...When You're Outside the Wardrobe

I was the naysayer.  "Fine.  Try it if you want.  But they're too young.  It won't work."

Ever since Miriam was born, Nick has been dreaming of the day he could read the kids their first chapter book.  And ever since Miriam was born, that book had been determined: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  Now that Miriam was four, Noah three, and Gus one, Nick felt certain it was time.  So, after we got the kids tucked into their beds, Nick pulled out his read-aloud gear: pillows, headlight, and the book.  With one final goodnight blessing, I closed the door.  From the other room, night after night after night, I listened to murmurs coming from the bedroom.


Miriam and Noah started school!
(And I'm blessed to be teaching again.)

Each morning on the drive to school, the kids would excitedly tell me what had happened inside the wardrobe the night before.  "Peter got a sword!  And it wasn't a toy.  It was REAL!"  Noah could barely contain himself one morning. 

"We met the beavers!  They were good guys.  They made them lunch."  Miriam would then always tell me the title of the upcoming chapter. 

"Aslan knew deeper magic -- magic that the White Witch didn't even know."  They impressed me with their comprehension, and I found their literary excitement so endearing.

Then, often once a day, Gus's normal tornado of activity would dissipate.  We would go from room to room looking for him, calling him.  We found him time and again sprawled out on the bedroom floor.  Pillows underneath, headlight around his neck, and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in hand.  He'd be babbling, excitedly "reading" the book to his imaginary audience.  He, too, had been overcome by the magic of the wardrobe.



Family Beach Day, 9/2015

They just finished the book last night. And the whole time, I was standing outside the wardrobe.  I didn't experience the magic with them.  Though it was wonderful bonding time between Nick and the kids, I missed out on something pretty special.

It's been a while since I've blogged, because a little baby has turned my stomach life upside down the past twenty weeks.  The kids, however, have found great pleasure in my illness.  One morning, Miri and Noah were laughing so hard as I was throwing up in the bathroom.  "Bowser is coming!  Run, Mario!"  Apparently, I sound like King Koopa when I throw up.  Gus would run to the bathroom every chance he could: for him, it was a free piggy-back ride, where Mommy was too preoccupied to shrug him off. 

Newest Baby Hnatiuk, ETA March 2015

We're all excited to meet this new baby!  Miriam, of course, hopes it will be a sister, but quickly clarifies, "But I'll still love you if you're a boy," as she hugs my belly. 

Noah is mostly concerned with mind-boggling concepts like, "Baby, I hope you're having fun in Mommy's belly even if you don't have any toys in there." Then, "Mommy, will the baby be born with clothes on?"

Guess what's on the agenda for tomorrow?  Nick and the kids will be watching The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  Animated or live action?  Big decision!

Halloween 2015

One more of my little monster!
After Gus got his first piece of candy during trick-or-treating,
he stared in awe for about 60 seconds.  Then dropped his bucket
and took off with his piece of candy.

...When iFight the Battle

Yesterday, Miriam and Noah were at swimming lessons. Nick and I were entertaining Gus on the sidelines. Nick gave Gus his phone. Now, this might not be exactly what you're picturing. Nick didn't give Gus his phone to watch a video or scroll through pictures; he didn't let him have it to play an app or record his drooly grin. As a matter of fact, Nick gave Gus his phone so he could "talk" on it and throw it on the ground, repeatedly. The kind mother next to it kept picking up the phone and handing it back to Gus.
"Don't worry about it," Nick said politely, with a wave of his hand.

"That's a good idea," she remarked.  "I should have saved my old phone for my kid to play with.  Recycle."

My husband claims he has a flip phone because he can throw it on the ground without concern.  (However, after demonstrating this sight-to-behold too many times, his flip phone did break, and he did have to replace it... with another flip phone).  I, on the other hand, don't own a smart phone because the model I found at Target was only $15.  Apparently, AT&T stores no longer carry phones that aren't smart.

Venice Beach, July 2015

A few months ago, Nick and I had a rare and welcomed opportunity for a date night.  While at dinner, we both placed our phones on the table.  Mine, because I anxiously check my phone lest there be a child-related emergency; his, essentially to mock mine.  The waitress remarked, "Wow, I haven't seen anyone in a long time with phones like those!  But I don't even own a cell phone."  She smiled.  She was proud.  She's fighting the battle, too, and is kicking our butts.

