Wordless Wednesday: Puppy Conversation

Christmas Presence

An article I wrote was featured on liberatingworkingmoms.com this week: See it here!


Or, just keep reading:

Well, that’s it. Thanksgiving’s over. Not even 24 hours after eating that last bite of mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie, Americans rifle through circulars, plot their Black Friday buys, and break out the Christmas trees and hand-painted ornaments. To some, Christmas means everything to do with faith, hope, and the birth of a savior. To some, Christmas means cookies, candles and flights back where you feel truly at home. To some, it means giving—gifts wrapped in ribbons and bows, service at homeless shelters, or maybe just time and energy to the children you miss so much when you’re overwhelmed with the busy-ness of daily life. To some, it means a feeling of loneliness and loss, a time to remember those who have gone before you, a time to wish they were here to celebrate with you. To some, it means scarves, mittens and that first peaceful blanket of snow.

But what does the Christmas season mean to a working mother? I have celebrated Christmas for 25 years and I don’t think it has ever had quite the same meaning as it has today.

My son is seven months old. Every day, he amazes me with his belly laugh, his sweet spirit, and his playfulness. Every day, I wake him up—or he stays asleep and if I were him, I’d stay asleep at 5:30 a.m., too—and I send him off to his grandma’s. Every day, I drive to a high school where I teach English to over 100 ninth graders. I pour into the lives of these students academically and sometimes emotionally, and hope that my efforts are not wasted. When I come home, I have to make sure I have enough wisdom, kindness, and creativity left to give to the one child who truly matters.

That’s what Christmas means to me this year. When I was a child, Christmas meant sneaking around the house looking for hidden presents. In high school, the Christmas season meant sleeping in, listening to the latest CD, watching Price is Right reruns and pretending I didn’t have homework to do. As a college student, Christmas meant singing in my church choir, choosing next semester’s classes and buying the most romantic gift I could find for my soon-to-be husband. As a new teacher, the Christmas season meant a breather from my students, a good book on the couch in my pajamas, Christmas carols playing while I surfed the web.

Today, as a first-time working mother, it means starting new traditions. It means tracing my son’s handprint 15 times on green paper, asking my husband to cut them out because he’s better with scissors, and gluing them just-so to make his first little Christmas tree craft.

It means Christmas pictures in red sweaters.

It means reading my son The Night Before Christmas and showing him how to dig treasures out of his stocking.

It means his first ornament—a little glass shoe with all of his birth statistics written on it—donning the tree for the first of many years.

It means singing “Silent Night” as I rock him to sleep. It means being thankful that although I work full-time and mommy full-time, I chose a career that gives me 18 precious days in the winter and even more days in the summer to relish every moment with my son. It means my presence—just being there. Him and me. And it means giving all my love because I’ll never need to get anything for Christmas ever again.

Many Months

I cannot understand how pregnancy seemed like the longest nine months of my life, yet these last (almost) eight months of William's life have flown by before I could even catch my breath. When I look at the pictures that my friend Charlotte took of Will when he wasn't yet four months, I am again taken back by how beautiful he is, and how often he is changing. 

In October, we went to a pumpkin patch and Will donned his first Halloween costume for trick-or-treating at the mall. He is the cutest astronaut in the universe!

What doesn't change over time is Will's personality. When he was seven months old, another dear friend of mine, Taylor, offered to take Will's portraits in a studio and to shoot family Christmas pictures as well. As if I didn't take enough pictures already... But Will loves the camera!

In these last few months, I have made an effort to follow blogs, take advice from friends, and really make the best of every moment I have with my son. My son. Those words still sound so strange. I want Will to have fun and to learn every day during his childhood, and I want him to know that when I'm with him, I'm with him. He has my full attention. Despite living with what I used to think was a mild case of OCD, I have enjoyed allowing Will to take part in various sensory experiences. We have played with finger paint (on the high chair, I might add, which would have caused the pre-mother in me some serious anxiety). Yes, I stayed with him every moment to make sure none of the paint went into his mouth or eyes. We started with "What do red and blue make?" Then, we ended up mixing all the colors together.

