Waiting on the World to Change

Ella celebrated her fourth birthday this month. She's been talking about "The Big 4" since January, so despite my disdain for large children's parties (because I host one every day), I sent out a few invitations and planned a little gathering of family and friends. Of course, as is the nature of motherhood, things did not go according to plan. In the end, the entire family and a bucket-load of friends commemorated my daughter's birth during a two-day extravaganza that included a princess-themed birthday party, lunch at Chick-fil-a, a trip to Monkey Joes, a pink pinata, a gigantic pile of presents, and approximately 58 cupcakes.

The magnitude of the celebration, however, didn't diminish the significance of the event: Ella is four years old. My mother reminds me all the time that "the days are long, but the years are short;" but somehow I find myself shocked to realize that my baby girl is four! How did I move so quickly from two pink lines on a home pregnancy test to the pile of pink clothes now heaped on my laundry room floor?

The irony, of course, is that my mother is right, and that the days really are long. It's hard for me to take pleasure the swiftly-passing years when I drag myself through each day, up to my eyeballs in dirty diapers, dishes, clothes, and kids. But those early days, when I was newly pregnant and dog-sick, passed just as slowly. And suddenly, here I am on the other side of 27 months of pregnancy, a mother four times over, wishing for one of those quieter moments when all I was doing was waiting.

Of course, it's human nature to be consumed with anticipation. My little sister is in the final throes of planning her August 1 wedding. My sister-in-law is likewise consumed with the August 1 birth of her second child. (Are there two bigger events in the life of a family? A few, perhaps, but I would argue that a wedding and a birth are definitely in the Top 5; and Tyler and I get to experience both in one day!) I'm not the bride or the new mom, but even I'm sleepless with anticipation.

But seeing Ella turn four last week, and realizing how right my mom really is, I also find myself savoring these last few days. One sister will never be single again and one sister will never be pregnant again - and even though it's time for them to move on to the next stage, I want them to enjoy the last few days leading up! Marriage and motherhood are wonderful. But so are those moments in the days before, when you're sitting on the sofa, dreaming of the future with your husband-to-be, or when you're curled up in bed and feeling your baby kick and squirm. Those are the "waiting moments." They don't last long, because all of a sudden, the waiting ends and the world changes: two become one, a new life is born, and the waiting moments are memories swept up by the years.

I suppose I'm in one of those moments now, and that I'll eventually miss the chorus of little voices arguing over princess dresses and baseball bats. The days feel so long, but I know that the waiting will end, the world will change, and my babies will no longer be babies. They will be children, and pre-teens, and teens, and then grads. And I'm bracing myself, because I have a feeling that cupcakes and pinatas just don't cut it at graduation parties.

Are You Smarter Than a 4-Year Old?

First-born children are bossy, controlling, picky and perfectionistic. Also, they are never wrong. I can actually say this with a degree of certainty, because I am the oldest of three children, and I am bossy, controlling, picky and perfectionistic. (You can ask my husband. I'm pretty sure he'll back me up.) The problem with being a first-born mother with these qualities, however, is that I often butt heads with my own first-born, Ella - who is all of those things I just listed. And like any number of eldest children, she is also never wrong.

The secret to never being wrong, by the way, is recognizing that it's more important to use the right tactic than to actually be right. For many first-borns, this means confronting disagreeable truths with a loud voice. Ella is VERY LOUD.

Ella actually "found her voice" (which is her Nana's generous term) when she was only four months old. I have the first scream on video tape, because she introduced it at her baby dedication in front of 40 guests. Don't blow me off, by the way, because I am well aware that most babies scream. But this scream was so ear-piercingly high-pitched that it could shatter glass. And she would do it over and over and over and over again, for hours on end. Most of the time she did it to show displeasure, but sometimes she did it when she was happy. And sometimes she did it just because she could. As a result, I couldn't take my otherwise portable baby anywhere. I certainly didn't risk walking through the china department at Macy's. (Think of the carnage!) Of course, I was also afraid that I was going to lose my mind. I asked everybody I could find for a solution: my mother, other mothers, grandmothers, neighbors, nurses, pediatricians, pastors, and even a family therapist.

