getting her number

The three of us walked through the gate as I flashed our shiny new family membership card at the teenage boy behind the desk. My daughter was decked out in her swim gear, and my son sat in the stroller, content, a toy car clutched in each chubby hand.

I was ready for this.

I'd decided on cut-off jean shorts, a navy blue tank, flip flops, and pony tail, a casual but clean ensemble that said I was easy-going but actually did laundry every once in awhile. My mom bag hung over my shoulder bursting with towels, Goldfish crackers, and three baby dolls my daughter insisted join her at the pool. I eased over to the picnic tables, the scent of sunscreen and chlorine heavy in the air. My eyes darted back and forth behind sunglasses, scoping out the field.

This was it - the first day of swim lessons in our new town - the ultimate pick up scene. This place was crawling with moms, and I was on the prowl.

It was pretty new territory for me. In our previous town, all my girlfriends and I started having babies at the same time. My friends became my mom friends; no mom dating required. This worked for me. I was never very good at the witty banter and thoughtful questioning that first dates require. Today had to be different; I brought my A game.

I unloaded at an empty table and attended to my children, careful to present myself as available but not overly desperate. I knelt down to give my daughter the obligatory pep talk about obeying her teacher and being a kind friend. My speech faded off as I noticed a mom at the next table smothering her child in Banana Boat. We exchanged a quick glance and brief smile before our moment was cut short by a whistle and a lady with a clipboard. 

I walked my daughter over to the pool fence and casually hung around to check out the kids (read: moms) in her class. It was a small class, only five children, and one was dropped off by her dad. Useless.

I sat on a bench and began gauging the compatibility potential of each mom. Did she look friendly? Did she look funny? Was she too put together? Too frantic? Was she a high-strung mom or an I-don't-put-sunscreen-on-my-kids mom? Did she have other children? Did it look like she already had enough friends? Was she out of my league, or did I stand a fair chance?

First impression: everyone seemed taken. Moms were already paired up or huddled in small groups chatting about swim meets and The Bachelorette. Should I move closer? Maybe I looked unapproachable or uninterested sitting on this bench alone. I was just about to walk a lap with my son when I spotted her.

She was walking toward the fence, just a few feet from my bench with a baby on her hip, a toddler at her side, and waving to a boy in my daughter’s class. I gave her the quick once over. 

Nice smile. Must be friendly, maybe even funny. Bonus.

Sporty outfit. Hmmm. Might be one of those moms who exercises. We can work on that.

Alone. Perfect. She could be as desperate as I am.

This might be it. This could be my next mom friend.

I debated some of my best pick up lines —

"Do you live around here?"

"Cute yoga pants!"

"There's actually gin and tonic in this water bottle if you want some."

But instead of wooing her over with my wit and charm, I froze and spent the remainder of the swim lesson with a creepy smile and awkward stare.

Oof. It's a wonder I ever made any mom friends.

I came back the next day with gumption. To my dismay, my target dropped off her son and proceeded to leave.

Leave? Are moms allowed to leave during swim lessons? I'm not required to sit by the fence giving a thumbs up every time my daughter puts her whole head under water? Interesting. She was a bit of risk-taker. I liked her even more. 

Day three. I had to make it happen. I spotted her in the kiddie pool, sitting in the shallow end with a baby in her lap. A few days a week, the kiddie pool opens up during swim lessons, which is perfect for entertaining younger siblings. That's it. That's my line. I had to move quickly. I picked up my son, walked around the pool with confidence, and sat down next to her in the water, shamelessly invading her personal space.

"It is so nice that some days they open up the kiddie pool during swim lessons. Sure makes it easier than trying to entertain him myself for a half hour."

Hook, line, and sinker. She totally bought it, and we launched into first date chitchat.

Over the course of the next two weeks, the small talk continued. Conversation stayed within the recommended boundaries for early dates — summer vacation plans, preschool, and best local restaurants. Neither of us mentioned gender-neutral toy aisles, immunizations, organic food, or Donald Trump. Our children played together nicely with minimal toy snatching, and all signs pointed to compatibility. With the last day of swim lessons approaching, I knew what I needed to do. If this was going to continue, I had to get her number. 

