My Baby is Not a Burrito

Imagine this scenario. Eight weeks pregnant, feeling like a bloated, nauseous beast and basically just trying to keep my life together. For the past three weeks my new best friend had become the big green bowl that I carried with me everywhere I went. I’ve been elated and felt blessed to have a new little life growing inside me, but man this kid has been kicking my butt. Obviously my husband has known from the beginning about this pregnancy, but our two kids still didn’t know that there was another sibling in their future. They just thought “mommy was feeling a little sick and needed some prayers.”

One evening when I had just reached the eight week mark, I was cleaning up the remnants of dinner and decided that the shirt I had been wearing for the last 48 hours was in desperate need of changing. I felt a slight twinge of annoyance (and a little guilt) because I realized that since I had been riding the morning sickness train so much lately, I was almost completely out of clean clothes. Who has time to keep up on laundry when you’re just trying to keep your oatmeal down? I figured there had to be at least something I could put on so I huffed and puffed my way up the stairs to my room. I threw open my drawer of t-shirts and found it almost completely empty. I quickly scanned my options and hesitantly picked up a plain red baby-tee and stared at it for a moment. I was hesitating because I knew it would fit a little tight. In my current state of baby-growing, I was in that awkward middle ground where it sort of looked like I might have an emerging pregnant mound OR a complete stranger may have easily thought that I just really like to eat burritos and cheeseburgers. You couldn’t exactly tell yet if it was a food baby or a real baby. I had been trying to wear looser fitting shirts lately so that my daughter wouldn’t start to grow suspicious about my stomach getting bigger. So, I wasn’t all too excited about wearing this shirt that I knew would emphasize my recent weight gain. We still had two whole weeks before we planned on telling her. As I continued to stare at the shirt I thought that I was probably just overreacting. She’s only four. She’s probably not paying attention to my belly. I quickly changed into the red shirt that I knew would hug my baby bump just a little too tight and then slowly met my reflection in the mirror. Confirmation. This shirt made me look pregnant. As my mind flashed back to those first “belly pics” I took when I was pregnant with Grace, I realized that the way my eight week belly was currently looking was more like my 18 week belly pic with her. My how things change the third time around. I stood there staring and my protruding mid-section and decided in that moment that I could either let this be something that got me down, or I could laugh about it and embrace the fact that I’m not in my twenties anymore. The first time I got pregnant my stomach muscles were actually in descent shape. Somewhat tight, not over-stretched by the pressure of an eight pound human. This time it was as if my stomach said to the rest of my body “Oh? This again? Meh why even try to hold it together?” and then it raised its figurative white flag and completely gave up. Imagining my stomach with a lazy personality somehow made me feel better. It actually made me chuckle a little to myself. Tis the season for growing babies and having ab muscles that just totally give up. 

As I marched back downstairs after having given myself a pretty good self-esteem pep talk, I passed by my daughter, Grace. She looked stunned as I rounded the corner to the kitchen and halted all conversation by throwing her hands up in the air and proclaiming, “OH Mom! Look!” I paused and said, “Look at what sweetie?” She ran over to me and put her hand on my belly. I froze and felt speechless because I realized what was going to come out of her mouth next and I had no idea how I was going to respond. She then blurted, “MOM! Your tummy!” Next she pursed her lips to the side in a matter-of-fact sort of way and said definitively, “I think you got a baby in there Mom. Because, look at how big your tummy is! Yep. You gots a baby in there.” My eyes about bugged out of my head and I suddenly heard the muffled laughter of my husband who was standing five feet away. My glance shot over to him with a look of “Please help me NOW!” but all I saw was a man holding the collar of his shirt over his face to try and hide the fact that he was totally losing it over our daughter’s allegations. He finally met my eyes and I had to nearly pinch myself to keep from erupting with laughter. I pressed my lips together dramatically as I tried not to panic. We weren’t ready to tell the world yet about the baby, and if we told my daughter then the world would surely know about it. I didn’t want to lie to her though so I went for the classic “Oh..wouldn’t that be cool? Hey look we still have some cookies from yesterday! Do you want a cookie?”  Maybe not the best method, but hey, it worked. She bounced away down the hallway, cookie in hand, and the talk about a baby being in my belly ceased. 

I feel so relieved to have made it to the ten week mark. Now my girl knows all about the real reason why my belly is getting bigger and I no longer have to distract her with cookies to keep her from talking about it. Right after our kids found out about the baby I overheard my husband explaining to them that this baby means that Mom might need more help around the house. When I walked over to them in the middle of this conversation Grace was beaming and said, “Mom! Daddy says we can help you by putting our dishes in the sink and helping you clean because your tummy is going to get SO HUGE! Is your tummy going to get really big Momma?” I smiled down at her as I relished the joy that was emanating from her. She was so purely happy about us having another baby, and she was already feeling proud of herself for knowing that it means we might ask more of her. I chuckled and pulled her close as I said, “Hon, I will definitely need more help and yes, my tummy is going to get huge.” 

Cheers to the season of growing a baby. I like to joke about some of the unpleasant side effects (like abs that give up on you) but really, this is such an amazing journey. I’m honored to be on it …even if I can’t find a clean shirt that fits. 

Blessings,

Shantastic

P.S. If you missed last week’s post, surprise! I’m expecting baby number 3! You can get caught up here ——> My Baby is a Kumquat and find out what made us want to jump on this roller coaster one last time! 

My Baby Can Heal the Flu

This week I was scrolling through Facebook and I saw it was the 20th anniversary of the release of the first Harry Potter book. Images of a boy with a lightning scar flooded my newsfeed and my mind was transported back to the winter of 2001 when I was first introduced to the infamous book series. That winter was one of the hardest of my life and those books helped create memories of light during a dark and uncertain time. In the fall of 2000 my close-knit family (my mom, dad, and older brother) was shaken to the core by a cancer diagnosis. My mom, who is an eternal ray of metaphorical sunshine, found out she had breast cancer. I was only 15 years-old at the time, stuck in that delicate balance of adolescence and adulthood. When my mom told me the news, many of the thoughts that ran through my mind were, ‘can this really be happening’ and ‘I thought only other people got cancer’. Without our approval, we were all forced to enter a world where cancer is real. And it was scary. We had zero warning and no practice, yet we had to try to navigate the new terrain of a life-threatening disease and wrestled with the uncertainties that it held. I am incredibly thankful to be able to say that the story of my mom having breast cancer has a happy ending. But, it was not absent of pain, tears, and a whole lot of fear. 