One practical reason we've chosen to fight this battle is to reduce expenses.  (I recently learned a iPhone costs several hundred dollars, not including the monthly bills)!  However, this is our lesser motivation.  I don't want an iPhone because I want to be an eye-witness to my own life.  I'd rather not view it through a screen.  More importantly, I don't want my husband to have a smart phone because I want him to pay attention to me!  Don't get me wrong: both of use see the many, many perks of being smart phone users.  For me, it would be a grand entrance into a new world of deals and coupons!  For Nick?  Probably a toss-up between playing games and watching movies.  A smart phone offers us so, so much, and if I owned one, I know I wouldn't have the self-control to stay away... or keep my kids away.  I already waste enough time as it is.

At Skirball, June 2015

We love the liberty our "old fashioned" phones give us.  I've seen too many friends who have been distraught over losing or breaking an iPhone.  As for us, we usually don't even know where our cell phones are.  And please don't text us pictures; we can barely make them out amidst all the blur.  Group texts?  They'll freeze our phones. 

On the Fourth of July, we were at a family barbeque.  While we were watching fireworks, my lovely, little sister was preoccupied with her Snap Chatting.  (I use this term the same way my grandma might use the term "Googling."  I reckon I didn't even spell it correctly.  It probably has a trendier misspelling, like "SnappChatt."  Please inform.)  I had a rare moment of sarcasm.  "Ellie, are you going to watch or Snap Chat Nina's wedding in a few weeks?"  We all laughed, and I got my point across: enjoy the first-person, in-the-moment experience.  The constant video stream, photo-snapping, and selfie barrage must feed into the self-indulgence that already permeates our society.  The Good Lord knows that my self-indulgence does not need to be indulged. 

4th of July, 2015

We don't condemn iPhones and certainly don't look down upon those who use them.  Heck, sometimes we're jealous of all of you.  It's just a battle we've chosen to fight in hopes of creating the best environment for our family.  However, I fear my own teammate is turning against me: Nick announced the other night that he is almost ready to make The Switch.  "For work."  I call B.S.














The Switch will likely occur when we realize we don't have any pictures of Grandma and Dido's visit, Uncle Greg's stay, and, predictably, Noah's upcoming 3rd birthday.  Thank you to all our iPhone friends and family who have captured our moments for us!

... When You Wait in Joyful Expectation

Sometime ago, I invited a wonderful couple over for lunch.  They came with their first baby in tow, asleep in his car seat.  I escorted him into the "nursery," so as not to be disturbed.  Meanwhile, we enjoyed some disjointed conversation and scrambled together some meatless offerings.  Not before long, we hear a squawk coming from the nursery.  Instantly, the mother and father made delightful -- yet competitive -- eye contact, signifying that parental ESP: Who's going to greet him first?!  Me!  Me!  Me!  Then, the scampering of feet, followed by coos and kisses.

Since I missed April, here's Miri's 4th "Easter" birthday!

That's the face of God I would like to be for my children.  Waiting in joyful expectation.  Love.  Desire.  Delight.  Instead, I confess that (on Mother's Day of all days), as I was trying to cook a new steel cut oats recipe and felt all my clothing being tugged off and my legs being clawed at, I shouted, "GET OFF ME!"  At the very top of my lungs, no less.  Too often, the sounds of my waking children ignite a dreadful anticipation rather than the joyful expectation of those dawning days of motherhood.  How do I rediscover that eagerness of first-time parenting?



Miri's first time writing "the whole family."

I've experienced a lot of "firsts" these past few weeks:
1.  I traveled solo, on a plane, away from my kids for nearly 48 hours;
2.  we celebrated Gus's first birthday;
3.  I dropped Miriam off for her first day of preschool;
4.  and, I watched as Miriam took off for her first field trip...

For minutes and minutes and days and days, Miriam excitedly daydreamt of her bus ride.  To her, traveling on a bus for the first time was more adventurous than the zoo destination itself.  So, I prepared her for her big day with instructions, hugs, and a sack lunch.  At 2:15 sharp, her brothers and I pulled up at the school to watch her come off the bus. 

"Miriam!"  We embraced.  "What was more fun?  The bus ride or the zoo?"

