ElizabethEsther.com

Sewing myself sane

I bought the easiest pattern in the store, the one tacked up on a display rack with the words Sewing For Complete Idiots And/Or Women With Rabid ADD. 

That's how I knew it was for me. Things got even better when I turned over the pattern package and saw these words:

Sewing this dress is scientifically proven to assuage guilt for placing twins in preschool.

I glanced over my shoulder. Was this some kind of setup? Does JoAnn Fabrics read my blog?

And then I read on: It is a truth universally acknowledged that mothers who sew dresses for their daughters are Good Mothers.

SOLD.

In days of yore, I would have spent hours poring over pattern books, drooling over fancy gowns. Of course, this is what is known as: PERFECTIONISM & PROCRASTINATION.

It's what I rock at. It's also what keeps me from FINISHING projects.

So, this time I knew better. I yanked two bolts of on-sale fabric off the rack, swiped two spools of matching thread and paid for everything in less time than it usually takes me to sniff through one aisle of fabrics.

Yes, I sniff fabric. Doesn't everyone? Honestly, there is nothing more evocative of the good things from your fundamentalist childhood than the smell of a fine bolt of 100% cotton. Bonus points if it's a big-bloom floral pattern.

COULOTTES, ANYONE?

But I digress.

Point is: I needed to do a project. No, I needed to finish a project! For whatever reason, the process of sewing acts like prozac on my brain. Which is to say, there are few things more satisfying in life than winding the bobbin.

Well, OK. There are a few things more satisfying; namely, 2 finished and perfectly pressed summer dresses for my twins.

And even though these were the simplest dresses to sew, I felt as proud as if I'd personally hand-stitched Marie Antoinette's wedding gown.

Maybe that sense of accomplishment is what banished the nightmares I'd been having. Instead of dreaming about my twins drowning in the pool, I was dreaming about drowning in spools of handcrafted lace. 

I got so deeply into this project, that I started writing supplementary advice on the pattern instructions. (Seriously, Butterick needs to hire better writers for their pattern instructions--easy-to-sew, maybe, but not easy-to-freakin'-understand!). 

The best part about sewing for twins is that I get to sew the same pattern twice. The first dress is sorta like the guinea pig. The second dress? Hard-core COUTURE, baby. 

I even took it a few steps farther and added cute little buttons, some decorative lace and yeah, I even professionally finished the seams.

Clearly, I've traded my PTSD for OCD. But dude. SO WORTH IT. Like, in what other life situation is it acceptable--nay, admirable--to crank your perfectionism into high gear? The sheer pleasure I get from channeling that into perfectly finished seams is beyond explanation. 

I think in the child-free world they call this aesthetics. Forget expensive artwork, I could frame that sucker, slap it up on my wall and stare all day at the aesthetic beauty of a finely finished seam.

I mean, I can almost feel myself morphing into a sewing snob. I see myself slouching around in an avant-garde kimono made entirely from vintage measuring tape. I only buy designer fabric from couture boutiques and only drink black coffee from demitasse cups. I think anything less than a French Seam is tres tacky. 

Most annoyingly, I start using French words in everyday conversation.

I dunno, sewing has an interesting effect on me. It's very soothing. I wind the bobbin and my brain unwinds. I sit by the window sewing a button into place and I start humming a merry little tune. 

(This from someone who is violently allergic to humming, merry or otherwise.)

I'm not exactly sure how this is happening, but somehow, sewing seems to be rewiring my brain. The panicky feelings have definitively subsided. After an hour of sewing each day I feel more cheerful, hopeful. I even found myself thinking: Abusive fundamentalism? Eh. It could have been worse.

It's a surprising change of perspective. And more than a little ironic. I wouldn't know how to sew unless I'd been raised in a fundamentalist group that placed a high priority on young girls learning the art of homemaking. I gotta be honest and say that learning to sew was a beautiful gift from my childhood. 

It's a gift I'm now using to sew my way out of PTSD triggered depression. 

I think we call that poetic justice.

Oui?

 

Twinsanity

The twins are 2.5 years old. To celebrate, they decided to dip my hairbrush into the toilet bowl the better to smooth each other's curls. They were also thirsty. And apparently, toilet water tastes mighty fine, thank you very much.

There have been a whole series of these events. A few weeks ago they decided to run away from me, slam their brothers' bedroom door. AND LOCK ME OUT.

That was fun. 