I have taken a couple of "sick" days this year when I was really yearning for some extra time with Will. On one of those days, I posted a sick day blog but I didn't post any pictures of all the fun! We played with pots and pans, stacked rings and blocks, went to the store, read books, and played in a makeshift ball pit. I bought a ball pit set and poured them into the playpen. Will rolled around in the balls, held one of every color, tried to put them in his mouth, and of course, laughed.

One of my favorite times was our spontaneous trip to Green Key Beach. My mother, my husband and I took some beautiful shots of Will's first experience with sand. You can see the amazement on his face. We also pushed him in the swing--which he loved. Even though the weather was a little chilly, it was an absolutely glorious sunset. 

Another day after work, I decided to repeat the beach trip. This time, it was just Will and me.

The other night, we put food coloring into ice cubes and let them melt in water in a container on his playmat. Will loves playing with bath toys any time of day--he is definitely a water baby! It was fun to watch him try to catch the ice cubes!

Everything about my son amazes me. He is happy all.the.time. Literally. Everything and everyone can make him laugh. My favorite aspects of his dynamic personality is his sweet spirit when he first wakes up and his belly laugh. He is also a huge fan of sticking his tongue out.

He started crawling--small movement at first--a couple of weeks ago. This last weekend, he decided to take off. He also cut his first tooth. I am grateful that even though I had to go back to work when he was four months old, he has saved each and every milestone for my husband and me. At our home, he is turning into quite the little rambunctious climber.

It's hard to believe we are about to celebrate our first Christmas as a family. 

It's hard to believe that I, Shannon, the one who said she'd never be a baby person, the one who cringed every time she heard a baby cry, the one who struggled her whole pregnancy, the one who never changed a diaper, the one who feels like she doesn't have a crafty gene in her body... has become a mother. And most days, I hope, a good mother.


I have realized many things over these last many months. But one of my major realizations is that I finally understand the phrase "You're gonna miss this." Because I know I definitely am going to miss this. Every little bit of it.

Where I'm From

My students and I read "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyons this week, analyzed it for sensory language, and then created our own. I am laminating my students' poems and creating a book of them because they turned out FANTASTIC. My students asked me to write one that would be the first page of the book. So here it is:
--

Where I’m From

By Shannon Stephan Rodriguez

I am from piles of orange, red, and yellow fall leaves

From sneezing underneath and my Bopaw’s laughter behind the camera

I am from puffy snowsuits

And sleds my mom pulled in the street

Her long dark hair flying behind her

I am from Flintstone vitamins on the bus stop

Seeing and hearing the ice cream man from the upstairs window

Saving my brother’s life

Again and again

And the tall pine tree in the backyard

I am from the steep staircase

That smelled like home

From the basement and the hidden passageway

Filled with my grandparents’ treasures

I am from the above-ground pool and orange swimmies

The birthday parties on the lawn with Batman and Little Mermaid

From DJ, Stephanie, Michelle, and Comet

And unwrapped Christmas presents under the tree

I am from stacks of boxes

A move to beaches and Disney World

Pen-pals and a new school

A cul-de-sac with no cars or sidewalks

That called us to play kickball all day

I am from my brother’s little league games and his basketball hoop

And the cement where my father drew our family name

I am from the boat

Roaring to life and defeating the waves

With “Life is Good” painted in blue on the side

I am from mood swings and fights

From dogs and cats and iguanas and hamsters

Buried now in the backyard

I am from straight A’s and the church choir

From “You’re going to college no matter what”

And “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar”

From mission trips to foreign lands

My father’s house to my husband’s house

From writing papers to grading papers

And meeting a little boy who is like my very own piece of Heaven on earth

Mommy's "Sick" Day

Last weekend, I made a spur of the moment decision to take Will to the beach for the first time. It was probably 60 degrees out, so my husband, my mother, Will and I went to Green Key Beach in our clothes and sweatshirts, and let the sensory overload begin. We took a TON of pictures, and let Will go in the swings and sit in the sand. He touched it and was totally mesmerized by it :) I think that day made me realize that I missed those special moments.