Despite the blank stares I got from most of these child-rearing professionals, Ella did eventually outgrow The Scream. What she didn't outgrow was her need to be heard. I remember a day just this last fall, when Ella was being exceptionally loud and domineering. My mother was in the car with me, and we were on our way home from picking Ella up at pre-school. It turns out that listening and sharing can be pretty exhausting for a child who is used to being in control, so the drive home from pre-school is always packed with drama. Whether it's screaming for her Veggie Tales CD, snatching books away from her sisters, or kicking her chair, it's always a grueling ride. On this particular day, my mom was trying to distract Ella with all the points of interest we were passing, but my daughter would have none of it:

“Look, Ella! There’s a horse!”

“NO, MIMI!" Ella shouted back. THAT'S A COW! I WANT MY CD!”

“Oh." Then pointing to a fire truck, Mimi called out, "Ella, here comes a fire truck!”

“NO, MIMI! THAT'S A SCHOOL BUS! I WANT MY CD!

We actually did pass a school bus a few minutes later, and, trying to be amenable, Mimi called out, "Look Ella! That must be a fire truck!"

"NO, MIMI! THAT'S A SCHOOL BUS! I WANT MY CD!"

Realizing at this point that she'd lost the distraction game, Mom sighed and flipped on the CD we can both sing in our sleep. The rest of the drive home was silent, save the harmonious vocal blending of a cucumber and a tomato singing "If You're Happy and You Know It."

Ella turned four last week, and nearly a year has passed since that memorable ride home. Ella is still loud, and strongly opinionated, but I've noticed that the passage of time is making her smarter. Last fall, she knew how to get a point across, but she wasn't always right. (The subtle distinctions between cows and horses, fire trucks and school buses escaped her.) This year, however, she is loud and accurate.

I came to this realization at the pool a few nights ago when I overheard Ella telling her sisters to "SWIM LIKE BIRDIES! COM'ON GIRLS, LET'S SWIM IN THE WATER LIKE BIRDIES."

"Ella," I said, "I think you mean fish. 'Let's swim in the water like fish.' Birds don't really swim."

"PENGUINS DO!"

Hmmmm. The kid's right. Time to back off on the Baby Einstein DVD's.

A similar situation occurred recently in the parking lot of a medical center, where I was yelling at Ella. "Let's hurry up, girl! We're in the middle of the street. Ella. Ella! There's a car coming! Get moving!"

"NO! WE ARE NOT! WE ARE NOT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET!"

I was totally exasperated. "Yes, Ella, we are in the middle of the street. I think I know what a street is. Now move!!!"

"NO, MOMMY! WE ARE NOT IN A STREET! WE ARE IN A PARKING LOT!"

Huh. Right again.

Now I'm starting to wonder if our intellect peaks at four and then begins the slow descent into stupidity. I remember a time back when, like Ella, I knew it all. But it seems the older I get, the less I know. I should be smart enough not to engage my child in these ridiculous exchanges, but I just can't help it. I'm a first-born. I am never wrong.

Just Say No

Sometimes I think I must look one of those characters on Bugs Bunny. I suppose I'm addressing a specific audience here, but if you're a Loony Tunes fan, you'll know what I'm talking about. I think salespeople look at me and see a giant "Sucker" where my head should be. That, or they see me hauling my four kids from one place to the next and think, "Here is a woman who needs my product! Look at that dull skin!" Or, "Look at her rough and uneven nails!" Or "She looks like a candidate for the latest in-home water filtration system!"

OK, maybe I'm not a sucker. I've only purchased one skin care system, three nail care sets (they were made out of products from the Dead Sea!), and - hooray for me - I do not currently own a $6,000 water filtration system (although now I drink my tap water with a certain level of informed concern). I do, however, possess what those in the home sales business call a "yes face." I can say this with confidence, since I have made two forays into the home sales business myself - once as a beauty consultant and once as a jeweler. (By the way, please call me if you are interested in purchasing a ten-year old make-up kit or $300 worth of discontinued jewelry.)

