to all a good night

a very Merry Christmas

...from mine to yours...

Grandma Cyn with Dav, Azh & Aid.

santa who?

Every year every ward has a Christmas party.  And every year at every ward Christmas party, Santa comes.  At least it has been that way my whole life.  But I wasn't sure if my boys knew that as we were getting ready for our Tuesday night party at the church last week. 

So I said, "Hey guys, someone really special is coming to our Christmas party tonight."

Davyn spun around, eyes lit up, and quickly squealed, "Jesus!"

...but he still happily sat on this guy's lap later that night:

picture posted on my fridge

While big brother refused.  Adamantly.  Claiming that Santa wears glasses.  Where are his glasses, Mom?!

stacking.

it hurts like a mother.

I've been starving my baby.

Nine weeks old and the doctor's scale outed her at a measly 8 pounds 2 ounces.  Last week.

I have a younger sister who long ago adopted "mother" as a sort of curse word for pain.  My own mother was at first perturbed by the "oh mother" of her agonies, and the rest of us would just laugh it off.  But last year I watched this same sister give birth naturally and did not laugh one bit.  In my eyes she earned the right to use the word Mother in absolutely any way she desired.  The experience brought a new level to my physical pain awareness.

As mothers we ouch these babies into being, and our bodies take the toll with the stretching and bleeding and figure shifting that's all part of the deal.  It hurts. 

But nothing compares to the pain of uncertainty that accompanies the calling.  The moments of doubt.  The being slapped with your own imperfection.  The knowing that you might in fact be doing more harm than help for the tiny humans in your care.  I feel this pain when I watch Aidan's temper mirror my own.  When I speak to Davyn harshly.  When I realize I haven't bathed my children in over a week.  And, oh yeah...when I starve my baby. 

Azure is fine, will be fine.  But for her first two months I ignored the little "oh she's so tiny"'s that kept coming my way by pointing out the rolls beginning to gather on her thighs.  Of course, the rolls did exist.  In my mind.  And in the stubborn relief of believing that nursing was finally going to work out perfectly with this third baby.  But when the doctor pointed out the rolls of saggingly empty skin on her belly last week I was flabbergasted and honestly wondered how I had missed this.  I'm her mother.  I should have known. 

But I didn't.  And I consequently spent the better half of last week in self-loathing.  But finally came up with the fact that I just happen to be imperfect, distracted...human.  And that steals nothing from the fact that I love her Heart & Soul.

This is, after all, a growing job.  One that clearly points out inadequacies.  But, also one that lets me bask in creativity and laughter.  One that I do with a good man by my side.  One that will ensure my constant Striving more than any other. 

The dues of hurting like a mother are definitely worthwhile with that kind of ultimate payoff.

monogram wreath

I fell in love with some I saw on the internet.  So with a cheap S from the craft store and other supplies already on hand - gold paint, glitter spray (the photo does no justice to the in-person glitter glow), and a bit of brown ribbon - I fancied up our winter wreath. 

Oh that all makeovers were so inexpensive and Glorious!