Hey Segullah Blog readers, it’s me, Heather H. Not the witty and ever-present Heather O., nor the poetically gifted Heather B. But me, the I-used-to-blog-about-once-a-month editorial staff member who has been scarce as of late due to a beautiful new baby. Do you remember me? Have you missed me? If you remember me, okay. If you have actually missed me, then THANKS and please email to let me know (or just leave it in the comments, but don’t feel pressure if you have no idea who I am. We can get to know each other from here on out). A few emails letting me know you have missed reading my take on the world could work wonders for my motivation and follow-through regarding this whole writing thing. (You bet I’m fishing. Desperate times call for desperate measures my friends.) You see, after the arrival of the aforementioned beautiful new baby (#3) I began to drop some of the balls I usually try and keep in the air and am just beginning to pick them up again. I would like to get some of those balls back up in the air again, because you know what, some days I miss me and feel anxious to be re-acquainted with the parts of me that don’t have to do with nursing newborns, being tested by toddlers, or shuttling preschoolers to and fro. So with that lengthy re-introduction behind us let me get to it. And by “it” I mean sharing something from my recent life of motherhood that I will try to cleverly tie back to one of the outstanding literary articles from our last issue of Segullah, so we can discuss.

A few weeks back my almost-three-year-old son forced me to mop the floor. The new baby’s arrival has rocked the world of my toddler son, Cole. You’re thinking, “Well yeah, of course it has.” But at the risk of showing my young-motherhood naiveté I’m here to admit this has come as a shock to me. I assumed that because he isn’t the only child, because he loves babies, because he has generally been a sweet compliant kid, he wouldn’t have much of an adjustment to this new sibling. I thought he would be thrilled and happy to fetch diapers, be quiet when I ask because the baby is sleeping, wait for me anytime he needs something if I’m feeding her, etc. Okay, so when I put it like that I realize, “Well yeah, of course it has.” I also now have hindsight to shed some light on the subject. This hindsight includes weeks worth of power-struggles, tears, and prayers regarding the sudden misbehavior of my sweet toddler. As time passes I’m able to laugh a little more about some of our experiences and cry a little less regarding my poor parenting choices, but oooh boy it has been a challenge.

My oldest daughter Margaret recently turned five years old. Before the baby came I taught her how to do a few things like get her own drink of water and make a piece of bread, not toasted, with butter and honey for breakfast (that’s what she likes, and that’s how she always describes it, “a piece of bread, not toasted”). I figured any little thing I could get someone else to do would help when the baby came. And it has been great. She loves this bit of independence and makes a point to let me know when she’s preparing her own food. However, she hasn’t mastered putting everything away, so there is often the butter dish and honey bear left on the counter. You can already see where this is going, can’t you? Yeah, well one day I’m nursing the baby, Margaret is already gone to preschool and Cole is quiet. It’s cliché to say, but that is troubling with a toddler boy in the house. I called out to have him come talk to me and he came straight from the kitchen, a grin on his face.

“Hey buddy, what are you doing?” I smile. No need to get alarmed or angry. He’s smiling; I’m smiling; everything’s okay. But I am a little worried.

“I’m just squirting the honey bear all over.”

Shocked I remain silent for a moment. He continues, “I made a big mess of honey all over,” he’s still smiling and I’m still . . .nursing, but no longer smiling. As a secondary reaction, the one after stunned silence, anger bubbles up and I want to yell. It’s the kind of mess he won’t be able to clean up by himself and good honey from the farmer’s market that I don’t want to spend the money to replace. I notice honey drizzled down the front of his shirt, a sticky sheen to his hands and a twinkle in his eye. I try to justify the yell by thinking about how he’s almost three and knows that’s not okay, but my nursing baby has fallen asleep and she’s there, innocently sucking, chubby and soft and I can’t just yell. In fact she reminds me so much of my son who now stands triumphantly messy before me that I just take a deep breath, throw up a quick silent prayer and calmly say, “Well that’s too bad, because now we won’t have any honey to eat.” Cole’s smile fades and he starts to cry. I probably need not state the obvious, that he clearly wanted attention. not a ban on honey. I swaddle the baby and lay her down, give Cole a hug, direct him to the bathroom where I clean his hands, then tuck him into bed for his afternoon nap, still in tears over the loss of honey. I go into the kitchen and get out the stuff to mop and clean up. On my knees I realize I really needed to mop anyway. Truly, the floor disgusted me. It was a blessing in disguise. Okay, that’s pretty Pollyanna of me, I know, and perhaps just a tad exaggerated for the benefit of this short piece, but I did feel happy to have a clean floor. Beyond that I had received a gentle prompting from the spirit, the inspiration to not only resist the natural me, but the guidance to know what to say. Cole experienced the natural consequence and the situation diffused instead of exploded.

Isn’t our Father in Heaven so wonderful like that? He guides, prompts, comforts, inspires. That’s what He did, on a grander scale for the author of the piece “Gold to Give.” As she consecrated her time and energy the Lord blessed her in ways she could see then and others that became prevalent in hindsight. So, discuss. What is it that you are consecrating in service to the Lord, how is He helping you, guiding you, blessing you?

Related posts:

1. Time Out
2. Prayers that work
3. Nursing