Driving to the pool on the last day, I was determined to not let cold feet get the best of me. I tried rehearsing a few lines for casually exchanging numbers, but all I could hear was Carly Rae Jepsen's voice singing in my head. (Insert head bopping to chorus of Call Me Maybe.)

We met at our usual spot in the kiddie pool, chatting until swim lessons were over. Ring Pops and certificates were handed out as moms dried off their children and began packing up to head home.  Not us. We had plans. That's right. Plans. We had decided to pack picnic lunches for the kids and spend the afternoon at the pool. That's kinda like second base, yes?

The kids were all gathered around the table with pruney fingers grabbing at each other's food. This is a good sign; when your children are making serious trades like my pretzel for your BBQ chip, you know you're knee deep in this friendship thing.  No turning back now. My moment was here. 

Uh oh. Carly Rae's voice was back.

Hey, I just met you

And this is crazy

Come on, Joy. Speak. 

But here's my number. 

Do it. Get her number.

So call me maybe.

And then, something I never saw coming. She did it. She totally blindsided me. 

"Hey," she said, "Before you go, we have to be sure to exchange numbers."

Genius. So simple. So well-played.

She just swept right in there and stole my moment. She must really like me.

I bet she practiced in the car.

This essay was first published by Coffee + Crumbs, my favorite site for all things motherhood.

my lame to-do list

Stephen came home to crabby children, a messy house, and scrambled eggs for dinner, again.

I felt the need to defend myself, or more accurately, I felt the need to console myself and feel accomplished. I opened my planner onto the kitchen counter as Stephen tackled the dishes.

"I am going to name for you all the things I got done today. You won't be interested in most of these, and I recognize this isn't for you - it's for me. But when I'm done reading my list, I'll need you to be proud of me. Maybe even clap."

Stephen's a good sport about ridiculous requests, so in an urgent yet mocking fashion, he turned off the water, and leaned across the counter to humor me with his undivided attention.

I proceeded to read the following list:

Fold laundry

Deposit check

Return stuff to Target

Call Verizon (I deserve a medal for this one!)

Order the canvas print

Empty the dishwasher

Make eye doctor appointment

Cut the kids' nails

What a sorry looking list.

It seemed foolish to rattle off a list that only reinforced my lame life, but my unshowered body and shriveled up mind needed to feel effective. By the looks of crabby child #1, tantrum-throwing child #2, and this "well played in" house, I had little meat to show for my day.

I desperately wanted to think back on my day and feel a sense of pride, but instead, my day was unimpressive and filled with tasks a trained monkey could do.

But Stephen clapped anyway.

*****

For twelve years, I walked into school and knew a to-do list would be waiting on my desk. Sometimes it was a long one on a yellow legal pad and organized into categories like "To Copy," "Phone Calls," "Must Do Today,", and "Must Do By Friday." Other times it was a scattering of items jotted down on neon post-it notes or a sliver of white space in the corner of my plan book.

It was a never-ending list, and for every item scratched off, another two were added in its place. Nevertheless, each day was marked by tangible accomplishments - phone calls made, emails sent, lesson plans written, teachers observed, agendas drafted, meetings conducted, problems solved, presentations completed, papers graded, resources gathered. Boom.

I got stuff done. Impressive stuff.  Important stuff.

Months later, I am still adjusting to this stay-at-home-mom gig, and my list looks different, less satisfying. That rewarding feeling of an impressive, productive day is slipping away.

*****

I imagine I am not alone in my love-hate relationship with these lists. In a social setting, I complain, burdened by a to-do list that haunts my sleep, but secretly, I love that list. I love the sound a Paper Mate Flair pen makes as it crosses off a completed item, and I know I'm not the only one who adds already completed tasks to my list just to feel the rush of checking it off.

I spent three years juggling motherhood with a career and would have been grateful to complete a list like the one above in a week. I know the battle of getting nothing done, forcing myself to surrender the to-do list and play Candyland or cars instead. But these past few months, time has been on my side. With one in preschool, another obsessed with his train table, and afternoon naps still going strong (knock on wood), my Paper Mate Flair pen can swoosh through that to-do list.

