My Child Screams; I'm Trying Not To.

Time for me to come clean.

There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong . . .

Wait . . . that's not my confession--that's the introduction to "I Dreamed a Dream" from Les Miserables. Not quite the same, but sort of. What I meant to say was:

There was a time when kids would scream
and it meant they were spoiled
and their parents were slacking
There was a time
Then my thoughts were foiled!

Because really, I used to be one of those young people with no parenting experience who would hear the wailings of toddlers and small children and think, "My goodness! Can't you make them stop?" And worse, beyond thinking that, I honestly believed it. I truly thought that about 80% of the time parents could make their children stop screaming by sheer force of excellent parenting.

It is with humble heart (and a screaming toddler) that I approach the internet to say I'm sorry. And wrong. And tired of failing to understand what's wrong. Because everything. Warrants. A scream.

Now, please don't gloat. (You're doing it anyway! I can feel your smugness over the network connection, now stop it!) We all learn different things at different times, and I was just slower on this one, all right? Besides, think back to when it was you, be the bigger person, and find it in your soul to pity me. Recall the first--no matter how early or late in your child's life--time you realized that your "precious sweetums" (No, of course I don't call my kid that, but if YOU do, that's lovely!) was not actually a full-blooded angel. Not because angels don't have blood, but because your child was not behaving in an angelic manner. It's a disappointing moment, but you know, it happens.

The time will come when the adorable larva that once rolled on your floor will take his or her first steps, and you will think it is sweet--until those steps lead them up to the kitchen table at every opportunity of unsupervision. Soft gurgles and laughs will turn to high-pitched shrieks of anger and a mischievous cackle that you just don't trust. And as these--and other just as horrifying--things happen, you will ask yourself what it is you're doing wrong or what more you could do to stop these uncivilized behaviors. I hope at this point you will come to the same conclusion that I have: you can do nothing. I am only half kidding.

Sure, you can do the normal parent stuff--the stuff you're probably already doing--but when it comes down to it, just realize that most of this is happening not because you're a bad parent. It's simply happening because you're raising a precocious 15 month old who thinks the terrible twos sound like great fun. Of course, I can really only speak from my own experience, so maybe your child really is spoiled (please read this with a good-natured tone and smile injected), but I think when your child's personality outgrows his or her language development, you're bound to experience some frustration.

Shall I add insult to injury? The other day we were watching Super Why!--which we sometimes do when the day is long and the sounds of despair are many--and we caught an episode in which the Super Readers' friend, Wolfie (Wolfy? Wolfee? I'm sticking with Wolfie.), kept growling because he was upset. The moral of that story was "Use your words!" Which is great, except, guess what? Sporadic vocabulary of maybe three words--none of which is "words." So, that's awesome.

At least we're to the point now where I can tell she understands some of my words. That's a start, right? I was extremely excited the day I told Melody "No!" and she understood. Little did I realize how much more frustrating it is to be heard, understood, and ignored than it is to simply not be understood. With limited communication skills and even less patience, what's a mom to do?

Hang in there, I guess. Enjoy the screams from bed that mean "I'm awake and ready to come out!" Bask in the screams from the other side of the bathroom door that mean "MOM! What are you doing in there, and why can't I come in?" Revel in the screams that mean "That thing you're doing looks fun! Let me do it with you. And climb on you. And throw books in your face. And stick my finger up your nose, and . . . Mom, why aren't we doing that fun thing anymore, mom . . . ?" and all the other cryptic screams that set your teeth to gritting.

But better than that, enjoy (wholly and sincerely) the moments when she does heed your commands. When she throws her arms around you and hugs you so tightly that you wish your day would stop and all afternoon could just be little arms, a head on your shoulder, and happy smiles. Meditate upon watching her set out her play dishes, fold her arms, and "pray" before "eating." Savor seeing her lay down on the floor next to her daddy and snuggle her head into the crook of his elbow. Pay attention to the sweet moments of joy and let them blur the memory of tantrums. In doing so, you may become aware of just how much more frequently the cute and well-behaved make an appearance than the out-of-control and bratty. To quote Pollyanna (who was not actually quoting Abraham Lincoln), "When you look for the bad in mankind expecting to find it, you surely will." Now, take that, invert it, and don't be too hard on yourself: you're raising quite an enjoyable child.