Not that I can't have special moments with Will because I'm a working mother. But I really wanted to be able to spend quality time with him, like I did on the beach, with the wind blowing, him looking around and both of us experiencing something special.

Even though this week was a "four-day" week in honor of Veterans Day, I found myself weepy on Tuesday night and I made a decision: I'm staying home tomorrow. I miss my son.

I stayed up late, thinking about activities I could do with him on a day when it was JUST him and me. I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, or like I felt those days I knew my parents were waking me up the next day to go to Disney. Although I was blessed to be home with Will 24/7 for the first four months of his life, he's six months old now, rolls around, sits on his own, stands, gets up on all fours, makes tons of cool noises, says "Mama," and a litany of other things he didn't do two months ago. I was very much looking forward to a day with him.

I put in for a substitute, didn't care that I didn't have copies made or that my classroom would be a shambles the next day. My day belonged to Will. Like it should.

When he woke up, we played with shape blocks. I separated them by color and let him roll around. He kept picking up the red triangles... I wonder if that will be his favorite color. I let him bang on pots and pans with a wooden spoon, which was funny because he kept just wanting to suck on the spoon.

Then we went shopping at Target. We picked out a book--one of my favorites: The Night Before Christmas. Inside the front cover was a dedication: "For Will, Christmas Boy." Couldn't have been more perfect.

While I was at Target, I picked up a package of 150 colored ball-pit balls. When we got home, after Will's first nap, he ate some apples. I let him hold the spoon and try to feed himself--pretty funny. Then I threw him AND all the colored balls into his playpen. Again, pretty funny! He enjoyed holding the balls and throwing them. After he was tired of the ball pit, I took his walker outside. He kicked his shoes off, so I ended up letting him run around in the driveway with no shoes on! I just can't believe how strong and independent he is at only six months old. When we came inside, I laid his pictures (tons and tons) out on the floor for him to look at while I put some in an album. I put him in his crib and poured all his clean, dry laundry on top of him. To end the day before Daddy came home, we walked (well, Will rode in the stroller) to the library down the street. He stood in the children's section, leaning on a bookcase and threw some of the books around.

Successes: I didn't turn on the television ONCE all day. I didn't touch the essays I know I needed to grade. I didn't surf the net. I devoted ALL my time to looking at my son, listening to him laugh, and playing with him while he learned. Even when he napped, I lie next to him on the bed or sat in the rocking chair waiting for him to wake up.

Failures: Sometimes when Will eats, he gets frustrated and so do I. He had a bit of a tummy ache and fussed with me when I tried to get him to eat. Not the worst failure I've ever had as a parent, but I definitely don't like when my impatience makes Will frustrated, too.

This day was all about my prince. And I realized, as I made plans for future days and weekends with him, that every day needs to be about him. It's going by too fast <3

Capture.

I wrote a poem today. It's not really good, but here it is:

I wish I could capture

The scent of your hair

And have it to dwell on

Years and years from now

The squint of your eyes

In the bright summer sun

And the kick of your feet

Before you learned to walk

The way you sneeze

And Eskimo kisses

Your heavy breaths

Sound asleep after dark

I wish I could save in a treasure box

Your genuine laugh

That knows no regrets

Your carefree-ness

I wish I could bottle up

Those chubby little legs

And that you’d always fit

Neatly curled up on my chest

The babble before your voice came

The softness of gums with no teeth

The neediness and the independence

Only you can feel both in the same day

Your sweet growing fingers

That grasp everything near

Your big brown eyes

That follow me, and your dad, and the dog, and the rest

I wish I could hide away the contentment of the moment

When we dance together

Even though you can’t stand

And know that at any time, I can go back to it.

The splash in the tub

Your first little nightmares

Your finger holding mine

The taste of your tiny toes.