After medical consults from top notch doctors, they decided the course of treatment would be a lumpectomy followed by radiation and then dreaded chemotherapy. As with most chemotherapy patients, the treatments wore her out pretty badly. All she could do for a couple days afterward was lie on the couch only getting up to use the restroom. She would mostly sleep and read while the time passed and her body tried to recover from everything it had endured. One day during one of her off weeks of treatment, she told me that a friend of hers had dropped off a book that was part of a series. She then asked me if I had ever heard of the Harry Potter books. I told her no and she said she was going to read the first book while she recovered from her next treatment. This new routine had taken over our lives and we all tried to settle into the new pattern of having her be sick after a chemo session. I  tried to stay positive, but eventually I began to get restless as I tried to figure out ways I could help her or at least be some sort of comfort. 

One afternoon I aimlessly wandered into the living room where she was dozing on the couch. It wasn’t unusual to find her resting there. That spot on the couch had become her quiet safe haven. I hesitantly sat down in the chair on the other side of the room and watched her for a moment, selfishly missing the days when we would talk for hours while we shopped at our favorite thrift shops and ate bagel sandwiches for lunch. I wanted to be mature and support her any way I could, but the kid that was still in me just wanted my mom back. But, even more than that, the adult version of myself that was beginning to form truly wanted to be helpful for her. How does a sophomore in high school help her mom as she endures painful and agonizing chemotherapy treatment? As I contemplated what I could do to alleviate her burden, I watched her chest move up and down with slow, even breaths. I paused as I watched her lay there, alive, and quietly thanked God for the simple fact that she was still breathing. I thought she was asleep but after a moment she opened her eyes, most likely having felt my presence staring at her. Then she slowly and intentionally pulled back her knees so that the end of the couch was clear. I wasn't quite following what she meant so she pointed the top of her head to the empty side of the couch. She wanted me to lie down on the couch with her. She was inviting me into her sanctuary. 

And so we found a rhythm within our new circumstances. I would come home from school, quietly plop my backpack on the floor and immediately walk over to where I knew my mom would be. If she was awake, she always shifted her legs at the sight of me to make room. If she was asleep I would carefully climb over her feet and wedge myself into the spot between the couch and her curled up body. Shortly after I joined her that first day, I saw book one of the Harry Potter series laying on the floor next to her (she had already moved on to book two). She saw me glance at the book, quietly handed it to me, and I read. I would come home from school and we would read, together. It was such an overwhelming relief to once again have something that was ours. Sometimes I would hear her burst out laughing at a certain part in the book and she would try to say between cackles 'When you get to the Whomping Willow part, <chuckle> let me know’. Other times I would begin to blurt out some realization from the latest plot reveal and look over at her to see she had drifted off to sleep with her current book resting on her chest. In those moments I would relish the warmth emanating from her feet as they rested under my legs. I hoped that our afternoons together were somewhat helpful. I hoped they made her feel less alone. 

After a long and grueling winter, the inevitable new life of spring came bounding forward. And for our little family we celebrated the new life of my mom, because cancer had been beaten and her life was given back to her. Now more than 15 years has passed and when I see a Harry Potter book on a shelf, my heart feels a little more full because I remember that gift of time I was given with my mom. 

This past winter I caught a nasty strain of the flu and was stuck in a horizontal position for quite a few days. One afternoon my four-year-old daughter came quietly tip-toeing over to me as I was on the couch to ask if quiet time was over. I thought maybe this would be a perfect opportunity to invite her into the tradition my mom and I have of sharing a couch. She had my Kindle in her hands with hopes that I would agree to letting her play a game. I grinned at her little face and pointed to the opposite end of the couch. I told her that is how I always shared the couch with my mommy but she glanced to the end of the couch and assertively shook her head no. She then said 'Umm no thanks. I'm gonna be here right next to you. Can you scoot over a little bit?' I couldn't stifle the chuckle that rose from my belly because I remembered that even though my usual spot with my mom was the opposite end of the couch, there were also a couple times when I crawled in next to her too. Because even though I was a 15-year-old teenager, I was still just someone’s baby.

So, my daughter and I rested there together for a sweet bit of time, her elbow digging into my side and the annoying sound of her little kid game filling my ears and assuring that I would most definitely not be sleeping anymore. And I was content. After a few minutes she started to squirm and get uncomfortable so she eventually stood up and took her spot on the other end of the couch. I showed her how to curl her feet so that they tucked up under my legs and we stayed there together for the rest of the afternoon. Even though my body felt rotten, the nearness of my daughter had made the burden of illness on my soul feel so much lighter.

Maybe lying on the couch with my mom all those years ago actually helped her more than I ever realized. 

I love you Momma. 

Blessings,

Shantastic

Instagram ----> Find me over @TotallyShantastic

Follow by Email ------> Top right corner! Get new posts sent to your email. (Unsubscribing is easy if you change your mind.)

My Babies Totally Don't Get It

Everyone has those moments in life. When you have reached adulthood and you suddenly freeze because you realize you just did something that was EXACTLY like one of your parents. For some people this causes them to shudder and essentially freak out, but thankfully not for me. I never set out to purposefully not turn into my parents. They’re pretty amazing people. Many of the things I learned from having them as my parents were very easy to engrain into my own life because they are simply fundamental. Unconditional love, making family a priority, the importance of quality time and all that good mushy stuff just naturally came out of living life as their kid. 

A lot of the things they tried to teach me totally made sense, such as kindness and respect. Other things I didn’t quite comprehend because they were adults and I was just a kid. I remember I never understood my dad’s tradition of making my brother and I give him a little peck on the cheek if we wanted something. I would come bounding into the room blurting out a request and before he would start to get up from his chair he would just barely lean his cheek toward me and slowly reach up one finger to tap the side of his face. He didn't even have to say anything because we knew what he meant. In our childhood impatience we would sigh, run over and give him a quick kiss and then start bouncing again while we asked if NOW he would complete our request. Nearly every time we directly asked him for something, to get the sprinkler out or to have a snack, without fail he would just tap his cheek and we knew. I remember completely not understanding how in the world a kiss on the cheek from me could be payment for spending two hours chasing us around the yard with the hose while we hooted and giggled. 