Then there was the whole ransacking of big sister's nail polish stash. Sneaky little things crept silently into her room and very quietly proceeded to WILDLY PAINT each other's toes, feet, hands and carpet. I'd only left them alone for three minutes (FOR REALS) and by the time I found them, they looked like careless vampires from a Twilight movie gone horribly awry.

That was messy.

We've called this twin-thing the Gangster Effect. Instead of spurring each other on to godliness and good works, they spur each other on to ungodliness and destruction.

Worst of all, they seem to enjoy it. 

Last night at approximately 1:16 am, there was an odd rustling in the kitchen. Matt got up to investigate and discovered the twins, in poopy diapers, helping themselves to the snack drawer.

Apparently, on their way to ask us to change them they decided that such a long journey required several bags of chips, one or two granola bars and maybe some trail mix. You know, just a little repast to sustain weary travelers.

AT 1:16 am!

We've been awakened at odd hours to find them holed up in their closet reading books, wiping down the walls with wet wipes or carrying on full-volume conversations about Spinderella and Sleeping Nooty.

I fully expect to be awakened at 3 am by a police officer at our front door informing us that our toddlers were found at the local sushi bar, chatting it up and throwing back shots of apple juice.

The other night I woke up screaming because I was convinced the twins had broken into the medicine cabinet and I was all: NO, JORIE! TYLENOL IS NOT JUICE!

How children survive to adulthood just totally baffles me. Oh, wait. I know how it happens. Their parents sacrifice their lives, their means and their sanity.  

Still, I wouldn't trade this life for anything else. Raising kids is the best adventure. Ever.

 

Today after waking up from a nap (yes, I take a daily nap--it's the only way I survive), I rolled over, kissed Matt and said: "Let's have just one more."

See? See? I AM INSANE!

p.s. He said, "No." 

p.p.s I said, "Fine. We'll adopt. I want to rescue a whole sibling group of orphans."

p.p.p.s. He said, "We'll see."

YEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!

Cultivating a kind, gentle tone of voice

I started praying a risky prayer a few weeks ago. I asked God to help me speak in a loving, gentle tone to my children. I've continued to pray this each day and let me say, if you wanna pray prayers like this--just prepare to have your heart broken. In a good way.

The first thing that happened was that I began really hearing myself. Do you know what I mean by that? I mean that for a very long time, I'd been sorta deaf to my own voice, to how it sounded in my interactions with my children.

But in the last few weeks, I've begun hearing my tone of voice again. At first, I only heard myself after the fact, after I'd snapped at someone or interrupted, cut someone short or blasted someone away with my dazzling wit and logic. Ha.

And then I began hearing my tone of voice parroted back to me in the voices of my children. I heard it in the way they spoke to each other and on one occasion, I heard it in the way one of the twins reprimanded her baby doll.

It was embarrassing, heartbreaking and totally, completely convicting. It also exposed the myriad excuses I've used to defend my harsh tone of voice. 

I began intentionally trying to speak kindly, gently and lovingly. Here was the big revelation: speaking kindly takes practice! Cultivating a kind, gentle tone of voice doesn't just happen. I used to comfort myself with the notion that the moms who spoke gently and kindly were born with that kind of voice. 

Now I'm not so sure. I think maybe they've had to work at it. Maybe it's a fine art that must be practiced and cultivated, disciplined and tended.

Here's another revelation: the test of a kind, gentle tone of voice comes when life is difficult.  I mean, anyone can use a kind, gentle voice when life is going smoothly and according to plan. But most of our life in a large family does not go smoothly. And it almost never goes according to plan!

So, what should I do? Wait until life gets easier or do the right thing even if it's hard?

Here's what I've started doing: when I'm irritated or tired, I try to pre-empt my harsh tone by sending up little SOS prayers to God for help. Usually it sounds like this: Lord, grant me grace right now, please. 

It's a simple little prayer but I've been surprised at how effective it is. It feels like a little pocket opening up in my mind giving me that extra ounce of patience I need in that exact moment, just enough to get me through the current ordeal.

And when I choose to speak kindly and gently, I feel an immediate sense of satisfaction. It's like take taking pride in a job well-done. It feels like I've ministered grace into the moment instead of chaos or worry, hurry or fear.

The funny thing is that before I had twins, I almost never raised my voice. I really tried to speak moderately and gently at all times. But since having the twins, it's like I've had to re-learn it all over again.

Or maybe it's just that BT (Before Twins), I could handle it all in my own strength and AT (After Twins), I realize I can't do it on my own. I'm dependent on the mercy and grace of God every single day. Scratch that. Every single minute.