A moment of silence.  Thoughtfulness.  Then, "The part where you came back!"  And we hugged again, this time a little bit longer.

Creating

I believe every mother remembers that moment when she first cradles her precious miracle.  For me, (especially that very first time), I experienced a transcendental moment, in which I truly felt that manifestation of Trinitarian Love.  My babies have shown me the face of God in very profound ways, and it is that very gift that I want to give back to them... over and over again, in an endless sort of way.

Do you remember that first time you saw your husband at the front of the altar?  Or when the two of you couldn't get enough of those tiny toes?  Remember when you were finally given permission to hold your NICU baby for the first time?  How about the time you got to introduce your youngest to his big brother and sister?  I do.

Baby Miri

NICU Noah

Our Wedding
 

Miriam's descent from the school bus allowed me to re-live one of those very first days.  Joyful expectation.  Love.  Desire.  Delight.



Sorry, Gus.  Couldn't find your birth pictures, but happy 1st birthday!

...When Your Life is Real

Real Life

A silent shower
only happens when
they raid the candy bowl
or shake baby powder
all over the living room floor.

The only picture we've taken all month.

In my real life
I either sweep the floor
three times a day or
walk with crumbs crunching
and gooey things oozing
underneath my soles.

Dinner is best
when Tot's working late,
because then we eat oatmeal,
or eggs...
or sometimes Frosted Flakes.

In my fake life
they say, "Yes, beautiful Mother."
Yet in my real life
I'm "Mean Mommy," and "Baby Giant"
is their brother.

But in my real life,
they don't even know who Mean Mommy is
because

Mean Mommy wouldn't read the same awful book four times in a row;
and she wouldn't make sure your Spiderman spoon was clean for every meal.
Mean Mommy wouldn't wear a crown all day, zapping you with the magic wand;
and she wouldn't build Dinosaur Land, complete with a herbivore smorgasbord.
Mean Mommy wouldn't line up all your dresses, so you could see your options for the day;
and she certainly wouldn't let you sit on her lap while she's in the bathroom.


Thankfully, my sister took this one.

So in my real life
it's sweet to remember that I was
your first word.
So delightful when you squeeze my cheeks
and give me a kiss,
just how I do to you.
So nice to hear
(when the talking won't stop)
you end your breath with:
"Mommy, I love you so much."

... When You Need Some Spring Cleaning

Spring cleaning.  Nesting.  Organizing.  Definitely unfamiliar territory for me, but certainly not for my husband.  Each time we've found out I'm pregnant, Nick's initial excitement is, "Oh, I hope you 'nest!'"  And I never do.  But this month, unpregnant and motivated to set up my marvelous birthday gift, an upright freezer, I agreed I'd handle the kids, and sent Nick outside with Clash of Kings on audiobook.  It all started in our garage and ended up with trunk-loads to Goodwill and the consignment store and is now creeping into our home. 

Dessert that was also dinner, because it was my birthday!

Nick drinks often and smokes occasionally.  I wish he wouldn't, and I tell him so.  Sometimes in a nagging way, sometimes with compassion... or comparison.  I recently found myself asserting, "You have so many vices!  Can you even name one vice that I have?"  You know, I was just finessing my ability to point out that speck.  After those words came out of my mouth, they culminated in me.  I began to see my planks, one by one, all splintered and rotting away.
 
Motherhood has a way of showing you your flaws.  Maybe it's because you're held in stark contrast with the miraculous innocence of a child.  Or perhaps looking at your children is literally like looking into a mirror.  For instance, I can't stand it when the kids cross their arms and stomp in anger, "I'm not going to do that!"... because I cross my arms and stomp in anger.  Just the other day, I overheard Noah yelling in frustration over a puzzle, "I'm so stress-ED!"... because I tell them I'm so stressed when I can't accomplish a task.  Or, maybe because children know exactly how to push you to your limits, your flaws just start falling out all over the place.  The hard truth is, in the busyness of it all, it's hard to pick those flaws off the floor and make self-improvements. 