As the kid, I didn’t understand it. Now, I do. 

This time I’m the parent. Once my daughter reached an age in which she knew and understood what kisses were, I caught myself doing the exact same thing my dad had done so many years ago. My little girl came sprinting over to me to ask if we could play with bubbles, and without even thinking I smirked at her, raised my finger up to my cheek and pointed. The moment my finger hit my cheek I paused and thought, wow, like father like daughter. In the case of continuing super sweet and simple family traditions, I was choosing to have my apple not fall far from the tree. As Grace stared at me with a very confused look on her face, I prompted her again with another tap to my cheek and said, “a kiss please”. She saw this as the quickest way to get what she wanted so she obliged and went on her way. She totally didn’t get it. But suddenly, I knew why my dad had done that for all those years.

Getting kisses on the cheek from your kids is pretty much the sweetest thing in the world. You spend what feels like forever with this baby that you love SO MUCH and the baby literally can’t do anything except eat, poop, and sleep. And then, one day that kid can magically give you a kiss and somehow your heart is filled to the brim just by feeling their little wet lips on your cheek. It’s the best.

So, I have continued my dad’s tradition with Grace and then even passed it on to Emmett when he got old enough. He has caught on to the point where he even includes the kiss in his request. “Hey MomMom can you get my down from this slide? I give you kiiiisss!” And obviously, sometimes they are just not up for my silly requests to get kisses on the cheek. And that’s ok. I’ll never force them to do it, but if they’re in a happy mood I want them to know how much I cherish their affection. 

Dad, I get it now. And I know now that you didn't need the kisses in order to motivate you to do those fun things for us (like chase us around the yard with the hose). You did it because you wanted to. And you asked for those sweet little kisses from your kids because you wanted those too. I promise Dad, I'll never be too old to give you a kiss on the cheek. All you have to do is ask. 

Blessings,

Shantastic 

I took this photo a couple months ago when my husband had gone out of town and my mom came up to visit. I’m pretty sure she would agree that Emmett gives some of the best cheek kisses in the entire world. I mean, look at those puckered lips. You definitely can never say anything bad about his level of commitment when it comes to kisses on the cheek. 

My Baby Almost Broke my Toe

When people see Grace and me in public, they often chuckle as they ask me, “Is she always so energetic?” I can tell they are assuming that she must just be in an exceptionally good mood or particularly excited about the current events, but I always smile back and raise my eyebrows as I say, “Yes. Yes she is…always.” There are times when it really is so endearing. She'll be trying to tell me a story and she has to pace around in a circle (just like her dad) while her hands fly in the air giving life to her creative retelling of that day’s events (that part’s all me). Those are the times when I don't mind her source of boundless energy. I try to let those memories sink into my heart so that I'll have something to grab onto when her inability to stand still starts to wear on me.

As I mentioned last week, I just came home from a glorious, quiet, and STILL vacation. After having a week away from my kids, I knew I would have to spend some time rebuilding my tolerance level for certain things. The noise, the endless questions, and the never-ceasing movement. These things are largely just part of the deal. Kids are loud, they ask 100 million more questions than you want them to, and they’re always moving. However, with my daughter I sometimes feel like perhaps she was given an extra dose of noise, movement, and an overall zest for life. She’s the kind of person who runs around the living room doing laps and screaming, “MOM BOUGHT ME NEW TOOOOOOOTHPASTE!!” …So you see my struggle right? On the one hand I’m like, wow, what a gift it is to be so genuinely happy about the tiniest little thing. And the other half of me is frantically waving my arms in the air to try and get her attention and tell her to bring it down a notch. 

Shortly after we returned from our trip it was time step back into the normal routines of our lives. My husband headed off to work and I stared down at my little munchkins and realized there would likely be very little reading and crocheting that day. Since it was my first day “back at work”, how do you think my children were choosing to behave? Mmm. Yes. Lots of screaming, crying and me having to yell just so they could hear my voice above their own. I had decided the night before that we would go do something fun (brand new park complete with splash pad) so as they were attempting to upset the other in any way humanly possible, I was trying to shuffle them out the door. 

As we were finishing up getting ready, I finally convinced Grace that she needed to meet me in my bathroom so that I could put her hair into a ponytail. She (of course) shot away from me like a bullet, propelled herself into my room and then rounded the corner to throw herself into the bathroom. I followed quickly behind her and was planning on shutting us both in the bathroom. I knew that if I didn’t do this she would undoubtedly take off flying down the hallway the second I picked up the brush (remember, boundless energy). I turned into the doorway of the bathroom at the exact moment she decided that I must not have made it there fast enough and she would make her grand escape right then and there. As her shoe slammed into my toes I gasped for breath as I felt the crushing blow of a toenail completely breaking off. I instinctively threw my arms out onto my bed and stood there trying to breathe as the pain shot through my entire foot. I could hear her behind me shouting “SorrySorrySorry!!” which for some reason just made me even more annoyed. I could feel my patience completely shatter as I let out a guttural “UGHHHHHH!” up into the air. That obviously wasn’t a smart move because it released more emotions than I intended, and before I could stop myself I turned to her and said very sternly, “NO RUNNING IN THE HOUSE!” I felt regret smack me in the chest before I had even finished. I immediately starting walking towards her as her face succumbed to the tears and pain she felt for hurting me. I told her I was sorry for raising my voice but she didn’t hear me. She threw her head up towards the ceiling and cried out, “I don’t want you to be mad at meeee.” I dropped down to her level and gently laid my hands on her shoulders. I waited a moment for her to look into my eyes and said, “Sweetie, I’m sorry I yelled. I’m not mad at you.” We hugged it out and like many kids, she recovered quickly by drawing in huge gusts of air and asking to see my ‘really bad owie.” I let her watch as I carefully cleaned my wound and then we both walked out of the bathroom together. 

About ten minutes later she was standing next to me while I changed my son’s diaper. As I finished helping him to his feet, I kept hold of his hands and slowly pulled him towards me for a hug. He obliged and I soon felt Grace’s arms swoop around both of us. She laid her head on Emmett’s shoulder and the three of us stood there silently enjoying each other’s embrace. Eventually, I giggled and whispered, “My babies.” and she replied, “Best mommy in the whole world.” My heart immediately twinged with pain because I thought, I don’t deserve that. I was clearly being a B- mom that day with my lack of patience and emotional outburst. 

