11 posts tagged “motherhood”

I wasn't ready for full-time working motherhood. 

Or I suppose, more accurately, the job I had - while enjoyable for the paycheck, adult company, and "measurable results" - wasn't as fulfilling as I thought it might be. 

I realize that it's a luxury that I can walk away from it.  I know under different circumstances I would've had to swallow my pride, stop whining about being away from my daughter, and basically just zip it for the greater good.  But, I'm lucky.

Work-related misery wasn't doing good things for my health - mental or physical, and in the long-run that wasn't good for my family. I also couldn't silence the urges to go to Grad School, write, absorb the rapidly moving moments of my daughter's development, and be that happy homemaker I've wrestled with, but ultimately become (mostly) content with.  In short, to use one of my favorite analogies, I was pushing a rock up a hill that just came rolling back onto me.  So, it was time to stop pushing the rock.

Of course all of this brings me back to square one.  But, it's different than it was several weeks ago, when I was heavy with anxiety about the "fork in the road".  I suppose sometimes we just have to hang out on the other side of the fence a while to know it's not greener. Or maybe I'm just one of those people that has to try everything at least once, so I don't feel like I'm missing out.  Either way, for now, I know where I belong, and that means I can sleep soundly tonight...at least for one night anyway.

Picture the following: A toy-strewn living room, a kitchen where the dishes haven’t magically loaded themselves into the dishwasher, a wild toddler sans underpants, but covered in stickers, and me - clad in a pair of black yoga pants and t-shirt.  My life as I knew it and the white carpet in the house really haven’t been the same since my daughter’s blessed arrival.
 

So, when The Yummy Mummy Manifesto flew into radar, I was intrigued. 

The subtitle is Baby, Beauty, Balance, and Bliss….all very important B words.  It’s meant to be a book of advice and reflections on the wide mental and physical world of motherhood.  And as you probably know, I love my mommy books.

 

The author, Anna Johnson, defines Yummy as “joyous, naughty, delicious, creative, intrepid, and sensually alive”, and concedes that mothering in this fashion is not taking the easy or popular road.  She covers everything from style to nutrition to running a house and how to stay sane.

 

The heart of the book is valuable and holds an inspired message.  Despite sometimes feeling like just a “cradle and service station”, or guilty about any combination of things, she reminds mothers to follow our instincts. 

 

That said, parts of the book resemble a narcissistic monologue on bohemian mothering, which may be world’s apart from your own experience.  I found myself taking little gems and skipping over other chapters completely (particularly some of the pregnancy-related ones). 

For example, she completely lost me when she devoted pages on pages about “utterly scrumptious names” (Nothing could make me name my son Adonis or daughter Gogo), but then reeled me back in with this sentence:

“Until I finally joined the ranks, I hated every homily I heard about the lifestyle, commitment, and knotty conundrums of motherhood.”

Followed with:

“Erma Bombeck carried on about domestic angst and housewife hell with a dry, endless cackle, but now I realize she was a Buddha of suburbia.  Only a Zen master could sail through all this smiling, and monks don’t mother.  They meditate.” 

Another favorite: “It’s a passion and it’s a job, and just because it needs to be done, it shouldn’t obliterate the identity and importance of the woman doing it.”

Reading The Yummy Mummy Manifesto is a bit like listening to an older sister you both admire and question.  Some of what she says will be dead on helpful and affirming, and other parts are just going to cause you to roll your eyes.  I believe that’s because Johnson writes in a candid tone, and her book isn't meant to be an instruction manual.  It's written more like a blog - something to be savored bit by bit, but not used as a rigorous reference.

A humorous book on motherhood?  Yes, please.  After all, even though “it’s the hardest job you’ll ever love”, if we all took motherhood too seriously we would literally tear our hair out, or take the first flight out of town.  I’ve seen far too many new mothers hunt for the elusive ideal of motherhood, wherein you ALWAYS feed your child something healthy, NEVER let them watch TV, and OTHERWISE beat your sleep-deprived psyche to a bloody pulp. 

Stefanie Wilder-Taylor’s follow-up to Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay, is Naptime is the New Happy Hour – a funny, honest collection of scenes with a toddler.  She covers the joys of potty training, choosing a preschool, tantrums, and dealing with those Smug Moms you just want to punch. 