Why isn't that enough? Productivity ought to be satisfying.

My day is filled with doing, but what I'm looking for are a few items to activate the 80% of my brain that is turning to mush. Dishwashers? Phone calls? Errands? Ugh. I can practically hear my brain jingling around up there.

I used to get stuff done. Impressive stuff. Important stuff.  

Don't say it. I already know.

It matters. That lame to-do list matters. 

******

I decided to stay at home with my children for many reasons, the most pressing being Stephen and I weren't content with our quality of life. Yes, we had more breathing room in the budget with two incomes, but no breathing room with our time. Weekends were spent catching up on the bare bones of survival - laundry, grocery shopping, running a Clorox wipe over the bathroom sink. And when we ignored those responsibilities and opted for a family day, we paid the price of falling even further behind. We'd blink, and it was Monday morning, back to the grind. Weeknights were exhausting, a mad rush to stay afloat until the kids were in bed, and then Netflix. So much Netflix. Who had energy for anything else?

So we made a change. I traded that never-ending, seemingly impressive to-do list for a lame one, filled with mundane, brain-mushing tasks. But it has made all the difference. 

It means we can breathe at night. We can pop popcorn and watch a movie with the kids without folding laundry and writing a grocery list at the same time. We can both put the kids to bed rather than one of us heading out to run errands after dark.

It means we can stay in our pjs on Saturday until whenever we want. We can go for a bike ride or spontaneously invite friends for dinner without feeling suffocated by the phone calls we didn't make and the chores we ignored. 

It means I can support Stephen in a way I haven't had time to before. I get to make his day a little bit easier, and hopefully a little bit better by relieving him of the trivial but necessary tasks of life, freeing him up to pour into a job he loves and a family he loves. 

*****

I am quite certain that tomorrow I will be cleaning up spilled milk for the umpteenth time while my brain wiggles and jiggles. I will mumble words unsuitable for my grandmother's ears rather than remembering what my lame daily accomplishments really mean for our family. That's the funny thing about truth - we know it, we speak it, we write it, but it doesn't always play out in our hearts and actions. 

Some days I ache for impressive - for pencil skirts, high heels, meetings, and presentations. I want to learn something and be challenged by new information. I want to solve a problem and organize an event. 

Instead, I make pancakes, sit on hold with Verizon, and entertain a toddler in the post office line. I make animal noises, talk about rainbows, and constantly answer the question "Can I have a treat?". I organize toys, manage schedules, and buckle children into car seats a dozen times a day. I take Charlotte to preschool and perfect Andrew's forward roll during parent/child gymnastics class. I sing songs at storytime and prepare the guest bedroom for upcoming visitors. I fold, iron, tickle, paint, read, hug, cook, call, build, drive, laugh, wash, teach, play, sing, snuggle, and kiss chubby cheeks. 

I get stuff done. Nothing impressive, but everything important.

cold tea & peanut butter crackers

I pulled into the driveway just after 4:00 to pick up Charlotte. For over a year, my dear friend had been on full-day babysitting duty while I was teaching. Two days a week, my one-year-old daughter joined forces with her one-year-old daughter, and despite the cuteness overload, I have no doubt they were a handful together.

I gave a soft knock on the door and let myself in. I could hear murmurs coming from the kitchen, and as I walked past the family room, I noticed a Bible laying open on the coffee table. Next to it was a journal, pen, and mug. Nosiness got the best of me, and I leaned over to peek into the mug. Sure enough, still half full with a sorry looking tea bag floating on top.

I wondered if it was my daughter who caused the abrupt ending to this quiet time.

I knew the frustration of a passage unread, thoughts unwritten, and a drink turned cold.

Bible study looks different when you're the mom of little ones.

*****

A few years ago, I was invited to join a Thursday night ladies' Bible study. As a working mom, my sole evening commitment was unloading three lunch boxes, washing an ungodly amount of dishes, and repacking breakfasts, lunches, and snacks for the following day. I also had a standing date with Netflix and the loveseat. Venturing out on a weeknight really wasn't my jam.

Nevertheless, I signed up, bought my book, and really enjoyed the first week. I completed my homework, and despite the exhaustion and touch of nausea that had slowed me down the past few days, I headed out on a cold, February night for another week of Bible study.