Hard Decisions: In Defense of the Vanilla I Have Chosen

I once had a teacher share a story about a sports team whose motto was “Vanilla. Choose the hard thing!” (or something like that). The saying was supposed to represent the difficulty in life when decisions have to be made. In an ice cream shop filled with many options, what's harder than skipping the extravagance and going for the plain, boring, and traditional vanilla? Sometimes those are the decisions that have to be made, right?

But there are people who actually like vanilla. On a recent trip to the store, my little sister was allowed to choose the ice cream. After looking over all the options, she opted for vanilla. As my mom and I teased her about how unacceptable vanilla was (“What sorts of choices will you make in your life if you can't even properly choose ice cream flavors?”) and she pretended she had made a hasty decision (“Cookies and cream? Yeah! I didn't even see that one!”), we went with the more interesting flavor and abandoned vanilla. But I could see by the look in her eyes that she really would have liked vanilla. After all, when you rarely get ice cream, even vanilla is a treat.

As a vanilla person myself, I understand this. And when I say I'm a “vanilla person,” I don't simply mean that I enjoy vanilla Frostys more than their original counterpart. I mean that I'm somewhat bland in comparison to some of the other people here in the ice cream shop of life. I don't skydive and live dangerously. I'm not gorgeous or famous. I'm not trying to cure cancer or rid the world of hunger because I've already accepted that those aren't the stars for which I'm shooting anymore.

It wasn't an easy conclusion. Like every child in America, I was raised on school assignments of “What Would You Do If You Were President of the United States?” and fantasies of becoming a pop star over night. Admitting my mediocrity in the world was tough—and I'm not saying this in a dejected, woe-is-me way. I'm just saying, in a matter-of-fact way, that I'm like everyone else. I mean, I think I'm cool, but it's just an average kind of cool. So, I gave up my more far-fetched ambitions of being a real-life princess-astronaut who moonlights as Bill Nye the Science Guy's assistant and “settled” for something rather vanilla by comparison that I had dreamed of doing far before anything else.

Thus, I became a mother. And I do believe that so far, it has rivaled my previous dreams for excitement, joy, and all-out flavor. The thing about vanilla ice cream, choices, and people is that we are flexible. We go well with chocolate syrup, birthday cake, and sprinkles. We do well in all sorts of circumstances, and no matter what the other options might have been. And as one who likes vanilla, I'm quite happy with the choice I have made, hard as it may have been. I've got all the sweetness I could ever want.

Great Expectations

I often find that big life events don't turn out much like I expected. They aren't necessarily awful, they just leave me wishing that I hadn't imagined them so much that I got a totally unrealistic idea of how they would be. I think the only time I wasn't let-down in my expectations was when I went to kindergarten.

When I was in the pre-kindergarten phase, I was obsessed with going to school. I would load the diaper bag with every book that I could and carry it to the front door to imagine that I was going to school. (Kudos to my mom for allowing me to string a trail of books to the front door on a regular basis. Also, for not ruining my fantasies by telling me about how truly awful school can be sometimes—say, as an eighth grader.) I found it unfathomable (“It means without fathom”) that I would ever be cool enough to go where the BIG kids go—the elementary school—let alone graduate from a university and be a mom. And yet here I am. How did this happen? It sort of went like this . . .

One day, I finally DID get to go to kindergarten. I put on my [empty] backpack, my mom took a picture of me, and I went to class. It. Was. Awesome. We decorated paper cutouts so they looked like us—and they were almost half my size! Mine had mismatched blue button eyes, approximately three strands of light brown yarn hair, and a scrap of fabric that I would guarantee would not adhere to the For Strength of Youth modesty guidelines, but I was so proud. Later, we rotated through several activities. We played with blocks, and there was a large plastic trough full of water that we got to dip toys in to play, and we listened to Raffi (you may know him for his masterpiece, “Down by the Bay”). It was so wonderful. The only problem was that apparently the book on tape about some pigs that we got to listen to had a song at the end, but my partner rewound the tape before we got to hear it. Other than that, it was just as great as I thought it would be. With promises of finger painting, the trough being filled with a new substance, and the thought that I would get to hear the pig song, I was looking forward to my next week of Kindergarten. Then we had our assessments, and it was determined that I was better suited for first grade. My kindergarten experience had come to an end.

