what I believe to be right?  How could I not hold it against him when his very actions scream to me, "You failed as a parent"?

This weekend a couple who had met Josh's brother for the first time were talking to us about our upbringings.  "You come from a good family," they said.  "You both do."

I smiled and thanked them.  It's true.  We do.  But if the perception that we come from good families are based solely on our actions, then what would be said if we were not mature adults?  That we come from a bad family?  That clearly, our failures as human beings were due to our parents' failures as parents.

No.  Parents influence.  But God determines.

The quotation at the top of my blog is from The Chosen by Chaim Potok (if you've never read it, I HIGHLY recommend it.  That book touched my soul).  I will do everything in my power to help my little boy's mind understand the state of his soul.

But in the end, I am free.  My child's soul does not depend on me.  But no fear, no guilt.

Only grace.