 

Wilder-Taylor is unapologetic about her toddler’s TV habit and cookie consumption, and honestly dishes about her mixed feelings on suburbia.  Her book was easy to read, possibly because she’s written down thoughts that I’ve had in my head, but not uttered out loud (or only to close friends), reaffirming that while I love my child completely, I’m not a “bad mother” for occasionally setting my child in front of the TV so I can take a shower or catch up on reading blogs (oops, did I just admit that?).

 

Her account of flying with her toddler and hating her a little afterwards hit a little close to home, and her chapter on stay-at-home versus work-outside-of-the-home was honest and quite comforting.

 

She is a little heavy on the joke of medicating herself, with heavy doses of sarcasm, which made me feel occasionally like I was reading the literary equivalent of stand-up comedy, but looking aside that one aspect, I found myself reading it whenever I had little pockets of time. 

 

In the end, life with a toddler is frustrating, rewarding, and quite frequently funny, if you choose to see it that way.  Naptime is the new Happy Hour definitely captures those funny moments, and in easily digestible bites.

My daughter, like most two-year-olds loves the playground.  Between the slides, the swings, and sand, what’s not to like?  Personally, I hate them.  I can tolerate them, perhaps even enjoy a little if I’m meeting a friend and her offspring, but on the regular occasions where I'm there with only my daughter in tow, I start to feel disenchanted and fish-out-of-water like Sarah from Little Children.

 

I will admit that I go to the playground secretly hoping.  There is a distant, however possible shot, I’ll meet a fellow mom I can genuinely connect with and befriend.  Playgrounds are after all the stay-at-home-mom bar scene.  But, one of the major obstacles to achieving this is that I’m shy.  I’ve adapted in certain settings, such as dinner parties and the traditional workplace, but something about the playground puts me back to the age where I can make eye contact and smile, but freeze up when attempting conversation.  Back in the day, I also sucked at dating, though at least in the bars I could swig a rum and coke to help my social skills.  This same behavior might be seen as possibly irresponsible, and of course illegal with children present.

 

Today, my daughter, who thankfully isn’t stunted in the social department and probably won’t be later thanks to my husband, befriended a fellow multicultural kidlet.  He had blond-ish dreadlocks and I learned by eavesdropping that his “flavor of swirl” is German and Jamaican.  An unassuming, though lovely woman, quietly spoke a mixture of German and English to him, and encouraged him to share the dump truck and other sand toys with my daughter.  I really wanted to converse with her (other than murmuring thank you).  But, did I?  No.  Instead I let another woman who wasn’t horribly annoying, but slightly interrogating, ask her a slew of questions.  And feeling like a teenager whose afraid of rejection, I quietly sat on the edge of the sandbox and stared off into space.

 

I’m not sure how to break out of the shell of shyness.  But, I really think that this is one of the only routes where I’ll meet comrades these days.

 

There was a time when I was on the hunt for a playgroup.  The need for social interaction about a year ago was so intense that I swallowed any inherent timidity and joined a parent organization that has affiliated playgroups.  My first shot was a group of women that seemed relatively engaging and supportive, until the subject of breastfeeding came up.  I was at that point still nursing my daughter at least a few times a day.  The consensus in the group was that nursing was somehow strange and deviant after 12 months.  They couldn’t put their finger on why, but they just thought it was “wrong”.  Next up was the subject of Gerber’s First Meats, wherein they discussed the merits of reconstituted sticks of chicken and beef that came in handy jars.  If there are varying degrees of “natural” and hippy-dom, I was practically a barefoot, commune-living, tie-dyer compared to these ladies.  Needless to state, I never saw them again.

 

My second experience was quite different.  I drove up to a palatial estate about 20 minutes from my home in an upscale neighborhood.  The hostess was warm and genuine, so I could momentarily overlook the amazing view from the second floor, the authentic Dr.Seuss artwork hanging on the playroom walls, and the fact that her housekeeper had answered the door.  But, when the other women showed up that same feeling of “Toto, I’m not in Kansas anymore” hit me like bricks.  Apparently, one of the women was on the hunt for more furniture, and Pottery Barn Kids was not good enough.  They also decided that for playgroup they would have “spa day” where they would hire manicurists and masseuses to come in.  My family has actually been affected by the shift from two incomes to one, so the idea of spa day with a bunch of women who drove Land Rovers and X5’s just sounded insane.  Needless to state, I never saw them again.