About an hour in, the nausea and overall feeling of yuckiness had increased. Should I excuse myself?  Was I sick? Should I take off work tomorrow?

Then it clicked. What took me so long to put it together?

I stopped at CVS on the way home and sure enough, baby number two was making himself known. He continued to make himself known over the next months by forming a one man mutiny against energy usage,  the smell of Kroger, and food that wasn't a bagel. I skipped that evening commitment of washing dishes and packing meals, and instead headed straight for the loveseat. It was at least four more months before I rejoined the world.

I dropped out of Thursday night Bible study.

I felt guilty so I got up early one morning to work through some of it on my own, but I puked instead. 

Bible study looks different when you're the mom of little ones.

*****

After moving to a new town this summer, we were immediately drawn to Bethel Cincinnati - a church of passion, diversity, and commitment to Biblical truth. In so many wonderful and challenging ways, Bethel is different than any church Stephen or I have attended. One such challenge includes keeping our children in the service with us during the musical worship.

There is great value in singing and dancing alongside your children and allowing them to see a roomful of adults worshiping through music. But let's me honest, containing toddlers in a church service is a very specific kind of torture. My armpits get sweaty just thinking about it.

I want to be clear that not once have I been given a raised eyebrow or disapproving look by a stuffy church goer. In fact, quite the opposite. This beautiful body of Christ is gracious and welcoming - playing peek-a-boo with my children and easing my embarrassment with a wink and a smile when my darlings are out of sorts.

Charlotte has adjusted to this time, and is willing to be held or sit and listen. Whew.

Andrew has maneuvered under chairs and tables at an alarming speed. Eeks.

This leaves me with two options - get those elbows to the ground, grab his ankles and pull, or dangle snacks to lure him back. 

The power of Cheerios; it's a beautiful thing. All the mamas out there say, "Amen!"

The other week we were about thirty minutes into the service, and I could tell Andrew was done. We were reaching a rather climatic part of a song, a moment where you can feel the presence and passion of the Holy Spirit. The worship team had led us to repeat powerful descriptors of our Jesus.

"Holy, holy, holy. Mighty, mighty, mighty. Worthy, worthy, worthy."

Everyone was engaging with the Lord in personal ways - some were dancing, some were lifting their hands, some standing in silence, and some on their knees.

I, on the other hand, was seated with a package of peanut butter crackers squeezed between my knees, one hand catching crumbs from my son's mouth, the other hand lifted to Jesus as I repeatedly sang out the word "Holy, holy, holy."

"When do I go to my class?" whispered Charlotte.

"Soon."

Holy, holy, holy. The band continued.

"Mo cack pees?" asked Andrew with bulging cheeks.

"Finish the ones in your mouth first." Oh the crumbs.

Mighty, mighty, mighty. The instruments dropped out as voices sang.

I fell to my knees - not in reverent submission but because Andrew had knocked over water that was spreading toward the row in front of us. I wiped up the mess, and slowly pull out another cracker, waiting for him to swallow round one. You can't rush the snacks; they have to last at least five minutes.

"Mom, is this the last song?"

"I'm not sure, Charlotte."

Worthy, worthy, worthy.

Sunday morning looks different when you're the mom of little ones.

*****

Both of our children were handed over to church nursery workers since they were old enough to lift their heads. The sign on the nursery door said "three to eighteen months," but I snuck them in at two months, and thankfully, they were content to play and sing and eat piles of Goldfish crackers in my absence. 

This beautiful routine took a nosedive as we began attending Bethel Cincinnati this summer. After surviving the first half of the service (see above), I was eager for the pastor to pray over our children and send them to their own rooms. 

It might have been his age or the new church or the whole moving to a new town thing - most likely a combination of all - but when it came time to plop Andrew in the arms of a sweet nursery worker, he was not having it. 

"Give him ten minutes. He'll be fine," I said as I hurried out of sight, his screams echoing down the hallway. 

About ten minutes later, a nursery volunteer's head popped into the service, made eye contact with me, and gave an apologetic look. I hurried to the nursery to find Andrew, red-faced and covered in snot.