A "yes face" is that one person in the crowd who makes eye contact with, and smiles at a sales person - which is apparently something I do when I'm walking by the Dead Sea kiosk on my way to the Food Court. I also do this when I answer my front door, because I just can't say no to the earnest appeals of small children selling wrapping paper for choir, or high school kids selling magazines to pay for football camp. Or to the vacuum guy who is trying to win a week-long, all-expense paid trip for himself and one guest to New Orleans.

This latest seller showed up on my doorstep recently to offer a free carpet cleaning of any room in the house. It was 6:00 in the evening, Tyler had just walked in the door, the baby was still in his carseat, and the kids were starving. "Perfect," I said, as two of the girls wrestled over a toy behind me. "One of the twins took her diaper off during nap time and got poop on the floor. Won't you please come in?" Somehow he got a glimpse of my yes face, because he wasted no time lugging his enormous vacuum cleaner and a box of cleaning supplies into my living room.

As the girls battled over which episode of Clifford they wanted to watch, and Tyler tried to figure out how to boil a pot of water for spaghetti, Joe* set up his machine and jumped right into his spiel. Five minutes in, I could tell it was going to be a long spiel. This vacuum doesn't just suck dirt out of the carpet; it inflates pool floats, cleans lampshades, mattresses, and walls, shampoos carpet, and details your car. I asked Joe if it could fold laundry and babysit, but he was staring at Evie sitting on the chair behind me.

"Um, I think she just had an accident."

Sure enough, there was Evie, sitting in a puddle on my upholstered chair.

I tried to be nonchalant, but it took an effort to mask my horror. "Why don't we test out how good that machine really is, Joe?"

While he went to work on the puddle, I took Evie to the bathroom and changed her clothes. Being that we're in the midst of her potty training, I slipped her into a fresh set of panties and shorts and reminded her that "Pee-pee goes in the potty, not in your pants." Meanwhile, Joe had decided that his vacuum cleaner probably wasn't as effective as a good old-fashioned washing machine, so I came back, stripped the cover off the chair, and plopped Evie down. "Where were we?" I asked.

Just then, Emily strolled into the room sans panties and shorts. It seems that Evie had inspired a demonstration. But Emily, having properly completed her toilet duties, couldn't figure out how to put her pants back on. Not to be left out, Ella then pulled her pants off and ran into the bathroom.

"Um, I'll be right back," I said. "I think the girls need a little help getting their clothes back on."

While I was standing in the bathroom, trying my best to explain inappropriate nudity to my daughters, I heard Joe call from the living room. "Ma'am, I think she just had another accident!"

Sure enough, Evie - whose bladder can apparently more liquid than a small horse - had once again gone pee-pee on the chair. And on the ottoman. And on the hardwood floor. At this point, unable to hide my horror, I actually screamed. Not words - just one really loud, frustrated scream. Unfortunately, the noise woke up Ty, who had been dozing in the Pack 'n Play during the chaos of Joe's increasingly lengthy presentation. I sent Evie with Tyler to get cleaned up (again), and picked up Ty to comfort him. Of course, he was not to be outdone by his sisters, and immediately unloaded a better portion of his dinner bottle onto the rug.

"Do you think we can get that spot out, too?" I asked Joe, as two naked children streaked by.

"I can try," he replied.

While he went to work on the spots and Tyler and the kids ate dinner, I tried to push this now excruciatingly slow demonstration along. But Joe was not about to lose a sale. (And really, who could blame him at this point? He was still stuck with cleaning the girls' poop-stained floor.) He pulled out all the stops and did a side-by-side comparison of his vacuum to my newly-acquired (and very expensive) machine. Tyler just gave me "the look", and headed out for his tennis workout. Since we've been married for eight years, I recognized "the look" to mean: DO NOT SPEND ANY MONEY. I knew I was now set on a collision course with Joe's hard sell.

I have to give the man credit. He asked all the right questions, pushed all the right emotional buttons, and wheeled and dealed with his "non-negotiable" - but really negotiable - price. He kept reminding me of how much easier his machine would make my life. (Had he really been in my house for the last 2 hours???) I could hear my "no, thank you" getting fainter as he pushed harder. I knew that I was a desperate woman when I considered compromising my marriage, and handing him $1600 to leave. But once again, we were interrupted by my children.