Why is it so hard to befriend women who are like-minded and in similar situations?

What beliefs, ideas or points of view have changed or been reinforced since you have become a mother?

 

I confess… I used to judge the stay-at-home-mom harshly.

 

I would be on lunch break and decide to run into Target.  I would be done up in my Ann Taylor outfit, full make-up, and blow-dried hair, and I’d glance at the woman in the baggy clothes, with the dirty hair, and glazed-over eyes, pushing the shopping cart with the screaming, inconsolable toddler.  I would look at her and think any multitude of thoughts that I now know are completely false, unfair, and would require action not humanly possible.  The greatest falsehood of course was, “I will never be that woman”.

 

I used to bring home the bacon, fry it up, and consume it with gusto.  I operated under the mistaken premise that all mothers who stayed home with their kids either A) Had no career aspirations other than being A#1 Homemaker, or B) Had salaries that equated the cost of child care, so opted to be at home for the sake of practicality. 

 

But, then my daughter was born.  I contracted Mad-baby-love, and I could scarcely tear myself away to go take a pee, let alone imagine 11-hours away from her in a cubicle.  However, when she was 5-months-old my husband expressed a desire to find another job.  I agreed to return to work so that he could job-hunt and concurrently watch our daughter. 

 

It didn’t go so well, but I hear that’s normal.  The baby wouldn’t take bottles and I was adjusting to locking myself into a small room, attaching plastic suction to my nipples, and pumping breastmilk into baggies.  That was perhaps one of the most unnatural experiences of my life – sitting in that room, wishing I could smell my sweet, little baby’s head, zoning out to the churn of my breastpump.  Meanwhile my husband was getting the crash course in Infants 101, and learned quickly that there wasn't going to be time to golf and catch up on reading like he thought there would be.  I remember asking him - were you actually planning on taking swings on the fairway with the baby strapped to your chest?

 

Our circumstances changed with my husband’s new job, and I ended up quitting four months after I had returned.  The time had been educational for all of us.  I missed "lunch hour" as it's was one of the few times when I felt able to do absolutely nothing and not carry an ounce of guilt about it.  I also learned that moms who work outside of the home make all kinds of sacrifices that the stay at home camp has the luxury of avoiding.  Both sides face their unique pros and cons, and requisite joys and challenges.

 
The decision to stay at home with your children or work outside of the home is based on your philosophy, financial situation, and career path (just to name a few factors).  Thus, it’s a personal decision that can’t be labeled right or wrong.  People are very passionate about what they feel is the “right” decision, and many try to unilaterally apply a solution to a whole population.  That is tantamount to saying everyone should drive white cars or eat spinach every day.  There is no one size fits all solution.

So, to all those stay-at-home-mothers I judged erroneously, I apologize.  In karmic fashion, I am humbly yours.

To all those who see the beleaguered mother in the store, the one who looks like she hasn’t showered, and whose child is clearly channeling the antichrist, don’t judge.  Until you walk a mile in her crocs/uggs/reefs/converse, and understand the sacrifices she makes on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis, it’s really not fair to assume anything.

I lived in Brooklyn the summer of 2002.  Single, child-less, and focused on my career in advertising, I committed to a summer, and possibly longer in the Big Apple.  I subletted a tiny room in a brownstone within a gentrified neighborhood.  Gentrification basically means a large population of low-income residents in run-down housing are displaced after property owners decide to renovate their buildings to increase property values, charge more rent, and ultimately bring in new residents - basically, young, arty types who wear vintage clothing, drink lattes, go to yoga classes, and will rent there to avoid the high cost of living downtown.  The original inhabitants of the neighborhood who remain are not pleased with the new influx.

One night, about 9-ish I was walking home from the subway station.  I was a block away from my apartment when I felt the heat of something, then saw a bright orange object fly past my face.  When it landed in front of me I realized it was a lit cigarette.  I looked up and saw a man, glaring at me, hanging out the second-story window.  He had thrown the cigarette at me: an act of malice for no apparent reason other than I was there.  I made it home, saw that my purse had a burn mark, and cried.  In the morning I recognized that I had been lucky, as I hadn’t sustained optical damage or burns on my face.  Living in the big city has it’s implicit risks, particularly a city that suffered the country’s worst terrorist attack.  I took on the mentality that dangerous things can and will happen, and you can't control other people.  So, you hope for the best, and try to stay safe.

