It’s a rare occasion where I say, Go read this! and send you to a friend’s blog. I figure I have a decent-sized list off to the right that anyone can access. But I think the quotes Jason posted today merit a Go read this! kind of remark.
The Wilhite and Meilaender quotations really touched me.
I sent a musical birthday card to Charity and Andy recently (“We’re 29” says Charity when asked how old *she* is; cracks me up even though I know she and Andy have back-to-back birthdays) that played the song Word Up. And I can’t help but think of the lyrics as I look at this photo of Livia and her friends…
Wave your hands in the air
Like you don’t care, glide by
The People as they start to look and stare.
Do you dance, do your dance quick
Mama, come on baby, tell me what’s
The Word, ah – word up.
Happy birthday to our big (little) girl!
Right now Liv’s napping, all tuckered out from playing with four other little girls. We’ve eaten chocolate cake and yellow cake, buckets of penne pasta and slices of pepperoni pizza. We’ve licked our fair share of Dum Dums and popped a good number of balloons (both on accident and on purpose). We’ve hugged friends and family and thanked them for partying with us. And now, a normal nap in the midst of a special day.
“I three now! I a big girl,” Liv tells me.
Yes, I tell her, but you’ll always be my baby.
Happy birthday, sweet girl!
These women have great giveaways on their site. So go check it out! (Thanks to Megan for always updating me on the contests. I never know what’s up until I stop by Half Pint House.)
I had already been checked, and received a big fat Postive. Now it was Livia’s turn.
“She keeps saying she’s tired, but I thought that was a phase. Oh, and she’s always thirsty.”
“Is she waking up at night?”
“Now that you mention it, she has been. But only once a night. And she always goes back to sleep.”
“Has her appetite changed recently?”
“She hasn’t been very hungry. I guess I thought that was a phase, too…”
“Any loose stools?”
“‘Yes’ would be an understatement.”
And the truth begins to sink in… lots of seemingly unconnected symptoms, the pediatrician connects the dots, the throat is swabbed and BINGO! the Tredways have won the strep throat contest for the week. Already we’re feeling better. Thank you, God, for antibiotics.
Jones is getting good press on The Grand as well as on his parent’s blog, so I figured I should join the crowd with a few of my own shots. It’s been Baby Central around here recently and I love it. Isn’t this punkin precious?
The Allens are now back home with Amelia after her second round of chemotherapy. It still seems surreal to me that Steve and Jen are engaging in such a tremendous battle over the health of their baby girl. I suppose it would feel more “real” if I could take them a meal or help them with rides for relatives to and from the airport. From here, from 500 miles away, I pray for them. Their posts of late have been incredibly encouraging and we are filled with hope for sweet little Amelia.
Being a mom is by far the craziest and most difficult job I’ve ever had. It is also the most satisfying, most frustrating, most exposing, and most challenging position I have ever held.
I smell like poop right now.
Or perhaps it’s my entire house that smells like that and I can no longer tell the difference. At any rate, I feel poopy and it’s not a pleasant feeling. I’ve washed and dried my hands multiple times, I’ve sprayed air freshener multiple times, I’ve washed and dried little hands, feet, and butt cheeks multiple times as well. Yet a lovely odor remains.
(Though you can’t tell in Blogworld, I just took a break from this post to go wipe up stain remover from the carpet where there was, you guessed it, poop, and my daughter proclaimed, “It STINKS in here.” Yes, yes it does.)
I say motherhood is an exposing position because it exposes the truth about me. Part of me want to hide this type of truth from people because I’d rather have you all think I’m a perfect mother. Okay, maybe not perfect, but at least one of those women who serves (ie. cleans up poop) without complaining. While I aim for Mother Teresa type qualities, I fall far short. I yell. I gripe. I feel sorry for myself. I get tired of the demands of this job. I’m lazy. The struggle for contentedness is ever-present for me.
In the middle of the craziness, in the exact moment when I’m dissatisfied with the mess in the house and with the mess in my heart, there is a little voice that speaks up and breaks through the crud. It’s not the Holy Spirit or even an angel on my right shoulder; it’s Livia saying something like, “Those new boots [you are wearing]? They so cute!” Or it’s a small cool hand placed on my arm accompanied by a request to cuddle. And I wonder, how did I get here? Is this child truly mine? How in the world can I be so blessed to be Livia’s mommy?
I’m not a big fan of poop (for the record, the odor still persists…), but there it is, part of my current job. Rebecca Tredway: Poop Cleaner. Rebecca Tredway: Hassled Housekeeper. Rebecca Tredway: Lover of Livia.
The last title makes it all worth it.
There are three, perhaps four, elements to this photograph that make me love it.