But she said what she felt. She was choosing to see the best in me, to let the good outweigh the bad. 

None of us are perfect. We’re all just trying to be the best moms (and dads) we can for our kids. Somehow, at such a young age, my beautiful little girl can see that even though I make mistakes, I really am trying to be what she needs me to be. 

I’m going to choose to celebrate how she can find so much joy in such a small thing like a new tube of toothpaste. 

Here’s to trying to teach her to be the kind of person who can run and bounce throughout her life WITHOUT accidentally hurting people, and to not totally losing my cool when she (inevitably) loses control. 

And hey, toenails grow back, right? 

Blessings,

Shantastic

My Babies' Mom was on Vacation

Dinners that were uninterrupted. Conversations that got to be finished. Paddleboat rides and reading almost exactly one half of a 700 page book. Yes my friends, I have been blessed. I just spent the last 6 days with my husband. Without our kids. At a cabin in a town where we didn't know a single soul. My introverted heart was doing fist pumps for nearly a week straight.

When we left for our trip, Seth asked if I would miss the kids and then laughed while he answered his own question with a 'Nahh you probably won't.' He wasn't being mean by saying this, because he was right. For the most part. I did miss them from time to time and pictured seeing their faces. When we FaceTimed I couldn't suppress the longing I felt to kiss their skin. But getting a break like this from parenthood is rare, and I cherished every single second of it. As I've hinted in a few previous posts, I've been itching for a break from my 24/7 job. My four-year-old is starting to outgrow her quiet time (my one moment of peace during the day) and my two-year-old is a two-year-old. There’s not much I have to do to explain the exhaustion that comes with that. I choose to stay home with them and I really do feel completely blessed to be able to do that. But I've found that one of the tricky parts is you never quite feel like you've left your job. Your work shift doesn't end at 5 or 6 o' clock. It just keeps on going until bedtime. And even then you've got the disasters from the day staring you in the face and trying to tempt you to keep working instead of rest. I also know that when you work outside the home there can be a similar struggle because you just trade one work environment for another. Sure you're probably very excited to see your kids when you get home from work. Perhaps you smile wide as they greet you at the door with their excited squeals. Then, maybe they show you the art project they made in school with pride beaming in their eyes and as they run off down the hallway giggling you smile to yourself and think, my gosh I have been blessed. But then, four minutes later you hear one of them screaming and the other is crying because someone grabbed someone else's dinosaur, and you are reminded that work is not over yet. Parenthood really is a full time gig. 

After five years of being everything as often as I could be, I was starting to feel a bit weary as I continued to love and parent my children. I was a battery that was slowly losing its ability to recharge. Even though I've tried to find little pockets to breathe, this trip was just such a relief. As soon as the plans were set, I finally allowed myself to feel just how much I had been longing for a chance to set down my responsibilities. It was like I had been holding my breath and only just now realized how much my lungs were crying for more air to be let in. I had been in denial about how much I wanted a break because yours kids are your kids, and there’s isn’t a break from that. 

Our miraculous ten year anniversary trip came to be because one of my closest friends agreed to do a trade with me. I provided my business services to her for a job she needed done, and she gave us the keys to her family’s gorgeous cabin that rests on an open body of water. When I wrote to my mother-in-law asking her if she and my father-in-law would be willing to watch the kids for six days, she answered back with the most beautiful word I had ever seen… “Sure.” Those four letters solidified that my dream for a break was becoming a reality. 

For six glorious days, my husband and I got to talk each other without being interrupted 57 thousand times. We ate our food in peace. I took a nap one day in the middle of the afternoon simply because my busy schedule of going on the paddleboat and then reading was just.too.exhausting. This past week my schedule and routine has been quite different from the norm. I've been on my first real vacation with my husband since our honeymoon ten years ago. I've gotten to sit and READ A BOOK in the middle of the afternoon. Instead of scraping dried yogurt off the counter I got to be transported to a different world in a different time. My inner monologue throughout the week sounded less like a parent and more like a girl who was immensely enjoying her gift of rest. Instead of analyzing the most recent temper tantrum and trying to figure out how I could be a better Mom the next time, I talked to myself about whether or not I should eat a snack before I went to go sit on the dock. 'Hmm yes, Shan. I think casually nibbling on these strawberries while the breeze tickles your arms is a great way to spend your time before you go dangle your feet in the water.' 

Our vacation is over now and I’m going to be completely honest with you. The first few hours back home were rough. It was probably just the shock of it all. I was excited to see my babies, but after having such a long break to just be myself, suddenly being thrust back into parenthood reminded me of all the little things I have had to give up along the way. It took 45 minutes to finish my oatmeal this morning and I hadn’t even started drinking my coffee. The kids were amped up because Mom and Dad were back and they just didn’t know how to process it. There was a lot of screaming and I had to swallow my impatience as I reminded them to use their inside voices. It had only been a few hours and I was already longing for the quietness of my vacation. As I poured my coffee, I hid my face to make sure my kids didn’t see the tears that were starting to form in my eyes. I missed being at the cabin with my husband. Where everything was quiet and we could just be. 

But then a few minutes later when I peeked my head in the laundry room trying to figure out why my daughter was being so quiet, I saw her curled up in the corner on top of the picnic blanket. We silently gazed at each other for a moment and then I slowly lowered myself down to her level. I kissed the top of her arm and gently nuzzled my face into the crease of her neck. Just breathing her in. She barely moved as she brought her free arm up and tucked it around my waist, pulling me a little closer. As I lay there in that perfect moment I thought, yes Lord, this is it. This is why we gladly give up the little luxuries of eating our oatmeal in peace. It’s because what we have in front of us is so heartbreakingly beautiful. To literally watch life grow and evolve in front of us is a precious gift. A great blessing. 

Vacations are fun. But my life...is here. 

Blessings,

Shantastic

My Babies Need me to Lock Myself in my Room

Wednesday afternoon is one of my favorite times of the week. It’s the day I finish that week’s blog post and I look forward to it. I jot down ideas and snippets throughout the week and then on Wednesday I take a little time to fit all the pieces together. My daughter is usually with her grandma on Wednesdays, so in the afternoon while my boy sleeps I get uninterrupted TIME. It's beautiful you guys. I usually work on tasks for my business with my music turned all the way up. And then during my last little chunk of being child-free, I make sure my blog post is ready to go. 