The sound of breaking glass shattered any prospect Joe had of selling me a vacuum cleaner. As I shot up the stairs, I knew exactly what had happened - the heavy mirror over the girls' dresser had fallen off the wall and crashed to the floor. Even as I ran my sub-par vacuum cleaner over the mess of wood and glass, Joe packed up his box and headed for the door. (But not before he graciously helped me move the broken frame to the garage.) Call it gratitude, but I told him that my neighbor was in the market for a vacuum and sent him next door with renewed hope for a profitable night.

When Tyler came home from tennis, we had a brief chat about inviting sales people into our home. We've probably had this conversation before, but I'm pretty sure that this time it's going to stick. The next time someone shows up on my front porch with something to sell, my face is going to have "no" written all over it. Unless of course they have a machine that folds laundry and babysits.

Laughter in Life

I laugh every day. My husband doesn't actually believe this, but that's only because he comes home during the infamous "witching hour" - a three hour block of time spanning the end of naps, dinner, and bath time during which one would rather put a fork in one's eye than be the mother of those three little hooligans doing battle over a naked baby doll. But I really do laugh in some form or another every single day, even if it's just the hysteria-tinged laughter that one might hear coming from a mental patient staring at the blank wall of her padded room.

Of all the kids, my youngest daughter Evie makes me laugh the most. Whatever she does, she does it at full throttle and with wild abandon. As a toddler, she loved to run. She always reminded me of a baby bird making that first attempt at flight - she'd throw her arms back and take off running as fast as she could to wherever she was heading. Unfortunately she didn't have the sharpest maneuvers, so she frequently took her corners too wide and ended up plowing into the adjacent walls. She never learned to put those arms in front of her, either, so she usually smashed into the walls head-first. We could always distinguish Evie from her twin by checking their heads for bruises.


Needless to say, at two and a half Evie frequently finds herself in a pickle. Truth be told, I think that Emily is the strategist of the two, and that Evie just goes along with whatever her sister suggests. In the future, I suspect that Evie will spend a great deal of time grounded because her twin said, "Hey Evie, I have an idea..."

Of course, Evie is just as capable of creating trouble on her own as she is with her sister. Last week I sat outside the twins' bedroom door in an attempt to get them to stay in bed, which is not an easy task. My idea was to watch for one head or another to pop up, and then say in my sternest teacher voice, "Lay down!". Evie kept standing up to cram her two teddy bears Hot Tub and Beer between the wall and headboard of her bed. (The bears are actually called "Buttercup" and "Bear", but Evie has a tongue thrust that recently created far more interesting names for them.) Despite my continued reprimands, Evie kept popping up.

Finally, I went in and threatened serious punishment if she stood up again. But Evie just couldn't help herself. She must have thought her bears were having a grand time smushed up against the wall, because she stood up again and, before I could act on my threat, she wiggled her own body between the wall and headboard. Evie is stuffed a bit thicker than her bears, though, and as I walked into the room she looked up at me in distress and said, "Stuck!". And stuck she was. One leg dangled in the air behind her bed, and the other was wedged tightly into the decorative cut of her headboard. It took five minutes and the tub of Crisco to get her "unstuck."

But despite Evie's growing reputation as the "adventurous one", she is also the tender-hearted one of the group. While washing the dishes not long ago, I watched her walk upstairs to her room and reappear moments later holding Hot Tub. She carried him downstairs and walked purposefully into the playroom. A few minutes later, she repeated this same purposeful task with Beer. For the the next half-hour, she walked up and down the stairs, carrying various animals and baby dolls into the playroom. When the dishes where done and my curiosity was at its peak, I stole a glance into the playroom where Evie was lining up the last stuffed animal. Each of them was laying face down on a pillow. As I watched, Evie dug around in the toy box and pulled out a collection of baby blankets. One by one, she covered her animals with a blanket and said, "Night, night!". When she turned around and spotted me, she put her finger to her lips and and said, "Shhhhhhhhh." Then she sang what I think was "Jesus Loves Me" - the song I sing to her every night - walked over to the door, and pulled it shut behind her. "Shhhhhhh," she said again. "They sleeping!"