Fast forward five years. 

Earlier this week my daughter and I were at the park.  She – like most 1.5 year olds – loves the playground.  Lately, with the wildfires we haven’t been outside much, so the combination of being in a fun environment again, coupled with her natural high energy, led her to run.  Since she’s been walking for about 7 months she’s usually solid on her feet, however this time she tripped, and landed badly on the concrete.  When I picked her up, the skin on her nose had rubbed off, and she had a large bump on her forehead from hitting the ground.  In addition to being pale and crying, the bump on her head swelled and took on a bulbous quality (as if fluid was being trapped), and for some scary moments I wondered if I would need to take her to the hospital.  In time the swelling went down, and as I’m sitting here writing, it’s obvious her injuries were superficial.

The experience, however, led me to realize that my perspective on safety and risk have been altered in a profound sense with motherhood.

Being a parent is humbling because you cannot always protect your child, and yet that is your charge in life after their arrival.  The instinct to shield is fierce.  Had I know my daughter would fall, I would have gladly dove in front of her way to cushion the blow.  In some ways this is remarkable, but really, it’s just instinct. 

To know that dangerous things can and will happen to my daughter, and that I can’t control other people, or my daughter, scares me more than just about anything.  This says something considering I had nightmares after watching The Ring (I hear this is a tame horror movie).  

While worry for my child's safety is a real and valid emotion, at the same time, there is a point where I have to let go.  Though I do sometimes wish I could put my daughter in a plastic bubble, it would obviously hinder some wonderful life experiences for her.  Just like, if I had avoided New York because of the implicit danger of living in a big city, I would have missed out on some phenomenal life experiences that were in my opinion, worth the risk.  My mother of course would disagree.

I often contemplate the complex, bittersweet nature of modern motherhood.  So, when I discovered Naomi Stadlen’s book What Mothers Do: Especially when it looks like Nothing, I was certainly intrigued.  The summary states that amid today’s “Mommy Wars” (contradictory theories on how to raise children, and mothers who disagree on them), we often “lose sight of what mothers do on a day-to-day basis and how important these seemingly insignificant tasks are in shaping the lives of their young children”.   Stadlen asserts that a mothering lexicon needs to be created, as many mother’s don’t feel they are “doing anything”, when in fact they are “generously mothering”.  She declares that without positive terminology for everyday mothering tasks, mothers don’t take credit where they should.  For example, the two words negligent and overprotective indicate either too much or too little attention on the part of mothers.  There isn’t a word that exists for “protecting her child the right amount” – which would in turn help mothers everywhere feel like they were doing a good job.   

 

Stadlen conducted extensive interviews with mothers as research, and writes on subjects including “getting nothing done all day”, “being so tired I could die”, and “snapping at my partner” – sounds like a typical day to me!  Stadlen addresses a group of women who may have left their careers and co-workers in the “mainstream” for a “solitary journey” of staying at home with their babies.  She acknowledges that seeking out fellow mothers is sometimes more daunting than having a built in social network of co-workers. 

 

She describes how many modern mothers may be overwhelmed by the brave new world of mothering, as they may never have been exposed to child-tending before giving birth.  In today’s society, work and motherhood are segregated, while in the past, women would literally bring their babies to work, which created a community focused child-rearing system.  This also enabled non-mothers to learn about mothering before they actually had their own children.

 

One of the perfect examples Stadlen gives for illustrating what mothers do, but don’t realize, is grocery shopping.  Mothers (who have their babies and/or young children with them) have two jobs when at the store.  Not only is she shopping for food, she is “mothering” – which encompasses demonstrating “supermarket behavior” (choosing items, paying for them, etc.), showing personal values (calculating price), and how she relates to the checkout staff.  “Everything takes twice as long, and she has to keep switching her attention from the adult shopping world to the child world.  If we don’t recognize the mothering portion of the job, we can’t be pleased we have combined two jobs reasonably well, instead focusing on being annoyed with doing one job badly.” 

