Thoughts of a nursing mother

There is just something about nursing a baby. Something like glue, and prayer, and song, maybe even a kiss. A little like those things but totally and completely it's own. And Nursing dashel breaks my heart. He has wriggled his tiny hands to the top of his swaddle and if I hold one I can feel the little dimples in his knuckles and his unbelievably soft fingers. Somehow his hands seem smaller in the dark. The gentle tug of him at my breast is comforting and adorable and something only another mother could understand. His little tummy is pressed against mine as we lay down in the center of the bed. Daddy has volunteered to sleep in the living room in a bed all to himself... And for this little stage of midnight feelings we're all happy with the arrangement. Two chubby naked feet, free from his blanket, paw at my thighs. The sounds that I'm hearing are so sweet and I think over and over how I never want to forget them. "Uhhh shhhhh, ugh shhhh" as little puffs of his breath touch my skin. "Uk ka-uk ka-uk" as he fills his sweet baby tummy. I suppose I don't have any words to put to how incredibly important this feels in my life. The experience of breast feeding, and especially at night, has seriously given me the peace I need to make it in motherhood- a quiet moment ( ok A LOT of quiet moments) to meditate, to thank God for this chance, to will my love into my babies spirit to let him know that I love him, want him, and will always do anything for him. I think all mothers can relate to this, but not a day go by that I don't thank my Heavenly Father that my body has the health and ability it needs to do this. It seems a miracle to me and one I don't ever want to take for granted. So here's to not forgetting and enjoying those little puffs of baby's breath forever. But I know that someday all I will really remember is that nursing was hard sometimes, wonderful most of the time and really there was just something (holy) about it.

R for Real: Being Cool

WARNING: it is late and this is not gramatically correct- peace.

Tonight Andrew, me and the kids went to our friends the Alexander's house to enjoy some really great live music. A wonderful way to start the summer; there were cupcakes, a bongo drum, twinkle lights, new grass, and glimpses of Oliver getting married. It was only him holding little Amelia's hand walking in the lawn and galloping up to us with an enormous smile but it was enough to make me think of pretty much the rest of my life.  Ah those moments always surprise me whenever they waltz by.

By the time we actually got into the car, down the long road home, into the house, pj-ed the kids and I laid down to nurse Dashel it was almost 11pm. And then the thoughts came.

I dont know how many nights I've laid awake in the quiet, late at night, and just read the stories in my head. Stories about the day, the faces of my children, the exact sensation of nursing a sweet baby, the way my heart hurts when I confess my fears to my husband, or the simple life that is a flower peeking over the fence. Everything comes in a story, in words streaking across my eyes and I just lay there forming exactly how they should come out. How would i describe this? Or that? Have you ever had a fight and not known what to say only to find the right words haunt you later that night? Well thats pretty much it...I talk to myself until I get it just right. AND THEN:

I throw it away.

After i finished feeding Dashel and he was fast asleep, I walked down the hall to the kitchen with heavy feet.

"is it stupid I want to do something?' I ask.

"what do you mean" 

"like contribute, do something awesome. Is it stupid that i want to be cool?"

"no"

"does every one have this sick desire to be famous?"

"yes"

and so we have a conversation about how i have no idea what i want to really do but every night i stay up and think about writing of all things...i dont like writing and im not even good at it. 

I am a huge proponent of journaling, of writing your thoughts for posterity or yourself or whatever. But I just cant bring myself to do it. I've tried to dabble in it in the past (like on this blog) but there is something broken inside me that makes me choke every time I make a resolution to do it for real. the oddest part of it is when Im complimented on anything i immediately stop doing that thing. ALWAYS. And then tonight Andrew had a revelation

 "You're afraid of success. If you do something then maybe someone will like it. If you're successful then something is expected of you. If you do nothing its a lot easier to just keep doing nothing"

Here is my husband with the answer to why i never tried out for dance team, cheer, school plays in high school or in college, choirs, why i have a total panic attack when i have to speak at church or teach a lesson, or any other thing that would allow people to judge me- a sage he is.

And then Andrew ordered me to write b/c if i suck who cares, at least ill have gotten it out of my system. And so after a conversation filled with tears, confessions of feeling like a horrible mother, feelings of guilt and narcissism for even considering writing things about myself, blubbering over how ive never never never put myself out there and Andrew hugging me and telling me I need a creative outlet:  HERE I AM WRITING.  Its only one night so far, and its no composition or story but its something that i created. i wrote it, it came from inside my body and now it is spread (maybe a little like vomit) on this page and it totally doesnt matter that its writing, it could be anything but the point is that im doing it for myself: and if someone else doesnt like it THEY CAN SIT ON A PIN:)