Respect your mother

My mom likes to tell this story about how one day I wouldn’t pick up my toys. She and I sat there in a standoff for two hours – her demanding I pick them up, me refusing. Then my daddy came home. Mom was in hysterics, and my dad just gently came over, asked me to pick up my toys, and I did it right away. She walked out the door and said, “She’s yours.”

It’s true, I am his.  I’m a daddy’s girl.

Growing up I never quite understood my mom. Why does the coffee have to be prepped the night before? Why do we always have to be places 30 minutes early? Why is the house so clean but she insists that it’s dirty? Why does she plan 15 different routes to the grocery store just in case? So much why. All of it seemed so crazy and unnecessary.

It took me having a child of my own for me to understand. All of that crazy is totally the opposite. It’s actually friggin’ genius.

You prep the coffee because the last thing you want to do at 5 a.m. is worry about the coffee. That life saving nectar should just be there. You get places 30 minutes early because it’s better than the stress you feel from being late. You think the house is dirty all the time because you look down at your infants’ hands and he has a ball of fur/spit/lint tucked away in his fist and you know the only way it could have gotten there is because you didn’t vacuum the floor for the four millionth time. You plan all those grocery store routes because your baby can’t handle the car being idle for more than 10 seconds without screaming bloody murder. One of them will have fewer stoplights and traffic, you just know it.

Before E, Peter and I debated whether or not we wanted any family to visit in those first two weeks. We’ll be worried about sleep and need that time to bond with the baby. Won’t they just be in the way? Finally after talking with my sister, I decided that having my mom here as soon as she would like after E’s birth would be a good thing. It’s perhaps the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.

Elliott and his Teeny

Those first few weeks were pretty rough for me. I didn’t bond right away with my baby, which is something I’m embarrassed to admit. I’m insanely jealous of those women who report this gush of love as soon as they set eyes on their child. That wasn’t me. In fact, I couldn’t stand to hold him for two weeks. I would feed him, change his diaper and immediately hand him off. Perhaps it was the fact that he was rushed off to NICU and I didn’t get that skin to skin time or maybe it’s just my personality. Peter chased after me for 2 years before I would give him the time of day (thanks for your persistence, baby) and I kind of hate when people touch me. So to have this exceptionally needy stranger break its way into my life so suddenly? Let’s just say it didn’t go over well.

Thank God for my mom. She was here in Denver about 2 hours after E was born and right away starting doing the thing she does best. Take care of me. When we got home from the hospital, she kicked it into high gear. She took shift after shift, day and night, making sure Peter and I both got sleep. She cleaned my house and cooked us meals. When my milk came in like some kind of runaway train car, she was the one who made the phone calls to get me the lactation consultant. When I had to pump like my life depended on it, she took the baby so I could. She held him when I was totally losing my mind and was afraid to pick him up.

My mom is my hero.

Enjoying a book about the finer points of a dinosaur and his dog.

So to all of the kids out there, big and small, who don’t quite understand why their mother does what she does, just know she has her reasons. And when she tells you to pick up your toys, don’t wait until your daddy gets home to do it. Respect your mother. Because she deserves it.