I scooped him up and rambled on about how he'd been in a church nursery since birth, and I'd never been called out of the service before. I'm pretty sure I even used the phrase "rock star in the nursery." Ugh. I was so embarrassed. No one wants to be the mom of the clingy, screaming child. 

And because his hysteria resulted in a successful rescue from mom, he pulled the same stunt next week - and the week after that, and the week after that. 

Stephen and I spent the next two months rotating nursery duty, leaving the other responsible for a sermon synopsis on the drive home.

Sunday morning looks different when you're the mom of little ones.

*****

I imagine these are scenes the Lord knows well - an attempted quiet moment in His Word interrupted by nap time gone wrong, an expectant mom whose spiritual disciplines are replaced with cries of exhaustion and sickness, a juggling act in the middle of church, and an embarrassed mom sneaking out the back door ten minutes into the sermon, again.

But I also imagine the Lord filled with compassion and a good sense of humor for the moms of little ones who keep seeking Him, clinging to Him with one hand and doling out peanut butter crackers with the other hand.

God is not interested in my sacrifices. It is not about my completed Bible studies or solemn worship. It is not about diligent sermon notes or guilt Satan wants to pour on me. It is about grace, and this rings louder when you're the mom of little ones.

"For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace."

John 1:16

confessions of a fun mom

I let my kids play in the rain today.

I'm such a fun mom.

It wasn't even a run-around-the-patio-and-get-back-inside-before-you're-too-wet kind of play. It was twenty minutes of pouring rain, barefoot, splashing, soaked-to-the-bone kind of play.

I watched those darlings squeal with glee as they hid under the awning, screaming in tandem, "ready, set, gooooo!" Two sets of little legs charging into a wet wonderland of puddles, and I thought to myself, "Look at me go, being all laid-back and type B. I'm gonna have to write about this so all the world will know what a fun mom I really am."

When much of the day is spent doubting myself, frustrated by my impatience or lack of creativity, a #momforthewin moment is such a breath of fresh air. There were no umbrellas and no rain coats; I'm that kind of wild mom. There was laughing, jumping, hugging, and even one moment my daughter shouted, "This is so much fun!" My heart melted, snapping dozens of mental pictures because the ones on my phone would never capture the magic of this moment.

Then it was time to come in.

The next thirty minutes reminded me why I carefully choose my fun mom moments. Those two precious children, who seconds earlier optimized childhood innocence, quickly plummeted into the depths of toddler hell. Fun mom vanished and crazy mom came charging on the scene as we transitioned back to reality.

This is the downside of fun mom moments - they have to end. Despite the fact that I just threw caution to the wind, allowing my children to play in the rain or eat ice cream for breakfast, or, heaven forbid, use glitter in the house, they do not respond with an extra dose of cooperation. Good grief. Where's the gratitude?

Instead, they turn me into crazy mom, standing in the rain, threatening a weeklong time out. Once inside with the doors locked, they squirm as I wrangle off wet clothes. Then, they proceed to flee in all directions as I corral their naked booties up the stairs. Inevitably a child slips. I'm forced to fake empathy when I really want to giggle and say, "Karma. Booyah." The whining explodes into high gear because they are cold, and I now transition from crazy mom to silent mom - the most frightening mom of all. I stop reasoning, stop threatening, and methodically move through each task without a word. I show no emotional response when the one-year-old pees on the floor or the four-year-old wants to wear her Easter dress for naptime. I ignore all questions and comments as I clean the floor and silently zip the back of a sleeveless, floral dress. I complete my motherly naptime duties, only breaking the silence to robotically read Goodnight Moon.

Blankets are distributed, curtains are drawn, and water cups are in place. When a song or back scratching is requested, I barely shake my head; they can read my eyes.

I exit the room and exhale.

Naptime has now been delayed a half-hour which undoubtedly means they will awaken a half-hour earlier than usual. I will spend this snippet of "free time" cleaning the grass and mud tracked in by little feet and starting a load of wet laundry that will sit in the washer until tomorrow. Farewell to my aspirations of being productive during naptime. I was going to write or prep dinner or remove the toenail polish that has been chipping away since August.

Change of plans.

All because I had to be a fun mom.