Since that day, Evie's sweet-spirited playacting has continued in various forms. I often catch her rocking in her pint-sized chair with a teddy or two planted in her lap, singing songs that only the experienced can interpret. When I walk into the playroom in search of missing sofa cushions, I find it's usually littered with blanket-covered playthings laid out on pillows resembling a teddy-bear ICU. And just before nap time today, I noticed every that door in the house was shut; in each room, I found a Piglet, baby doll, or teddy passed out in the corner and covered in a blanket. Of course, I had to laugh.

I didn't know that Evie was going to bring me such laughter three years ago. At that time, I was 16 weeks pregnant and hospitalized with hyperemesis. The doctor's prognosis was that I was the sickest I could possibly be in a twin pregnancy, because I was carrying two girls. My husband I were shocked and overwhelmed at the thought of raising three daughters so close together, but we were determined to name and bond with our babies as quickly as possible. We already had Ella, who was 13 months old at the time, and the name Emily was next on our list of baby names. After that, we were tapped out; it never occurred to us that we would have to come up with a third girl name!

Tyler liked the name Lauren, and for awhile that's what we called Baby "B". But in my starved and hormonal state, I became convinced that we needed another "E" name. (As one of three girls myself, I know how easy it is to find a reason to feel left out.) Tyler suggested the name Evie, but now I was torn between that and my bond with the original name Lauren.

I spent weeks going back and forth between the two names, driving my husband and everyone else around me crazy. Finally, I turned to the baby name book for help; I looked up the meaning of both names and discovered that the name Evie means "life." In that moment, it felt like God was giving us this name for our little girl. Looking back, I realize that God knew Evie was going bring great life, her vivacious spirit, and a bit of hilarity into our home. I didn't even know her name, but the One Who was knitting her together in my womb knew exactly who she was and what He was creating her to be (Psalm 139)!


God also knew that I was going to need a sense of humor to survive these early years of motherhood. It's true that I could cry when I see the mass of destruction consuming my twins' bedroom every morning - and sometimes I do. But in His mercy, God is teaching me to look beyond the housekeeping and see the great joy of raising these four sweet and hilarious children. My prayer is that He will give me the strength to laugh my way through the days and the years to come with Evie and her siblings, and be allowed to bear witness to His continued good work in the lives of these happy kids.

Beauty from Ashes

Last night I woke up to find my six month old son lying in a pool of blood. His jammies, his sheets, and menagerie of stuffed animals were completely covered in the bright red fluid that was flowing from his arm. It was four o'clock in the morning, and the only thing that kept me from waking up the entire southern half of the country was my son's smiling face when I rolled him over.

Ty was born with a vascular tumor that has consumed most of his left arm. The doctors examining him after birth assumed that the large purple mark spanning from his shoulder to his hand was a just a bruise resulting from a somewhat traumatic c-section. As the weeks passed, however, and his shoulder grew large and lumpy, it became clear that something more sinister was going on in his little body.

To be honest, I wasn't initially bothered by my son's "defect"; to my untrained eye, it looked like a birthmark. But as Ty got older, more and more comments were made in my direction. The grocery store clerk would ask me what had happened to his hand; children in the park would tell me that his arm looked "gross"; our extended family started making noise about getting him checked out by a specialist; and one dear friend wrote me a letter reminding me that my son was "still beautiful on the inside." I tried not to be hurt by these well-intentioned remarks, but when I held Ty close and kissed his sweet fuzzy head, I was grieved to think that he could be hurt. I booked a consultation with a pediatric dermatologist to determine if Ty's mark could be treated with lasers.

By the time we were able to see the doctor, Ty's left arm was nearly twice the size of his right; his hand was puffy and swollen, and scabs dotted his shoulder. The ulcerating hemangioma, as it was officially diagnosed, was outgrowing its blood supply and needed to be lasered 10 to 20 times over the course of the next two years. However, no one told me that in the meantime, those scabs could get irritated and break open; last night was terrifying shock!