Beautiful, glorious Wednesdays. 

However, last week my mother-in-law (aka angel on Earth) left for a two week trip to visit her parents. My gosh, I had not fully realized how much my sanity relies on those Wednesday afternoons. They had become the ‘battery recharge’ for my introverted mind. So, Grandma was gone and her trip coincided with a week's worth of rain (which creates kids with cabin fever) and my husband pulling a couple extra 12 hour days. All of these things lining up at the same time were not the end of world. It was nothing too terrible, it just made for one tuckered out stay-at-home mom. 

And that brings us to this Wednesday. Grandma was still gone, so I thought I would take the kids to a new park. My hope was that they would wear themselves out and be ready to rest in the afternoon. I even chased them and did the whole 'run from the mommy tickle monster' thing until I couldn't breathe. Between my gasps for more oxygen, I glanced at my clock and saw it was almost nap time. I hoped the kids were tired but I also thought about how tired I was. Not just from chasing them at the park, but so completely worn out overall. As I sat down to try and catch my breath, I realized it was Wednesday and that meant finishing my blog post. I quickly prayed and asked God to give me the final piece that was missing from the post I had been working on. But instead of hearing an idea that perfectly answered my question, I just felt tired. I whispered to the Lord that what I really wanted to do was rest. As soon as the word ‘rest’ left my thoughts, I felt the Lord nudge me and say, “Yes.” I brushed it away because I am a task-oriented person. If I have a task that needs finishing I don’t like to rest until it’s done. Besides, I was sure that this trip to the park would secure me an easy transition into an afternoon of quiet office time. I convinced myself that once I was in front of my computer I would be able to get in the zone and finish my checklist.

I had given them their five minute warning about it being time to go. Instead of being the perfectly behaved children I had hoped for, they completely lost their minds. My son, who rarely full-out defies me, started to walk towards the car, then glanced back at the playground and took off laughing while he yelled 'I NO LEAVE DAAA PAAAAAAWK!!' My daughter saw him in a rare act of defiance and decided to let it fuel her response. If he was going to take on the unanticipated portrayal of the misbehaving bandit, then she wasn't going to miss her opportunity to be the Bonnie to his Clyde. It wasn't pretty you guys. I had to use my 'Mommy is tiiiiicked' voice. Buddies were taken away and threats to never come to a park ever again were issued. 

The second I got them settled for nap and quiet time I didn’t even realize I was walking like a zombie into my bedroom. The complete opposite direction of my office. I saw my cozy bed beckoning me and immediately plopped myself down. My mind was fried. My heart was tired. As I lay there trying to muster up the energy to go downstairs and accomplish something, I saw my Kindle sitting on my nightstand. Then I felt that word from the Lord tug on my heart again, “rest.” It was then that I remembered the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy had gone unwatched for days. Suddenly I became compelled to find out how they were going to handle the whole fugitive sets himself on fire and causes explosion therefore trapping Dr. Edwards and a little girl behind a wall of fire. Absolutely and completely ridiculous drama-filled entertainment. But you know what else it could be called? Self care. And my mind and heart were craving 42 minutes of it.

My little girl spent the first 19 minutes coloring in her room and the rest of it sitting outside my door playing with her ridiculously loud toy computer and knocking on my door 27 times. Once the doctors saved the day and the credits rolled, my 42 minutes were up. It’s so amazing what that little bit of time did for my soul. Now I was ready to engage her with a rested heart. And I know I was a better mom for her the rest of the day as opposed to the version I would have been if I hadn't taken that break. 

Whatever rest looks like for you, I encourage you to do it. Being Super Mom (or Super Dad) doesn't mean taking care of everyone else and neglecting yourself. Even superheroes have their bat caves and fortresses of solitude. I know it's hard. Some days it's just not possible and sometimes you do have to power through. But, maybe, just look for those moments of opportunity.  Give the mommy/daddy guilt a swift kick to the stomach and put on a movie for your kids so you can take a bath, read a chapter of your book, or eat the last cookie without having to share it with your kids. 

When you’re taking care of everyone else, don’t forget to take care of yourself too. 

What do you do for self care? Is it something you need to do more? 

Blessings,

Shantastic :)

Instagram- @TotallyShantastic

Follow by email- Top right corner

My Baby Has a Mickey Mouse Chair

Tick Tock. The seconds pass. Minutes fly by in a blur. The last four and a half years have whizzed by as my daughter, Grace, has barreled her way through each passing day. In the fall her future includes a year of preschool, and then in 2018…she will be gone. She’ll nosedive out of my nest, wings ablaze, and probably won’t even need to say goodbye as she runs into her Kindergarten classroom. She’s amazing. As school has begun to feel more like a concrete certainty and less like some elusive thing “off in the future”, I started to reflect on how I will feel about the years I got to have her home with me. Will I wish for more days? Will I have any regrets about how I spent my time with her? 

The moment the word regret popped into my mind, I flashed back to the days when I had been trying to get work done in my office and shushed her to be quiet. As I mentioned in a previous post ---> "My Babies Swallowed Me,"  I run a small business from home. My office is my sacred space that is devoted to doing work I love. It nourishes my introverted heart and mind. To be able to put my kids down for their naps and have that little bit of time to pour into something creative feeds my soul. But, when Grace stopped napping, I had to transition her into doing a “quiet time” in her room. Then around the time when she celebrated her fourth birthday, I began hearing footsteps outside my sanctuary and a gentle knock on the door asking me if quiet time was over. So, one afternoon in a moment of desperation, I went into the playroom and dragged her child-sized Mickey Mouse table into my office. I knew that since I had just closed to door to her room for quiet time, she would inevitably come peeking out about 12 minutes later. 