Moms, there are consequences to our recklessness. These children will not express gratitude by eagerly obliging to our every directive. They will want fun mom every moment of every day - chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, finger painting in the afternoon, and fort building before bed. Most frightening of all, they will begin to expect it. As if I can afford Dippin' Dots every time we go to the zoo.

Take heed. Backfire is inescapable.

If you push them  "Higher! Higher!" on that swing, they will fall off.

If you let them wear three tutus, pajama pants, a cowgirl hat, and life vest to the grocery store, you will see your boss.

If you let them skip naptime to stay all afternoon at the pool, they will not nap again for a week.

If you let them have a picnic on the family room floor, they will trip, spilling drinks and catapulting mac-and-cheese across the room.

If you buy them that 25¢ plastic ring, it will break on the car ride home and their world will end.

Consider yourselves warned.

And now, go do it anyway.

Heaven knows, we all need fun mom every once in awhile. Crazy mom and silent mom have their place and time, as do eat-something-green mom, no-you-can't-wear-shorts-in-December mom, drill sergeant mom, and pour-me-another-glass-of-wine-mom. Those moms are necessary, part of the gig for us and our children, but they won't be enough to keep us plugging along, pouring our very best into motherhood.

The repercussions of our carefree shenanigans will smack us in the face from time to time. But inevitably, the dust will settle - the puddles will be cleaned up, the tantrums will subside, and the schedule will return to normal. The chaotic memories will lessen, and we will be left replaying the scene right before the fun mom moment imploded in our face - the one where our mental camera was on burst and motherhood was exactly what we wanted it to be.

We will be filled with all the mommy feelings because our children are doing the kid thing right.

All because we had to be a fun mom.

This essay was originally published in The Tribe Magazine.

doing our mom thing: tapas and sangria style

It's been over a year since Stephen started talking about the collaborative work he was doing with a university in Mallorca, a small island floating off the coast of Spain in the Mediterranean Sea. 

"Maybe they'll invite me to come, and we can all go to Spain," he casually mentioned.

I probably nodded, only half listening, with no expectations of such an outlandish thought coming to fruition. Stephen tends to casually mention vacations on a semi-regular basis, most of which are to destinations requiring four layovers and a six time zone adjustment. I've learned to smile, nod, and wait for the plan to collapse on its own.

I guess I figured if this university did invite him, I wouldn't have the guts to drag two toddlers along and would end up staying home. I never thought I'd actually go to Spain. Truthfully, I don't even remember agreeing to go. I think Stephen swept in during a frantic mama moment when I was just saying "Yeah, sure," to anything.

Even after the tickets were purchased, my enthusiasm remained minimal.

I didn't look at one travel book. I read nothing online. I didn't even get a pedicure. Instead, my thoughts were consumed with the hours I would be held captive in an airplane, forced to restrain a one-year-old boy whom the airline deemed a "lap child."

I suppose "thrashing, wailing, running down the aisle child" wouldn't fit on the ticket.

I'll spare you the details of the meltdowns and tears, mostly from me, and just say I wouldn't wish eleven hours on three flights with a one-year-old on my worst enemy. But indeed, we're here. We made it, and whenever I remember I have to do it again in less than a week, I drink another glass of sangria and consider the likelihood of a local school needing an English-speaking literacy coach. Might be worth investigating.

*****

Whenever I am fortunate enough to find myself on the other side of the world, I am smacked in the face by my own smallness. Our first week in Mallorca was spent just blocks from the beach, our toes washed over by the Mediterranean Sea seven days in a row. The power of salt water far as my eyes can see reminds me that my life is such a speck on this great earth.

I need to feel like a grain of sand every so often.

Somehow the day in and day out of routine life leaves me drowning in myself - my town, my neighborhood, my home, my head, my comfort. I start thinking I'm it.  But watching a small, unfamiliar part of the world carry on its life brings me down to size.

On this trip, my eyes have been drawn to moms. There is something so grounding about seeing moms on the other side of the world doing their mom thing, especially because it looks so much like my mom thing.

We spent the morning walking around a small town filled with narrow streets, cute stores, and cafés galore. I spotted a mom walking the perimeter of a café, bouncing her fussy baby and pointing out each passing car. 