Even if it’s just for the day.

Everything rustles.

Sophocles once said, "To him who is in fear, everything rustles." The truth behind that statement simultaneously intrigues and frightens me.

Although I wholeheartedly respect the memory of my grandparents, think of them fondly, and often refer to the lessons their beautiful lives taught me, they did possess some minor flaws. For my grandmother, that flaw was a mixture of fear and anxiety. Most times, those two go hand in hand. My grandmother rarely left the town where she lived for 60 years and raised children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She didn't show it, but she was often frazzled by change. Unfortunately, whether these qualities are genetic or not, I see many of my grandmother's anxieties when I look myself in the mirror.

I suppose it started when I realized not all people are good. When I realized not all situations turn out like you hope they will, or like you think they should. When I realized not all people get what they deserve, and some people get what they don't deserve. When I realized adults make mistakes. When I realized I make mistakes. When I realized disappointment is probably one of the most harmful, painful and detrimental feelings a person can experience.

It started in 2004. I was readying myself to graduate high school and my mind teemed with ideas and dreams that at the time, I believed were entirely possible. Though good stress surrounded me in the sense that I was up to my ears in scholarships, I had the world at my fingertips, and my parents and boyfriend (at the time... he would eventually be my husband) supported my every move, I began to fear. At 17 years of age, I had my first panic attack. I remember not being able to get a deep breath, and asking the school nurse if this was normal. I was scared to choose a college. I was scared I would have to declare a major. I was scared of moving away from home, but also of staying home. It was a thrilling but overwhelming time in my life. Fortunately, I pushed aside the fear and worry. I embraced the newness that was adulthood. Shoulders back, head held high, I graduated from high school and moved away to college...

Southeastern University was not what I expected, and soon after settling in I realized I didn't fit in there. I wasn't a pastor's kid. I wasn't a missionary's kid. I had always attended public schools. I wasn't majoring in ministry. Why was I there? But again, I rolled with it. I smiled. I aced all my classes. I came home on the weekends to visit my family and boyfriend (again, at the time...)

So truthfully, it started in 2005. I was on top of the world. And in the summer, while I served overseas on my fifth and what would be my last mission trip, my world came crashing down. I won't go into detail. All that matters is that after those two weeks--which seemed to me like an eternity--my fear and anxiety skyrocketed. And remain high as the sky to this day.

I've always been afraid of spiders. During my teen years, if I saw a spider crawling in the house or in a web outdoors, I typically cried, hyperventilated, yelled for someone to kill it. But I figured most everyone had that one irrational fear. Soon, however, I began fearing other things. The events of 2005 caused me to develop a fear of people, and of relationships with them. Because they hurt. I had always been a people pleaser, a girl who would get straight A's just to hear her parents say how good she was, or just to compare herself to her peers. But now, I had more of a fear of failure, and more of a fear about what people would say to me and about me if they knew me when I wasn't at my best. I also developed a fear of flying, and even hindered my parents from getting on the airplane to go to my paternal grandfather's funeral because I couldn't move my feet in the terminal. After a few years of being (seemingly) surrounded by death, I began to fear death... not mine, mind you, but the death of those I love dearly. I still text my husband every morning to make sure he got to work on time, because before I hear from him, I'm constantly listening to the car accident reports on the radio, and feeling myself forgetting to breathe.

Now I have a son. Motherhood brings along a slew of new fears and anxieties. But really, none of the specific fears and anxieties matter. What matters it that Sophocles' quote is correct... One fear seems to breed. It not only takes over, but it lays eggs and takes root and causes more fears and anxieties to creep up. What matters it that fear and anxiety are stopping me from living. And I fear, may stop my husband and son from living. That makes me increasingly sad.

The problem is that as I write this, I don't have the answer. I'd like to believe that recognition and admission is the first step to recovery. I know that's part of the process for like alcoholics and stuff. I don't deny the problem. I don't deny that I want everything to stop rustling. But I will deny any knowledge of how to fix it.