So this afternoon I find myself sitting in the waiting room of a top Atlanta dermatologist. The office looks like it was designed to be slick and contemporary - in 1988. It's painted dark green and black, with chrome accents and frosted glass. Since Dr. K is the only one willing to treat Ty without anesthesia, I've been forced to take my son to see a cosmetic dermatologist. I guess that's why most of the patients in the waiting room look surprised to see me; their eyebrows are pinned high on their faces, but their foreheads don't move. One taut-faced lady keeps telling me how pretty I am, and how blessed I am to be young. I guess she doesn't notice the giant zit forming between my eyes. I refrain from asking her age; her wrinkled hands give away the secret she's obviously paying so much to keep.

Ty is happy and cooing away in his carrier. He loves the one-on-one time with me, probably because his sisters usually consume the bulk of my attention. A pretty, clear-skinned nurse comes out walk us back. The work "Botox" is emblazoned in rhinestones across the front of her black T-shirt. (She probably got it as a gift from the pharmaceutical rep I see chatting with the front office staff.) She escorts us into a tiny room packed with equipment. The only place to sit is a black leather examination chair. I'm informed that the doctor will be in shortly, and without having ever made eye contact, she shuts the thick black door.

I'm feeling claustrophobic. The room is hot, and I can hear the equipment humming loudly. The only decor in the room is a large butterfly collection; the assortment of dead insects are held in place by long stick pins and hung for display in a rectangular plastic box. I'm feeling queasy, but Ty seems captivated by the pretty colors.

Dr. K and another pretty nurse breeze into the room. They don't have much to say to me. Ty smiles at them while the doctor tests his laser and decides to ratchet it up. ("He seems like a tough little guy.") The nurse hands me a pair of protective goggles and tells me to keep Ty as still as possible. There aren't any goggles small enough for him, so I sit in the black leather chair and hold his face against my chest. He doesn't mind snuggling up to me until the nurse takes hold of his tender arm. Then Dr. K presses the laser to his skin and begins zapping small portions. The procedure isn't supposed to hurt much, but Ty is screaming.

The flashes of light coming from the laser are blinding, even through my goggles. I close my eyes and press Ty close, but I catch the scent of something burning; I glance up to see puffs of smoke rising from my son's arm. I feel faint, but I know I need to be still and keep breathing. Though the session only lasts about seven minutes, it feels like thirty.

Finally, Dr. K is satisfied; he removes his goggles, shuts down the machine, and, backing out the door, reminds me to call him if there are any problems. His nurse follows. With both of them gone, I focus on my wailing child. I've got a bottle ready, so I walk back out to the waiting room and give him the meal I've delayed for this purpose. He's sucking frantically, anxious to find comfort. I'm anxious, too, so I cuddle him close and try to sooth us both. His arm is spotted with small, cigarette-sized bruises. They look like burns. I've been assured that this is all normal and that his arm will look better in a few weeks. But looking at his arm makes me feel light-headed again. I pack him up and head for the car before the tears I feel pressing against the back of my eyes spill out in front of this room full of strangers.

I'm back in my car and facing a long drive home, but Ty is calm and I've finally managed to stop shaking. A familiar verse from the Book of James is drifting through my head: "Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him."

I know that what Ty and I faced in Dr. K's office today isn't the kind of trial that the Scriptures are referring to here. James was reassuring a persecuted people that the trials they were enduring would result in a mature and complete faith. I live in freedom - free of the persecution he is referencing. And yet I find comfort in this verse, because it reminds me that we are blessed by our perseverance. Though we are in the midst of a trial, God is blessing us. We are blessed because the tumor is on Ty's arm and not his face; we are blessed to have access to the technology that can repair it; and we are blessed to have the insurance to cover Ty's numerous and expensive treatments.

As I thank God for these many blessings, I am reminded of another favorite passage - this one from the Book of Isaiah: "The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me...to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning." Again, this Scripture is referring to something far greater than the medical procedure we faced today. But as I reflect on this verse, God is allowing me to imagine the pain and ugliness of Ty's tumor being burned away by the laser, and replaced with the beauty and wholeness of a healed arm.