Big Sis, Baby Bro (Feb 2015)

I'm nearly convinced that my children's favorite part of the day is bedtime prayers.  Let me clarify: they wait on the edge of their sheets for Mommy to say sorry for something naughty she's done.  It usually goes something like this, since, let's face it, our sins tend to be repetitious:
Me: Now let's all tell Jesus what we're sorry for today.
Miriam: I'm sorry for hitting Noah.
Noah: I'm sorry for throwing a fit.
Me: Jesus forgives you, because He loves you.
Chorus: MOMMY!  WHAT ARE YOU SORRY FOR?  WHAT BAD THING DID YOU DO?  MOMMY, REMEMBER WHEN YOU YELLED?  AND WHEN YOU PUSHED ME OUT OF THE WAY?  Mommy, that made me sad.

Three little monkeys... making me a better person

Their smiles are never quite as big as when I confess all of my sins, especially the ones of which they readily remind me.

I'd like to believe that this Lent will be a time for some real spring cleaning.  If blogging with a glass of wine has unraveled one paradox for me, it's this: In the tumult of caring for my children, I have no time to "fix" myself; yet, my children are the very ones who are helping me grow.  God has given me His graces, and He's also gifted me with three precious lives that are sharpening me as I sharpen them.  Let's get past that garage and into the deep self-cleansing. 

...When You're Still an Amateur

A few months ago, Nick off-handedly mentioned that the rule of thumb in any given profession is that it takes about five years to be considered an "expert."  First thought: Great, so I quit teaching right as I hit my "expert" status.  Second thought: Shoot, no wonder I suck at this mom thing!  And then the guilt: I'm making way too many mistakes on three kids before this five-year benchmark.  Finally, the self-deceit: Since it's not the number of kids that matter, but rather the number of years, at least I have a good excuse for all my shortcomings.  Until now (as in this very-typing-moment), I never even applied this to the realm of marriage.  I'll brush that one off for five more months...

Hanging with Tot, 1.19.15

So, in light of my amateur status, here is a brief summary of all the things I don't know:

I don't know how to keep three kids alive, cook three meals, and clean the house in any given day.  However, I seem to manage the first; TV helps with the second; and, only company and big holidays account for the latter.



This chubbers is already 8 months old!

I literally don't know what's wrong with me.  After a half dozen MRI's, a spinal tap, endless lab work, and a handful of neurological exams, apparently neither do the doctors.  Three different neurologists to be precise, all with different or no diagnoses, yet complete with Prozac for PPD.

I have no idea how to stop watching ER.  Yes, the ER that aired decades ago, which I am viewing now for the first time.  How did I miss this Noah Wyle heart-throb when I was in junior high?!  We're in season five out of fifteen, and I'm so addicted I feel depressed if a day goes by without squeezing in an episode.

Apparently, I don't know the names of my own children.  When I call out, "Kids, it's time for lunch!" They reply, "We're not kids!  We're Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!"  Or, "Miriam, come get dressed."  The retort, "I'm not Miriam!  I'm Izzy."  Then this happened when I dropped the kids off at MOPS daycare today:
Childcare worker: Hi, what's your name?
Noah: Blue Crayon.  (Yes, because they personify objects, too).
Me: Noah, you need to tell her your real name.
Noah: Hmph.  Fine.  Tree Fu Tom.  (Don't know who that is?  I dare you to check it out on Netflix).

I certainly don't know how to draw.  The kids are constantly breaking down in tears because my mermaid looks like a pirate sword and my pirate sword looks like a tree branch.  They're quick to remind me, "Tot's better than you.  You need to learn.  Maybe he can teach you."

Guess who drew this baby?  Miri did!

 Lastly, I don't know how to serve milk at the perfect temperature.  It's either too hot, too cold, or "just" warm.  When did my kids morph into Goldilocks?  Probably since I turned into grumpy Papa Bear...

It's easy to see all the "wrong" in a day.  Sometimes, it seems to stare you down in the mirror.  Recently, I had one moment in which all the wrong just dissipated.  Just for a moment.

We were leaving a playdate at DB's house, and I was coercing Miriam in every way possible to get into the car.  She insisted on hiding behind the bushes.  Noah began wailing, "My sister!  I lost my sister!  Where is my sister?"  Finally, Miriam ran over to the minivan.  In my frustration, I was shocked when I heard myself say, "Oh, Miriam.  I love you!"

"I know, Mama."  She bounced into the car, cowgirl boots and all.

So somehow, between all the seat-belt buckling and nail clipping, amidst the clutter of not-knowing, I got the Message across.




Christmas Eve 2015, with the kids who know I love them.