How many mothers have missed meals because we were entertaining a child who had no interest in sitting down for a leisurely lunch?

The other night we piled our two darlings into car seats that followed us nearly 5,000 miles across the Atlantic and into the backseat of a Mercedes Benz. This is what happens when the hubby is in charge of booking the rental car. We ventured into Palma, the capital city with just the right mix of urban flare, European charm, and historical beauty, including a massive 13th century Gothic cathedral overlooking the harbor. 

With the help of Google Maps, we wound our way through busy city streets and narrow cobblestone alleys to find a tapas restaurant. There was an outdoor seating area right in the midst of a busy square - two requirements when traveling with children. The meal was fantastic. Round one - quiche, meatballs, and a meaty, cheesy hot baguette. Round two - another meaty, cheesy hot baguette, bacon wrapped dates, mushrooms, and chorizo.

Our children's restaurant etiquette maxed out about the same time they devoured the last two bacon wrapped dates. Stephen hung back to pay the check, and I swept the darlings out before Andrew crawled under the table next to us, again. There was another family with three young children running circles in the plaza. Charlotte and Andrew quickly  joined, and I exchanged smiles with their mom as she sat on a bench, undoubtedly just as relieved as me for a few moments of easy entertainment - children squealing with delight, chasing one another with no hope of actually catching someone. 

It was precious. Too precious to last more than a moment. One of the girls fell, crying out in pain loud enough to catch the attention of nearby diners. She ran to her mom who responded with compassion and pulled a Band-Aid from her purse. But I could read her mom sigh. "Calm yourself. It's only a small scratch, and you're interrupting dinner for all of these people." 

How many mothers have pulled Band-Aids from our purses, comforting a screaming child while really thinking, "Oh good grief. Toughen up and quiet down."

We ended our night at a park right in the middle of the city. It was nearing 9:00, but you'd never know by the masses of children still running wild. I stood next to our stroller watching Charlotte climb and Andrew spin a steering wheel. On the bench next to me was a young mom, cradling her newborn who was swaddled tightly and still wrinkly.  The mom was pretty, wearing a black dress with small white polka dots and cinched around the waist. Her shoulder length hair was strawberry blond, and her bright red lipstick told me she surely needed a night out of the house. I couldn't help but wonder if earlier today she was losing her mind.  Did she pass the child off to dad, announce that tonight they were getting out of the house, and go take her first shower in days, perhaps weeks? I bet she actually dried her hair before pulling out that favorite lipstick with no care for where they actually went tonight.

And here she was, on a park bench, struggling to get her little one to nurse. She spoke softly in a language I didn't understand, perhaps German. I decided it couldn't be her first child; new moms aren't confident enough to nurse a newborn in a park (well, maybe in Europe they are). Sure enough, moments later, a toddler came running to her leg, followed by dad, who slipped his arm around mom, peeking down at the baby.

How many mothers have thrown on a cute dress and sassy lipstick just to sit on a park bench simply because we had to get out of that house?

I love moms. 

We're all just doing our mom thing, even here, on this tiny island I'd never heard of until a year ago. In the midst of unfamiliar, surrounded by street signs I can't read, outlets I can't use, and people eating ham and cheese sandwiches at ten in the morning, I can still see the familiarity of motherhood.

I don't understand a word you're saying to your child, but I know your purse is filled with snacks and Band-Aides.

I can't begin to guess what you make your child for lunch each day, but I know you'd love to sit in a restaurant and enjoy your entire meal without a child to entertain.

I don't know what television shows play on repeat in your house, but I know you find yourself humming cartoon theme songs while washing dishes.

I don't know the books you read each night, but I know you sneak in to watch your child sleep even when you're exhausted. 

I don't know when your child will start preschool in this country, but I know you want your child to grow to be gracious, thankful, and kind, but you're also worried what an unkind world might throw their way.

I know there are days you love doing your mom thing and days you feel like a monkey could be doing a better job than you. 

I know because I feel it - in my town, my neighborhood, my house on the other side of the world. I'm just doing my mom thing, too. But maybe I need more tapas and sangria to get me through the day.