Maybe there's no better place to be.

Do you struggle with using a kind, gentle tone of voice?

Do you have any practices/ideas for cultivating a kind, gentle tone?

I could use some helpful encouragement, so please SHARE!

 

Simple organizing tip from a mom of 5: CRIB TOY BOXES

During the Witching Hours (3pm-6pm), I have several strategies for survival. One of these includes giving the twins one hour of quiet play time in their cribs.

I'm a firm believer in teaching children to amuse themselves. I love playing with my kids, but I do not exist for their sole entertainment. And especially from 3pm-6pm, Mommy has serious work to do; ie. homework help, dinner prep, sports practice drop-offs, overseeing piano practice.

To help the twins amuse themselves, I've put together Crib Toy Boxes. These are smaller versions of their big tox box. Essentially, they're just plastic boxes filled with smallish, interesting toys and books, preferably ones they don't play with during the day. Here they are (next to a little show-off who insisted on getting in the picture, lol!):

I try to keep the Crib Toy Boxes up and out of reach until quiet play time. I freshen up the toy selection about once a week. Sometimes I keep "reserves" of old toys hidden from view. I've discovered that if you hide old toys for awhile, when you bring them out again the kids are like: WOO-HOO! NEW TOYS!

I like to spy on the twins and see what they're doing with their Crib Toy Boxes. They invent some pretty cute games. Jorie likes to turn hers upside down, cover it with a blankie and pretend it's a table for tea. Jossie likes to use her box as a little reading chair. She sits on it (or in it) and "reads" her books. 

[WARNING: if your kid is a climber, the boxes can be used as step-stools for escaping her crib. You might need to modify your own set-up accordingly. A Crib Toy Bag, maybe?]

When quiet play time is over, I scoop the toys back into the boxes and stick them up on a closet shelf. For me, it's important to check the boxes each day and make sure nothing random or unsafe has somehow found its way in there (sometimes my older kids unwittingly give the little kids unsafe toys).

I want to assure you that the twins enjoy their quiet play time. It's not time-out or punishment and they never mistake it as such.

It's a positive, peaceful experience. Sometimes I turn on classical music and they have their blankies so they can choose to lay down and relax. I keep the baby monitor on so I can listen in on their playtime. I just love hearing their adorable little conversations and made-up songs.

However, I do fetch them after one hour. Leaving them alone for too long breeds upset feelings and I want them to associate their cribs with rest and peaceful play--not feelings of rejection. Every child has a different time limit and we've had to work up to the one hour time-slot (we started at 6 months with about 15 minutes quiet play).

Crib Toy Boxes and quiet playtime are a lifesaver for this busy mama!

__________________________________________________

 

A necessary death

 I let myself fall apart. Except I'm a mother, I have to fall apart responsibly. It's like one minute I'm sobbing tears and the next minute I'm swabbing rears, you know?

This is how it goes for mothers. We don't have the luxury of taking a leave of absence from our lives. We must make do.

Last week it was like a gigantic seam ripper came tearing through my life, undoing all the hard work of holding myself together. I stood there in all my embarrassing exposure, finally admitting that I'd lost my joy.

Here's what astonishes me: you told me I'm not alone.

THANK GOD, I'm not alone.

For the first time since the twins were born, I just let myself feel the need, the brokenness, the absolute inability to be The Mother I Used To Be. Or the Mother I Want To Be. Or The Mother I Think My Kids Need.

I let all that go.

We went down to the beach and I stood underneath the pier, watching the waves crash around the pilings. It was cold and cloudy with a brisk onshore breeze. The waves were high and I felt a thrill of terror as the waves pounded up the pier corridor.

That's when it came to me. I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

I'm standing at the edge of risk. The vast immensity of responsibility was never my burden to bear alone. And also, I was never supposed to be The Mother I Want to Be. That figment of my imagination was not within my control anyway.

My children don't need that mother. They just need me, broken, vulnerable, utterly incapable me.

My children don't love me because I do a great job of propping up my put-together life. Maybe they love me unconditionally. Maybe they love me in my messiness, my disappointments, my weakness. 

And what if (scandalous thought), God wants me in my failures and brokenness? Because only when I'm in this place am I willing to surrender, to admit I can't do it all.

This is what makes me think The Mother I Want To Be needed to die. And being overwhelmed with five children was the only way for that to happen. 

This past weekend, I let her go. I let her die.

I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

And maybe, just maybe all is well.