Insisting that she go back to her room could have been an option. But I didn’t want our days together to be spent with me yelling at her to go back into her room until she cried (because that had already happened a couple times). I realized that this was just part of the deal. She was growing up and I needed to figure out a way to evolve. The afternoon when I dragged her table into my office was a day when I absolutely needed to get some work done. I figured she could play with some puzzles or color a picture while I met my deadlines. Sure enough, less than 20 minutes after her quiet time had started, she poked her head around the corner and saw her table in my office. She exploded like a firework in July. “MOMMY!! Did you put my Mickey Mouse table in your office?” Then the bouncing started as she screamed, “Can I work in your office with you?” I figured she was so excited just because I had finally allowed her into a once-forbidden space. She was elated. And so our new phase began where I had a four-year-old coworker by my side. 

I tried to be as welcoming as I could. Some days I had it in me to swallow my own desires of having a child-free moment and some days I really struggled. I tried to make sure to remember to set out different activities for her to do, but there were many moments where I had to shush her and remind her that Mommy needed to get her work done. Sometimes I resorted to letting her watch Netflix on my Kindle and, of course, felt guilty about it.

So when the idea of regrets began floating around in my head, I wondered if that time spent in my office would evolve into being a full blown regret of mine. Should I have played with her more? Should I have figured out a different way to get my work done? In my more anxious moments, I felt my heart sink as I worried that those afternoons in my office of me telling her to stop talking would be the only thing she would remember from our years together. As my busy season wrapped up, I thanked God that my work has times in the year when it halts. I also prayed and asked God to redeem the time that I felt had been lost. I wanted this next season of life to be full of awesome moments that she would remember forever. I wanted her to forget the office days. 

So when I officially finished my busy season, I was the one bouncing this time. I couldn’t wait to spend these afternoons with her while her brother napped. We were going to make cookies, play games, and I wasn’t going to be weighed down with mommy guilt anymore. I was going to be super awesome fun mommy now. As she timidly raised her eyebrows and asked if quiet time was over I replied, “Yes! And guess what!! We’re going to make chocolate chip cookies today!!” She immediately jumped back with a look of confusion on her face. “What? NO. I don’t want to do that Mom.’ She said definitively. “Oh. Ok..” I said surprisingly. I quickly tried to think of a fun activity that I normally didn’t want to take the time to do. “OH what about painting? Do you want to paint with me?” “No” she responded. I tilted my head and asked her, “Really? Ok..what do you want to do?” She took no pause as she declared. “Mom. I WANT to go work in your office with you.” I just stood there, dumbfounded. “You want to go work in my office?” She shook her head yes. I was still stunned as I asked, “You…like working in my office with me?” “Yes Mom! Come on! Let’s go!” And she took off skipping down the hallway. 

She loved it. She loved working in my office with me. When I moved her table into my office, to me it was just a kid-sized desk that was now taking up space in my precious haven. But to her, I was opening up a piece of myself and inviting her into it. My office, which had once been deemed as a “childless space” now had a reserved spot just for her. Not her brother, not my husband. It’s our time for just us. I had no idea she viewed it that way. God answered my prayers for redemption even more completely than I ever anticipated. I wanted him to redeem our future, but He went a step further and redeemed our past. 

Even though I still find myself craving my own quiet time in my office, I just know the day when she heads off to school I’ll sit in my office weeping at the sight of that stupid, empty, Mickey Mouse chair. She loves sitting in that chair. And I had no idea. 

If you’re like me and you tend to be a bit too hard on yourself, just breathe. You’re probably doing better than you thought you were. 

Blessings,

Shantastic

******************************************

Have you ever had a moment similar to this? Perhaps when you felt like a lazy parent for letting your kid eat macaroni and cheese with cut up hot dogs and then found out it was her favorite meal she’s ever had?? Let’s hear it! Comment below or find me on Instagram @TotallyShantastic !!

FOLLOW BY EMAIL: Enter your email address in the box on the top right to get new posts sent directly to your inbox! Your address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time!

My Baby Did Something Gross

And the award for best (aka worst) parenthood story goes to….

When we were pregnant with Grace, one of our friends gave us some great advice about how to approach parenthood as a couple. She said, “Don’t keep score with your spouse.” She went on to explain that parenthood is not a situation where you and your spouse are competing or keeping score. Like, if you were the one who was home when your infant projectile vomited all over your church outfit and you had to clean it up by yourself, you can’t hold that over your spouse’s head and be like, “Now you have to change the poops for a week.” Parenthood is messy and we all get our fair share of having to be the cleaner-upper. It could have easily been Seth who ended up being 25 minutes late to church because he had to change his outfit at the last minute and then realized that the outfit Grace just threw up all over was the last clean “church outfit” he had that fit his post-pregnancy body…But it wasn’t him was it. It was me. And you know what? That’s not his fault. 

But on the other side of it, I can say with a proud sense of accomplishment that I have never been peed on by one of my kids. There’s been the occasional leak that seeped out onto my pants (that time it happened when I was AT church…) but he’s the one who has gotten the bare bottom spray of pee all over his shirt. Miraculously enough, he’s also the only one who has gotten the privilege of cleaning up all the bathtub poops. It’s fine though because since I stay home with them that means I get to do all the daytime poopies, so we’re good. We’ve got a good balance and know how to “take one for the team”.

We tried to take my friend’s advice and not keep score in an unhealthy way. However, we were still able to joke with one another if we ever felt like we needed just a little acknowledgement or credit for the most recent gross thing we had to do. For example, there was a time right before Christmas when I was about to walk out the door and enjoy un-interrupted adult alone time. I had barely taken one step outside the frame of the door when I heard Seth cry out from the bathroom that he had yet another bathtub full of poop. I hesitantly turned back in toward the house (the poop-filled side) and as I was about to offer to stay back and help, he popped his head around the corner and said with an overdramatic flare, “Just go babe. Just go.” He knew that we would be joking about it for the next week and that he had been the hero to take the fall alone while I got to go eat Chick-Fil-A waffle fries ALL BY MYSELF. So, I made sure to give Seth some much deserved credit for tackling PoopGate 2016 and being the hero who saved Mommy’s magical Christmas shopping day. 

Even though he appreciated the adoration, we both knew there was nothing that would ever dethrone me from what happened last spring. It would take a lot more than a floating turd to relinquish my crown. Those fateful seconds last May forever solidified my ranking as the one in our marriage who has the best (aka worst) parenthood story. No bathtub stink or pee soak would ever top “the incident”. 