First grade, though! It would be even better because most of my friends were there, anyway. I think as I pictured walking into my first day in Mrs. Munk's classroom, I envisioned that it would be something like the Arthur theme song: I would be surrounded by my teacher, my friends, and some other kids who would all say “Hey!” What a wonderful kind of day.

It wasn't like that, but it was still pretty good. I've found that most of the so-called “big” events in my life have been kind of like that. Not quite what I expected, but still good. A bit anti-climactic, but good. I expected something crazy important and big each school year. Then I would sometimes be disappointed and a bit surprised to discover that this year, like the last, was good. The same thing happened with my high school graduation. The whole bit seemed surreal, but when it was all over I found myself thinking “That's it?” And life went on with some ups and some downs, but really I just found that things were very much the same as they were when I was in high school, and so on.

I have since discovered that dating someone is very much like being single, except that you're dating someone. And when I got married, my wedding day was a very exciting, happy day that made my life after just that much better. I had many people ask how life was being pregnant. Well, it was a lot like life, but I was pregnant. Now I'm a mom, and I love it. However, with all the time spent thinking about what it would be like, I would think my dreams would share a bit more fidelity with my current reality. Much like I haven't noticed day-to-day differences in the mirror, I still don't feel like my life has changed until I look back through snapshots of time and discover there are major differences. I wouldn't trade my current situation for what I thought it would be, though. I don't think my reality's broken, I think it has to do with my expectations. Maybe I need to finish kindergarten and renew my imagination.

What Can I Say?

Note: I started this yesterday, but wanted to make sure it was better than just a first draft. It is now finished and of a quality as I feel befits the topic.

“Now the thing about having a baby—and I can't be the first person to have noticed this—is that thereafter you have it.”

—Jean Kerr

I asked a lot of questions after I had my baby, Melody: “Is this pain NORMAL?” “Will waking up at this hour become NORMAL?” “Is it NORMAL for a baby's bellybutton to bleed like this?” “Will my bellybutton ever look NORMAL again?” You know, the normal stuff. And some of the questions were easily answered (“Duh. Having a baby is a painful process,” and “As long as it doesn't get red, puffy, ooze, or smell bad, it's alright to have some bleeding when a baby's umbilical cord comes off.”) Others have taken more time to resolve (“Will we ever have a NORMAL schedule again?” remains to be seen. And really, it was odd how much my stretched outie that used to be an innie resembled Melody's when her umbilical cord came off, but that's far beyond the point I'm trying to make.)

Other people asked me questions, too, but I felt like some of them were trick questions or something. I had no idea how to answer them.

“So are things back to NORMAL, yet?” Umm . . . are things ever NORMAL after you have a kid? Entrapment! I didn't even dare hazard a guess. If I said “no” would they laugh with the knowledge that things were never going to be NORMAL again? And if I said “yes” would they laugh with the knowledge that things were never going to be NORMAL again, but I desperately wanted them to be, so I was lying? Hormones made me overthink everything.

And would you like to compose a Tweet (140 characters or less!) detailing a life-changing event and how you have felt since this experience? You only have 30 seconds to do so, and the people who will read it may or may not actually care about what you have to say. Go on—begin!

This is how I feel when asked what it's like being a mother. There's the short answer, “Good,” that has become my answer of choice, but that doesn't come close to describing what it's actually like.

I could go for humorous, but I don't feel right about being flippant about something so special just because I'm incapable of concisely putting my feelings into words. Even assuming I could, it would take awhile. Have you ever asked a stranger how they're doing, had them respond with a lengthy run-down of all their sorrows, and thought “Whoops! They actually answered the question, 'bless their heart!'”? Because of the nature of the question, I didn't want to go into a detailed answer for someone who was only asking out of habit or courtesy and didn't actually want to hear everything I had to say about being a mother.