As a believer, it's sometimes difficult to accept the transforming power of pain. But the truth for all of us is that our faith does not exempt us from trials, and so we face many - emotional and spiritual trials such as bitterness and depression, which assault our minds; physical trials such as pain and illness, which assault our bodies; even corporate trials such as the persecution of believers, which assaults the Body of Christ in nations around the world. But our Great Physician allows these trials to burn away that which is ugly and to reveal the beauty beneath, all the while holding us close to Himself. He is Healer and He is Father, and He will bring forth beauty from the ashes even as He cradles us in His arms.

Conspiracy Theory

After nearly three years of taking anti-anxiety medication, I've come to the realization that the drug companies who manufacture these delightful little happy pills are conspiring with experts everywhere to make new mothers crazy. The assault usually begins at that first obstetric appointment, where the doctor gives the latest mommy-to-be a list of "suggestions" to keep her little embryo safe:

"Don't lay on your back. Don't take hot baths. Don't eat tuna. While you're at it, stay away from lunch meat and cheese. Hot dogs, too. Don't drink caffeine. Watch out for aspartame. Don't forget to take your pre-natal vitamins. And don't forget to eat lots of spinach - you need the folic acid!"

Of course, having lost three pregnancies prior to Ella, I freaked out every time I rolled over in my sleep and woke up on my back. I never took more than a lukewarm shower, and since I couldn't keep anything down, I didn't eat anything on the list of forbidden foods. Of course, since I couldn't keep anything down, I also opted not to swallow those pre-natals, and I confess that not one piece of spinach ever crossed my lips.

To make up for my dietary neglect, I decided to train for a "natural" childbirth. (There are a lot of experts - conspirators - who argue that epidurals are bad for both mom and baby.) I should have known better, but in the end my husband and I attended a twelve week marathon of birthing classes, where we were scarred by slightly pornographic birthing videos and frowned upon for eating meat. All the while, I was consumed with "kick-counts" and weight gain. By the end of that agonizing nine months, I was ready to hold my baby girl in my arms, and know for sure that she was safe.

Of course, once she arrived (after 21 hours of agonizing, drug-free labor), I received a whole new list of "suggestions" from my pediatrician:

"Don't let her sleep on her tummy, but make sure she has plenty of tummy time; we don't want her to get a flat head. Are you nursing? Breast-milk is best. But make sure your baby is getting enough to eat. Don't ever leave her alone, because she can roll over. Of course, make sure she's rolling over by six months. Have you childproofed your house yet? Here's the number for the Poison Control Hotline if you haven't. I also suggest you get a fire extinguisher."

It turns out that Ella was a whole lot safer while I was pregnant. Now that she was out, I realized that all kinds of horrible things could happen to her. Sleep was out of the question. (It was out of the question anyway, because she cried all the time.) But now I had to worry that something was wrong if she stopped crying. What if she wasn't eating enough? What if she got dehydrated? What about SIDS? What about fires, floods, wars and pestilence? In my post-partum haze, it was too much to handle.

Of course, I eventually calmed down. The happy pills helped to dull that sharp edge of fear. But I am periodically reminded that, even present, I can't always keep my children safe from harm. Like the time I locked Ella in the car, and the fire department had to come and rescue her. Or like a week later when, after delivering cookies to those kind firemen, I locked her in the car again. Or when I caught one of the twins sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, licking some questionable food off her fingers. Or even this past week when, going out to get the mail, I turned around just in time to see Emily and Evie standing on their second-story window sill with their faces squashed up against the glass like bugs on a windshield.

The truth is, short of locking my kids in a bubble-wrapped room, there is nothing I can do to protect them from the things that might, or could, happen to them. And even though swallowing a little pill every morning has calmed some of my anxiety, it can't erase the realization that bad things can happen. My ultimate comfort, then, comes only from God, Who is using motherhood to teach me a awful lot about surrender: surrendering myself to His will; surrendering my children to His plan; surrendering my time to prayer and to the study of His word; surrendering my fears to His great and loving faithfulness. Though it's hard to believe, God loves my kids even more than I do. And even though it feels like I am surrendering an awful lot to Him, I am reminded even now that He surrendered His Son not only for me, but for those little ones I hold so tightly. Surely I can cast my fears upon the Lord, because He alone is my Rock and my Fortress!