Losing the joy of mothering

When I'm exhausted, I have no joy. There is only a great, aching void of weariness. When I get really exhausted, I stop feeling altogether. No fear, no worries, nothingness. And then, finally, I stop caring.

The house can fall to pieces, the laundry can reach the ceiling, the dishes are stacked in the sink. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Things hit a new low a few days after Barf Week when I realized I'd been stepping over the same spot of dried puke for 10 days. I'd been cleaning up vomit for so many days that I'd lost track of everything. 

I'd forgotten how many days since I last showered. I couldn't remember when I'd last brushed my teeth. My scalp ached from being in a permanent pony-tail-bun.

On that awful afternoon, I made sure everyone was safe and occupied and then I went to my room, closed all the blinds, shut off all the lights and buried myself under the quilt. My body started to shake, like a small earthquake before a volcano. And then a great explosion of tears. 

Most of it was exhaustion. But the other part--the part I'm afraid to write out-loud is: I'm grieving the mom I used to be. I've lost her. And I don't know how to get her back.

There was a time when I took great joy in baking cookies, doing crafts, going to the library, singing and playing together. 

But since the twins were born: I've lost my motivation to a slow, ruthless, crushing  exhaustion. I look at the Play-Doh and think: I don't want to clean that up. I look at the baby books and think, blasphemously: I'm utterly sick of Dr.-freaking-Seuss.

My time and attention are so sub-divided that most of the time I'm just happy to survive another day. 

The joy is gone, like it has been sucked clean out of my life. I see sweet, new moms in the park with their neat, tidily packed bags of diapers and sand toys, snacks and sunscreen. I'm envious of their joy (and their small, clean, one-child life).

Last week I opened an old photo album and flipped through pictures of myself as a young mom. All the cute little matching outfits (some of them I sewed myself!), the myriads of educational day trips, the scrapbooks filled up with sweet stories and memories.

I found an old schedule I'd written up. What efficient organization! My eldest daughter was potty-trained by 18 months. 18 MONTHS! Every birthday was a grand affair with homemade cakes, decorations and even a puppet show (written and performed by me). 

How did I go from puppet-show-performing mom to stepping-over-the-dried-puke-mom???

I'm trying to figure that out. Because my children deserve better. Because I deserve better.

Daycare is helping--it's helping more than I'd like to admit. Staying true to my diet is helping. And I'm also going into my doctor next week. I want to make sure I'm healthy; that this is nothing more than exhaustion.

And today I made one, small choice. I chose to enjoy my children, to engage them, be present in their moments. They begged me to take them to the park and play hide-n-seek together. So, we did.

On the way home, I felt something. The tiniest stirring within my heart, the whisper-soft hint of new life.

Joy?

On doing the ONE thing I said I'd never do

I hope I didn't impress anyone with my moment of silence. Because what I should have added was: I'm losing my mind and I'm taking this moment to chuck my twins into part-time daycare.

Here's why: I got hit by an absolute tsunami of exhaustion. Maybe it was Barf Week, maybe it was baseball season. Maybe it was, you know, toddler twins + 3 older kids.

Anyway, the choice was: physical breakdown or daycare? I'll take SANITY for 200, Alex.

Oh, my. Daycare is the best thing that's happened to me since the Rapture didn't happen in 1988.

For one thing, I can pee without toddlers barging in and demanding to know why "MOMMY GO POTTY ON DA TOY-YET?" For secondly, I can get a few things done without having to wait until the twins are napping. For thirds, I can actually take my own nap.

Can you imagine such freedom? It boggles the mind.

But what's weird is, it's taking forever to feel better. And by forever I mean: a whole week. I mean, I thought I'd be feeling great by now but I'm not. Apparently, I've been running on empty for quite awhile.

You can only do that for so long before your body whacks you over the head with exhaustion and says: You cannot live on fumes alone. Get help.

So, here I am practicing the ancient art of listening to my body (what the heck is that gurgling sound??) and getting help.

I also told my mother about my epiphanies.

"Mother," I said, "I've shamed our heritage. Your grandchildren are being raised by the hired help. Also? I'm not homeschooling."

My mother folded her arms over her chest, fixed me with a penetrating stare and said, "Well, good for you, sweetheart!"

I just about fell over because the world stopped spinning on its axis. My mother supports my sanity and she doesn't think I'm being selfish. 

Why does that surprise me? Only because I am my own harshest critic. I brace myself for condemnation from others and instead, I get grace. It's scandalous, really.  The people I love are kinder to me than I am to myself. They see how hard I work and they're telling me to give myself a break.