Seth had taken our daughter out for a date and I remember I had been attempting to finish the last few dishes in the sink. But of course, my babe who never wants to be more than five feet away from me wasn’t havin' it. He came waddling over and started pulling on my leg, begging for my attention. As I looked down at his little face that was beaming back up at me I realized, wait a second, I have JUST Emmett right now which means I can give him one-on-one attention and just ENJOY his presence. Peace out dishes. I’ll see ya later. I instantaneously melted down to the floor and he crawled up into my lap. As I sat down I felt my phone dig into my side so I quick grabbed it out of my pocket. I started to set my phone on the counter and then thought it would be funny to send a couple Snapchats to my family. Emmett seemed to be relishing in his recent victory for my attention and was in the perfect mood for a couple silly videos. As I started recording little ten second clips of us I kept laughing hysterically as he hammed it up. He was feeding off my laughter and started slobbering and squealing into the screen. I giggled even more as I realized that he still had leftover peanut butter smeared on his cheek from dinner. He was quite the sight. 

I glanced down at my phone to select the people I was going to send the Snapchat to. I was a little distracted as I clicked the different names and right before I pressed the “send” button I felt something lightly brush my cheek. I thought to myself, oh gross. Emmett probably just wiped some spit on me..or worse, some of the peanut butter that was smeared on his face. Ew. I quickly sent off the snapchat and as I glanced up at Emmett I saw him standing face-to-face with me…with his hand down the back of his pants. He then pulled out his hand and extended it to me. 

It was in that moment I realized…. I had poop on my face. 

The award for best story goes to me.

I forever and always win. 

Blessings,

Shantastic aka Poopface

**********************************************

What’s your best (aka worst) story?? Does it top mine?? Share it below in the comments or find me on Instagram @TotallyShantastic (Or if you know me on Facebook, let me hear it! Do you get the crown in your family for the best story??)

FOLLOW BY EMAIL: Enter your email address in the box on the top right to get new posts sent directly to your inbox! Your address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time!

My baby doesn't let go

Wow. It has been super fun (and maybe just a teeny bit scary) to be back in the blogging world! If you have been following along with me over the past few weeks, thank you. Thank you for joining me on this wonderful world wide web of ramblings. I’m so glad you’re here.

One of the most recent blog posts I wrote was a heavy one. (Read it here: I chased my baby up a mountain) It was about my daughter and the grueling (and now so rewarding) process of her growing up. It’s just crazy. When I started this blog I was barely pregnant with her. And now, I’ve written a post about the two of us tackling the mountain of toddlerhood. It was a really cool way to come full circle. 

This week the topic on my heart is much lighter. Can you guess what it is? Just close your eyes and picture yourself slowly wrapping your arms around a tiny little cuddle of warmth and adorableness. The fresh smell. The safety and security. Ahhhh can you feel it? Baby hugs! 

I sort of don’t understand when people say they’re not a “baby person”… Babies are totally the best. They’re so cuddly and their cheeks are just always so kissable. Ahhh babies. 

I’m a baby person. Surprise! 

I’m also a hug person (Surprise again?). Maybe that’s why I love babies so much. Baby hugs! Babies are an automatic person you can squeeze. Especially when they’re newborns, all they want to do is get hugs from you. They’re someone you can soothe with a hug, rock to sleep, and cuddle. When I was little, if something scared me or I was hurt, my reaction was immediate. I was running over to my mom and dad as quickly as my little legs would carry me. Hugs are where it’s at. So when I had kids I thought, YES! A brand new human being for me to hug ALL the time! This is fantastic. 

When my kids were babies I hugged them endlessly. Every time I was about to swoop them down into their carseat: hug. Every time I scooped them up from their crib: hug. Ahh I just loved to squeeze them tight and smell their skin. I had heard people say over and over how fast the baby stage goes, so hugging them was my way to stop for those few seconds and just breathe it in. I also think part of the reason why I love hugs so much is because I really enjoy just being still. I like to slow down, watch the waves, soak in the sunset, and just be. I don’t always have to be doing something. I could just sit, hold my child and be. 

But as my firstborn started to get a little older, she began to resist my mommy cuddles. She didn’t want to sit in my lap to watch the parade, she wanted to chase after the floats. She didn’t want to cuddle on my lap during the movie, she wanted to see how high she could jump off the couch (but we couldn’t turn off the movie because she was “still watching it”). This girl is the polar opposite of still. When she was a baby and I first started to sense some hug-resistance from her it was just a little tensing up, almost as if she felt uneasy. Then it evolved into full on back arching and swatting me away. My daughter, my own child, wasn’t a hugger. I wasn’t prepared for this. 

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I remember reading an anonymous quote that made my heart skip a beat. It said, “When your child hugs you, never be the first to let go.” I remember internalizing those words and thinking yeeeessssssss that is some beautiful stuff right there. I’m gonna do that. Never let go first. But as my daughter kept getting bigger and bigger I noticed she pretty much never initiated hugs. There was no opportunity to turn that quote into my life. It took a long journey of me figuring her out for this difference of ours to not make me feel bad. Like seriously, what kid doesn’t want to hug their mom? Apparently my kid and she’s still awesome and she still loves me. She just shows it differently than what I expected.

And then…God decided to rain down another big beautiful blessing in my life by giving me a second child, my son. He is quite literally, the best natural born hugger in the entire world. This little boy loves nothing more than to come running right at me-full speed and launch himself into my arms. When I walk into a room: hug. When I hand him his lunch: hug. When I discipline him for taking his sister’s toy: tear-streaked hug. It feels a little silly to admit, but his hugging ability is one of my favorite things about him. 

Each of my kids are answers to prayers in very different ways. Grace is my quirky, beats to her own drummer kind of perfect that I, truly, always wanted. As I wrote in that previous post --> here, figuring her out was a process (oh wait, it’s still ongoing). I had to learn through a lot of patience and persevering that hugs just weren’t gonna cut it for her. And that’s ok.

So when my Emmett joined us, he felt like the answer to my prayer for a child who just wanted to sit and be with me. I’ve had countless moments where I have thought that he fell asleep on my shoulder because there was just no way a hug could reasonably go on for that long. But no, as soon as I would fidget just a little (trying to reach my phone so that I could use it as a mirror to see if he was sleeping) he would jolt his head up and give me a huge chubby-cheeked smile. 