 

Stadlen’s call for a mothering lexicon is quite radical, since she’s effectively asking us to change the way we look at everything a mother does.  She is asking mothers everywhere to stop feeling responsible for “failures” (like babies not sleeping thru the night) and start realizing all of the positive actions mothers take naturally.  I love that she’s reaffirming what is a sometimes daunting, and exhausting life, and reminding mothers that the experience of motherhood is amazing work.  It seems so many books tell mothers what we "should" be doing, whereas this book acknowledges what we already do, that we may take for granted.

 

I wish I had this book in the early days of motherhood, when I was overwhelmed by a new world with a baby who mysteriously showed up without an instruction manual.  While I eventually found my confidence in my mothering skills, it wasn’t without the help of other mothers affirming my thoughts, and acknowledging the seemingly little tasks that filled my days were in fact significant.  I'd highly recommended this book for all new mothers, as well as for those of us moms who need a reminder of all the good we actually do.   

As a young woman I fought with my mother constantly.  In hindsight, I was simply trying to assert my independence, and was wrestling with the conflicting nature of needing her wisdom and finding my own voice.  Or more simply - add two feisty women into the mix, and arguments will ensue.  Something my mom used to always say during these fights was, “you won’t understand me until you’re a mother yourself.”  I used to think it was just her way of saying that I should put myself in her shoes and sympathize with her.  But, after I became a mother the statement held profound meaning.

 

Jonas Salk once said, “Good parents give their children Roots and Wings.”  The truth is you have one fierce instinct to protect your child, and another instinct to encourage your child to walk, to run, to be independent from you.  You know the independence is critical so they can make solid and smart choices that allow them to prosper, grow as a human, be thoughtful of others, and ultimately be happy.  To struggle with this is inherent in loving them. 

 

What my mother actually meant during those fights was that she loved me.  She loves me in that unconditional, intense, mothering way that sometimes drives us both crazy.  That even if she was hungry and thirsty, she would still give me food and water before she admitted that she needed any.  That hell or high water if she sees me doing something detrimental to my well-being she’s going to stand in front of the fast-moving train (me) to stop it from happening.  That when I’m sad, a little part of her dies too.  That despite the pain of childbirth, carrying me in her body was miraculous joy.  That when I was experiencing the pain of childbirth, she hated being powerless against preventing that pain.  That watching your baby bloom into a person is definitely more fulfilling than having a lot of money.  That when I talked back to her or threw a tantrum, she wanted to slap me silly, but never has – instead summoning large quantities of patience.  It took loving my daughter unconditionally, to realize that my mother taught me how to do so.

Post-motherhood our relationship has been quite serene.  I may have lost my temper a couple of times, and my mom might have given some unsolicited advice, but we really haven’t disagreed on anything.  I recognize now, in my thirties, knee deep in diapers, and with crow’s feet starting to settle on my face, that I’m lucky.  I have an amazing mother, and though she rarely says the words “I love you”, she articulates the sentiment to me in all of her actions.  Really, if I am anything worthy, it is mostly because of her.  So, mom (though you refuse to buy a computer and go online), I want you to know I love you, and I understand you now.

One thing that has become clear to me lately is that I’ve finally settled into the motherhood role.  It took over a year to really get used to.  Perhaps this is because in the early months 100% mommy was required – no time to consider my next life goal, let alone paint my toenails or read a real book.  In addition to more “me time”, these days I’ve become comfortable in my intuitive, maternal abilities.  I’ve perfected the if-you-dare-put-that-plastic-sheep-in-the-toilet-I-will-make-your-life-a-living-hell look.  I swear, though you’ll just see hair, I have eyes in the back of my head and cat-like reflexes.  It’s not small potatoes folks…this is quite powerful stuff. 

The other thing that has dawned on me lately is that whatever stage my daughter has just completed, there’s a new batch of challenges ahead.  Right now we’re dealing with the toddler tantrums, and soon potty training.  Obviously there’s those briar patch teenage years around the corner waiting to bite me in the proverbial hiney (as well as other stages I’m glossing over in the interest of time).  Someday she will look at me with sass and tell me, “This is my life, let me do what I want with it.”  It will be an echo from the past - only I’ll be the receiver this time.  Will she break my heart along the way?  Yes, most likely.  But, will I always be her mother?  Yep.  I’m in it for the long haul.  I have made a lifetime commitment to nurture another living soul.  Eek.  The gravity of this is the reason why people say, “I don’t know that I’m ready”.  Or, “hell no, my Labrador will do just fine.”  No one is ever really prepared for this kind of heavy terrain.  Truly. 