So, OK. I will. Part of this means examining some bad habits like my tendency to over-commit, flounder, cancel, feel better and then over-commit again. This needs to stop (thank you, Boundaries book).

It also means I've come up with this list of brilliant insights (ARE YOU TAKING NOTES?):

1. I have to take care of myself because,
2. Nobody else is gonna take care of me, but
3. If I don't take care of myself, then
4. Other people will have to and that's just
5. Not fair.

So, there. Now, back to bed. By my calculations, I've been sleep deprived for at least 10 years.

Barf Week is officially over! We survived!

And we couldn't be happier.
(Oh my word, this makes my heart positively hurt with happiness!)

They might be twins, but they are TOTALLY different people

I'm fully convinced that my twins have different personalities. Barf Week confirmed this.

"I fro up!" Jorie proclaimed after every incident. I think she wanted a trophy or something. She was very matter-of-fact about it. One time, after barfing in her crib, she simply removed herself to the opposite side and waited patiently until I walked in to clean her up.

"Go to da tub?" she would ask, helpfully. "Wash a hanns?"

Jorie knew her protocol. And she proceeded methodically: 1.barf 2. wait 3. inform Mama of barf 4. go to bath-tub.

Not so with Jossy. We don't call her "Little Diva" for nothing.

"NO! NO! I OK! I OK!" she would yell one second before spewing projectile vomit all over me.

"NO GO IN A TUB! NO YIKE IT! NO YIKE IT!" she shrieked when I tried to clean her up. She would stretch up her little arms and demand repeatedly: "HODE YOU ME! HODE YOU ME!"

All Jossy wanted was to be held. Non-stop. For hours. I was willing to do this but once Jorai got sick, too, things got tricky. At first, Jossy kept trying to push Jorie off my lap. NO, DISS MY MAMA!

To repay, Jorie would bop Jossy on the head. Tears all around.

Finally, I parked my butt on the couch, propped up pillows and towels around us and held both feverish, barfing babies. We stayed there for three days. 

Jossy started feeling better first. I could tell because she slid off my lap and toddled around, singing little songs to cheer up her twin: "I yuv Jor-aaaaai. I yuv Jor--a-elle!"

This did not cheer up Jorie. She barfed again.

Jossy became very intrigued with Jorie's barf.

"Ohhhh, das sicky fro up," she would comment, squatting down to poke at the steaming mass on the floor. 

"I FRO UP!" Jorie would announce. Again. "Go wash a hanns? Go wash a bankie?"

"Jossy, don't touch that throw up," I would say.

"Ohhh, my," Jossy would intone, staring intently at the No Touch Barf Pile. "Das no-no. Das sicky, sicky."

Our big excursions for the week were trips to and from the washing machine. They especially yiked it when their blankies emerged all fresh and fluffy from the dryer.

They would bury their faces in the blankies, I would lift them up and together we would sniff it.

"Das nice bankie," Jossy remarked time and again. 

And Jorie, rubbing her cheeks against her blankie would remark, "Das my bankie!"

Yes, little sweethearts. It's true.

I yike you.

Write on my heart every word

"Read? Read?" Jasiel chirps, backing herself up into my lap. She plops down with her favorite book, Goodnight Moon, and opens it. 

We've read this book so many times I can't believe she's not sick of it yet. And yet, every time she hears the story, it's like new. Like it's the first time.

It's the same thing when I push her on the swings. She throws back her head and squeals like it's a brand-new discovery, like this is the most fun ever. She entirely abandoned to the moment, enjoying herself without fear or disillusionment.

This is how I want to be.

Sometimes I wonder if it's possible. After everything I've experienced, is it still possible to abandon myself to the pure, childlike joy I once knew? 

Yes. My children remind me how.

"Je-uss luhs me, this DINO!" Jorai sings from the back-seat. I smile. She's my little song-bird and her simple song of love to Jesus helps me remember how I used to feel about Him.

Long before we develop reasoning, we know what love is. We don't have to explain it. We don't even know how. We just abandon ourselves to His love.

This morning as I sit here, tapping out my thoughts, I remember that old hymn: "Tell me the story of Jesus, write on my heart every word, tell me the story most precious, sweetest that ever was heard."

As strange and difficult as my journey through Christianity has been, one thing keeps bringing me back. It's the story that never grows old--no matter how many times I hear it. 

Stay, let me weep while You whisper,
Love paid the ransom for me.

p.s. don't forget to join me this Wednesday, Jan. 27th, for the EE Book Club discussion!