Those who casually ask typically accept “Good” and move on. Those who would listen are usually parents themselves, so they smile sympathetically and nod. I think they're well aware of and sypathetic to my conundrum.

I feel my honest, lengthy answer worth recording, though, so here it is (with some of the more personal insights being removed and saved for my own private record).

Things changed when I became a mother. Even though it's only been a little over a month, I see things completely differently. I've been blessed with some wonderful gospel insights in connection with being a mother/parent.

I tend to be a bit critical of myself. Prior to parenthood, I had a rough patch when I was trying to define my worth to my Father in Heaven based on my accomplishments. Did He still love me, even though it had been months since my last good scripture study session? My house was dirty, I frequently missed my prayers, and I sometimes yelled at my husband—did that cut me off from my Father's love? I knew that wasn't how it worked, but it was just after giving birth that I got a bit more understanding about what true love was and how my Heavenly Father might feel about His children—me included.

I had been anxious about loving my baby. What if, somehow, I didn't love her when she was born? After all, I knew nothing about her. I discovered that, despite my concerns, I loved her as soon as she was born. It wasn't because of what she had been, because prior to this, she'd only been a flutter inside of me. And it wasn't because of what she was doing, because she came right out and peed on me. But I didn't care about any of that because I was her mom and I had done so much for her and I had such hopes for who she would be later. So I saw that who I had been and what I was doing currently was not nearly so important as what I would be. And Heavenly Father will always love me because He is my Father and He has great hopes for what I will allow Him to make of me.

Sometimes, when Melody gets too tired before her feedings, she fights me a little when I try to give her the thing that she really needs—and wants, if she weren't too young and tired to realize it. I thought of the scripture “Can a woman forget her suckling child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee” (Isaiah 49). I would imagine there are times when I am too inexperienced and tired to know what I need/truly want. As I fight what the Lord is trying to do for me, a situation I find most frustrating when Melody does it to me, He never forsakes me. He may step back to give me time to calm down and realize what I truly want, but He would never get so upset that He would throw up His hands, exclaim “FINE! Starve yourself,” and then leave me forever. He is infinitely patient, and “[H]is arm of mercy is extended towards [us]” (Jacob 6:5)—ready to welcome us home when, like the prodigal son, we calm down and “come to ourselves” (Luke 15:17).

It's been a humbling experience having a baby who completely relies on me for all her needs. For the first few days, she really only cried when she had a need. So I could feed her, burp her, or change her and she would stop crying.

And I thought: I am so good at this.

But then she started crying more often. Just because. And it seemed to me that I could take care of everything for her and she would STILL cry. So I started to feel like a failure. But I realized that was ridiculous. By condemning myself because my baby cried, I was similarly judging every mother whose baby cried to be a failure—which I would never do. Because it's an outrageous criteria for “successful” motherhood. Instead, I had to humble myself and admit that I'm not as cool as I thought. I can't solve every problem for Melody—and even if I could, it wouldn't always be best. Sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it and think about it, she will be sad, regardless of what I do for her. It hurts me to think ahead to worse things that I won't be able to rescue her from, but I know it will be okay. Heavenly Father teaches us and allows us agency to choose; I can try to do the same for my children.

The learning curve for parenthood has been incredibly steep. But the lessons I have already been blessed with have been more than worth it. My understanding of charity has become a bit clearer and I feel I have been able to progress in my efforts to be a little more like my Heavenly Father. They are small steps, but He has let me know that what I am doing is good.

Will I ever be NORMAL again? If NORMAL was my life and spiritual progress prior to Melody, I hope not. I've never really cared for the “Don't change a thing!” expressions. For some people “Don't ever change!” (with 'ever' being underlined three times) was a yearbook favorite. But while reflecting on what people had written, I would find myself thinking “I'm glad you like me the way I am, but don't confine me to being this way forever. I hope I will change, if only for the better.”

So I try not to wish for pre-Melody norms. Because although my bellybutton now seems to resemble its former self, I know that my spirituality has grown in a way that can never be diminished. And those changes dwarf any minor physical changes so as to make them seem irrelevant. “Will my bellybutton ever look normal again?” Psh. Like I care.