The other night my husband and I watched The Last King of Scotland (which by the way is an excellent film).  There’s a particularly brutal torture scene in it that was haunting me as I was trying to fall asleep.  So, I asked my dearest husband to help me think of something happy.  So he turned to me and said, “Think about having another child.”
Needless to say, I was looking for something lighter like puppy dogs and rainbows, but I can see what he was getting at.  Despite the immense responsibility that comes with it, parenthood is still an exciting, fulfilling, and mostly happy path.  And I may be ready to entertain thoughts of having another kid… at least theoretically.

It goes something like this...

You’re pregnant and everyone tells you that your life is going to completely change when the baby arrives.  You nod. You understand on an intellectual level.  You map out when you’re going to return to work. You go about washing all those adorable little clothes in Dreft, preparing a ridiculously cute room that they won’t even remember, and counting the weeks and days.

Then, birth happens.  There’s all kinds of variation here in terms of how it happens, when it happens, how you handle it, how your husband/significant other/father of your child handles it, whether you have an epidural or not, vaginal or c-section, etc.  The bottom line is usually it’s a painful, extremely athletic, transcendent experience, and the cliché is true that when you look at your angelic child, the labor mostly fades into oblivion.  The love you feel is more powerful than anything else in the universe.

So, you try to breastfeed, because it’s the right thing to do.  It’ll come naturally, right?  Wrong.  Your baby doesn’t know how to do it, and neither do you, even though you took the 2-hour class on it, watched the video in birthing class, and read two books describing correct latch.  Your nipples are chewed raw, your baby is hungry, and your postpartum hormones are making you into a total, raving, weeping lunatic.  Enter the lactation consultant, who shows you how to do it easily and painlessly.  You may or may not meet this woman again, but she is your nursing savior.

At some point, you then go home with your baby.  This is a wonderful thing because the hospital food sucks, your husband can’t sleep on that chair they call a fold-out cot, and you really want to enjoy your baby in the peace and comfort of your own home.  You’re then thrust into another dimension where you have to decipher a crying infant’s distress on a regular basis.  It can be quite overwhelming.  Sometimes you’ve changed the diaper, fed them, and rocked them, and they’re still crying.  So, then you’re bouncing on exercise balls, taking midnight drives, and singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" even though people have said you're tone deaf.  You’ll try anything to stop the crying.  Eventually, you get the crying down, and they mellow out a little as well.

Since you’ve mastered the art of latching your baby on, you’re still breastfeeding, but you get mastitis (AKA a breast infection).  If you’re lucky it’s bothersome and feels like a cold, but it passes on it’s own.  If you’re not lucky you go to your OB/GYN and they tell you it’s one of the worst they’ve ever seen, and prescribe antibiotics.

The early days of parenthood are a lethal cocktail of sleep deprivation, and hormonal surges that make you feel like a cross between Attila the Hun and Sylvia Plath (did I mention the soreness in your nether regions and/or lower abdomen if you had a c-section?).   BUT, and this will sound crazy, you are STILL so happy to finally meet your baby that none of this is really awful.

Personally, I was a bit overwhelmed in the beginning (as if this isn’t evident by the above paragraphs).  But, it got easier.  I learned to be confident in my abilities, and realized that my mothering instincts were much stronger than I gave myself credit for.  In fact, I learned to trust my instincts over what a book, or a stranger, or even what my mother said, because I knew my baby better than anyone else.  And what I was told before is true, my life has undoubtedly changed.

For one, I’m more confident about myself, and my abilities (even though they’re challenged constantly by the benevolent dictator AKA my daughter).  Also,  I’m more even-keeled.  I’m not sweating the small stuff (as much at least).  I run from drama now…unless it’s on Grey’s Anatomy or Project Runway.  Our daughter has forced my husband and I to communicate better and more efficiently.  There’s not enough time to whine to each other, and go 9 rounds anymore.  No filibustering, and no deconstructive nagging.  Someone once told me that children magnify relationships so the good becomes great and the bad becomes awful.   Totally accurate.

Motherhood is a balancing act, and it's relentless.  But, the truism that motherhood is the hardest job you’ll ever love runs through my mind a lot.  We are blessed to watch our babies grow, learn, and become the amazing, unique humans they are.