Can Somebody Get Me a Manual?

My best friend had a child last month: a much anticipated baby girl who arrived two years after the devastating stillbirth of her sister. This little girl is a truly beautiful newborn. I really mean that. Somehow she managed to avoid showing up in the world looking all red and scrunchy and other-worldly. (Because no matter what our post-partum bliss might have led us to believe, most of our kids weren't too terribly cute those first several weeks out the the womb.) But Ryan is soft and pretty and pink and cuddly; and apparently she cries a lot.

I confess that my first thought upon hearing this news was, "Really girl, how bad can it be? It's one kid. Toss her in the crib, pop a plug in her mouth, and catch the last ten minutes of Oprah!"

Thankfully, four years of sleep deprivation haven't rendered me completely stupid, because I managed to avoid actually voicing my thoughts. Instead, I bumbled my way through a few words of cliched comfort, like "It's hard now, but you're going to miss this stage so much! Just keep her fed and changed. And, hey, remember to sleep when she sleeps."

It wasn't until I got off the phone that I remembered some babies - my first daughter, Ella, for example - never actually sleep. I think I'd repressed those early memories of Ella and replaced them with ones of my youngest child, Ty, who is, as far as I can tell, THE EASIEST BABY IN THE WORLD. He only cries for one of three reasons: 1) he's hungry, 2) he's wet, or 3) he's tired. That's it. Aside from those three times, he's quiet. Every day he rolls on the floor, plays with his feet, looks at his toys, and spits up 1-3 ounces formula on the new rug. (I didn't say he was perfect.)

Ella, on the other hand, is a whole other type of kid. She didn't make a peep during the two days we were in the hospital, but the minute we walked through the front door, she started screaming. I quickly changed her (dry) diaper and tried nursing her, but she wasn't hungry. I tried rocking her, but she twisted and turned and bowed her back to get away from me. After that, and as far as my new-mommy instinct was concerned, I tried everything: swaddling, patting, swaying, singing, pacifying, soothing, and - eventually - crying. Several long hours later, she took the bottle of hospital formula we'd come home with; I assume she needed it to replace all those calories she'd just burned off, because following that 2 ounce energy boost, she quickly resumed her ear-splitting torment!

I don't know when the crying stopped. I kept waiting for some kind of manual to arrive in the mail, telling me how to take care of my baby. I mean, they give you one when you buy a new car. They come with every piece of baby equipment ever created. Even plastic bags come with a warning, in case we get the urge to wrap one around our heads.

Of course Ella's manual never showed up, so those earliest days are a blur, dotted with foggy memories of dozing on the floor next to the crib, the swing, or the bouncy seat, praying that Ella would just go to sleep. Eventually, we navigated our way through those first three months by figuring out two things: 1) Ella had colic, and 2) she thrives on routine. In fact, I kept a typed copy of her daily schedule taped to the refrigerator, which meticulously detailed each of her naps (there was only one), meals, play times, baths, and Baby Einstein videos (again, only one). Every trip to the grocery store, every visit from friends, and every meal had to follow Ella's schedule.

Actually this still holds true today, because there's a third thing I learned about Ella during those first few weeks at home: she is not an extension of me! God has created her unique. It was a shock to come home with the infant I had carried for nine months and realize that I knew nothing about her. She didn't eat when I thought she should eat; she didn't nap when I thought she should nap. Thanks to the free will wired into her from conception, there were very few things about my child that I could actually control.

I'm not sure if those are the words my friend wants to hear, since her days are now consumed with trying to get her daughter to eat and sleep, but I'm thinking about passing them on to her anyway. Motherhood is, among so many other things, part scientific method; there is a great deal of observation and experimentation that goes into raising each of our unique children. At the end of it, I suppose there is a manual - but its one that we mothers have to write for ourselves.