He loves to just sit, be, and hug me. He doesn’t always have to be doing something. Ok, well he’s two so he kind of does. But when we go outside to draw with chalk, he wants to sit in my lap. When we watch Finding Dory for the ten thousandth viewing, he cuddles right up next to me the entire time.

I love that God knew how much I would delight in an affectionate child. Sometimes when I’m thanking God for my children I specifically say a prayer of thanksgiving for blessing me with my little boy who always (every single day) has a hug for me. 

I get to be the one who doesn’t let go first.

What do you delight in about your child? I would love to know :) Leave a comment below!

Blessings,

Shantastic :)

My babies swallowed me.

Before I start, I feel like I should explain why I stopped. 

I began writing this blog back in 2012, soon after I found out I was pregnant for the first time. I just had so many emotions and ideas that I felt compelled to write it all down. I felt like it was something God was pressing on my heart. After lots of pacing back and forth and an elevated heart rate, I published my first post. I thought, if nothing else, this will be a cool journal to give to this baby someday, right? 

I think I was so nervous because I thought, why on earth are people going to care about what I have to say? This whole thing is basically just my inner monologue taking over and rambling about silly things. But, I kept writing, and it was a really really cool experience. After a few months I finally had my baby (a girl), and began to write about my new life as a mom. I didn’t quite realize the extent of it at the time, but my old life was gone. 

Motherhood is absolutely beautiful, but it’s so easy to allow it to overshadow who YOU are. At first, I was just so elated and excited to have a baby that the self sacrifices came pretty easily. Certain things that used to be norms, like getting to leave the house on a whim, just simply became things you knew you couldn’t expect from your life anymore. But without even realizing it, my crochet hooks and yarn got tucked away in a closet. My decoupage crafts were moved to the basement. The demands of motherhood were closing in and finding time to write became even more challenging. Although my wild and free little chica gave me quite a bit of inspiration to draw from, it was still hard to find the time. 

After about 18 months of life with one kid, I got pregnant with baby number two (a boy this time) and life began to settle into a whole new brand of crazy. I had pretty bad morning (aka all day) sickness for about 6 weeks. Trying to parent my child who thought naps were a complete and total waste of time was overwhelming. The cherry to this stress-ball sundae was that I had also started a small business that was beginning to require any “free” time I had to be poured into that. I was (and still am) very passionate about my business endeavor so for awhile it became the creative outlet that my personality craves. It was ok that I was letting certain parts of myself get put into boxes in the basement because I had this super amazing business to focus on. I began to stay up later in the evenings, scrambling to finish a post before my weekly “due date”. I still loved doing it but it was just so hard to find the time. What officially made me stop writing though was that I felt the Lord prompting me to hit pause. I don’t always understand everything He wants me to do, and even though I felt much sadness about it, I paused.

I continued on in life, my son was born, I tried to juggle everything that comes with having TWO littles who depend on you for everything…and the blog remained something that was in my past. Even though I wasn’t writing anymore, my inner monologue never silenced. I would catch myself doing a mundane task like washing the dishes or folding laundry and completely write out an entire blog post in my head. The urge to write never left, and truthfully, the longer I stayed away from it the stronger my desire was to blog again. As time went on I started to feel like there would come a time when God would lead me to write again. 

Then, a few months ago I went to visit my best friend for a few days (2.5 hour drive one way so we don’t see each other as often as I would like) and as I was driving back home I realized that during my 48 hour childless trip, I had finally felt like a person again. How long had it been since I didn’t have to worry about keeping two tiny beings alive for every second of every day? I didn’t have to try to think of new things to make for dinner. I didn’t have to stress about how now that my kids are getting older it’s growing increasingly more difficult to work from home. The thing that started out as the creative outlet that made me feel like a person, had grown to the point where it was a bigger beast than I had ever anticipated. It was truly a blessing, but trying to squeeze in time to work during my daughter’s quiet time (aka that time after lunch where I convince her to color in her room and play with blocks for 45 minutes so I can run downstairs to my office and try to get SOMETHING done) had become overwhelmingly stressful. When I was up visiting my best friend, I didn’t think about any of that. I laughed really hard, had intelligent debates about politics, and shared stories without being interrupted. (What a freaking concept!!!) 

I was a person again. 

And I don’t mean for that to sound like I’m complaining about my life. I feel blessed beyond measure to have two completely awesome children and a life partner who always, without fail, points me to Christ. What I’m trying to say is that I hadn’t even realized that I had allowed parts of myself to become swallowed by it all.

So, as I was driving back home I thought and prayed about what it means to me to feel like a person again. Not JUST the one who changes the toddler’s explosion poop with a smile and lets her four-year-old blow bubbles inside because she is just straight up out of fun and engaging ideas for the day. As I drove and asked God to show me how to find a balance in the craziness, I thought about the blog. I also thought about how I just might need to start using some form of childcare so that I can keep doing my dream job. But, I also thought about the blog. For some reason I simply cannot explain, writing makes me feel like a person. So here I am, with that same elevated heart rate, feeling released from the pause button, and choosing…to be a person. 

What makes you feel like a person? Or maybe the bigger question is, DO you feel like a person? 

Blessings,

Shantastic

******

Explaining the blog name- 

If you’re finding yourself going, “Totally Shantastic? I don’t get it” then this is for you! First of all, I know it's a little weird. (But let’s be honest, I am a little weird) What started as a silly play on my name has morphed into this bigger idea on my heart. 

“Trying to embrace the crazy and live life with intention”

I've always been insanely passionate about living life with intention and purpose. It's almost as if I feel the immensity of this gift we have been given. Life should not be wasted. To me, when I am being Shantastic it means I am living my life in that truth. It means I am loving others, refusing to get caught in the rat race, and it means I am being who I was created to be. Life with intention. 

Embracing the crazy is the part that has always been more of a challenge for me. When you have young children, how do you embrace the chaos they bring while also cherishing every single second of it? Sometimes I just want (need) to clean the laundry room while my husband wrestles with the kids. Sometimes the crazy needs taming. But where I struggle is to make sure I don't get lost in that. Yes, sometimes you do have to choose to clean the laundry room because you can no longer see the top of the washer and dryer. But then, maybe you need to stop there for the day and go help your daughter finish that final takedown of the Daddy monster. Life with balance. Embrace the crazy.

If you’re still here, thank you for joining me. Until next time <3