• Home
    • About Us
    • The Team
    • Contact
    • Submissions
  • Blog
  • Podcast
  • Brunch
Menu

Coffee + Crumbs

  • Home
  • About
    • About Us
    • The Team
    • Contact
    • Submissions
  • Blog
  • Podcast
  • Brunch
Babies Aren't Science Fair Projects 4-Taken by Lottie.JPG

Babies Aren't Science Fair Projects

April 6, 2018 | C+C Guest Writer

For the science fair in fifth grade, I studied color blindness. The project guidelines were fairly liberal (after all, we were only 11), so while other kids built ramps, exploded things, and left food out to mold, I took a more “foolproof” approach: research. Lots of it.

I set up an appointment with a local eye doctor and acquired a model of the eye. I printed out tests of colored dots and searched for articles on microfilm machines (because that’s what you did before the Internet—weird). I learned the difference between rods and cones, and glued clip-art eyeballs onto poster board.

Then, on the date of the science fair, I set up my tri-fold display board and authoritatively answered questions from visitors. I even recall a man with his wife who found out he was color blind for the first time through my project.

“What do all those little dots mean?"

“Oh, honey, of course it's a bird."

“A bird? I don't see any bird!"

"Dear! Well, you must be colorblind! No wonder you can never match your clothes …"

Then he and his wife moved on quickly, the man still glancing quizzically over his shoulder.

Even at the young age of 11, the research approach worked for me. I did not have to experience mishaps involving fire, living things, or explosive flour. I simply became a fifth-grade expert on one topic, presented the information, and diagnosed a man with an eye condition—without even being a doctor.

A+.

***

When I became pregnant with my first child, I assumed babies would work a little like my fifth-grade science fair project. Do enough research, get some reliable results. I did not say that out loud, of course. But by that point I had earned a few more A’s and a college degree, so surely I could figure this parenting thing out. Right?

On the day my son was born, so many things went, well, “not textbook.” My admission to the hospital began with a faulty IV attempt that left blood squirting on the floor, followed by a non-working epidural, a rare tear during delivery, and finally a visit to the Operating Room still in stirrups to have my insides repaired by a tag-team of doctors. For three hours.

In hindsight, I should have accepted that labor experience as a metaphor for life with kids—you know, the whole "not textbook" part. Instead, while I was very literally knocked on my butt in those early months, I turned to the coping strategy I knew best: research.

Message boards. Texting / calling / stalking every mom I knew. Practically memorizing kellymom.com. I still have a half dozen books on my Kindle ordered at 3 a.m., during my son’s first year of life.

I was the ultimate first-time mom: full of google factoids, and very low on sleep. (A terrible combination, I have since learned.)

I tried, quite earnestly, to apply all of my research and turn my baby into an A-worthy science project. Research in, results out! Although I never said it, I think somewhere down deep I wanted my kid to become a beautiful display board testifying to my own amazing parenting.

But I wasn’t doing amazing that year. Nursing was hard. Adding a tiny human to our marriage was hard. Not sleeping was hard. Even when the baby was asleep, my brain felt frozen and awake, analyzing the minutiae of our day. I sometimes found myself driving circles around the city on a dangerously-empty gas tank so my baby would stay asleep in the car. My anxiety was high, and I could not see that it may have been linked to postpartum hormones and a difficult delivery.

None of my research worked, at least not in the way I wanted. So, although my baby was doing great—thriving, in fact!—I often felt like I was failing.

F.

***

No one actually gave me a grade on that first year of parenting, of course (thank God). And over time, things started to feel easier. My baby grew up, I quit nursing, and that squishy, crying bundle grew into a walking little boy who called me “mama.” Slowly, it felt like I could breathe.

Then, just when we were enjoying long nights of sleep again, we had another baby. (Somehow it seems those two things may be related?)

To my surprise, the second baby transition has been much smoother. Still, there is something about a baby that will turn even the most reasonably sane person desperate.

One day not long ago, I found myself chasing a dark rabbit trail of despair. I was getting a little anxious for some predictability, a shower, and perhaps a baby who would drink from something other than my chest. Our newborn daughter had been in the world for an entire 12 weeks—the magical age when the baby books claim you’ll be hitting your stride—but our days still felt foggy and off-beat. The baby was taking 30-minute naps and refused a bottle or pacifier. I was over-caffeinated and under-bathed. All day I found myself sneaking away to google something, trying to fight against my inner sense of failure. Did I need to schedule more? Swaddle more? Buy three different kinds of bottles? Order a custom-made pacifier?

That night, as I nursed my daughter to sleep, I felt too weary to even scroll social media, so I finally put down my phone and held her with both arms, closing my eyes and humming to the rhythm of the rocker. When I opened my eyes and looked down, she was asleep, her little fingers wound tightly around two of mine.

So I sat there. Doing nothing but holding her tiny hand right back. And in the dark of the nursery, with our hands laced together, I could see the truth so clearly:

Babies are not science fair projects.

Babies are people.

I know. It seems so obvious, like something I should have figured out in fifth grade.

But like seeing dots and never knowing they hid a bird, I have not always clearly seen the person inside my babies—especially in the early days, when their personalities feel clouded behind so many cries and needs, and when advice comes at you from every angle like dodgeballs in elementary school P.E.

I once thought babies came in standard sizes, maybe with a few alterations here and there. But it turns out babies are much like everyone else I know: beautifully imperfect and wonderfully human. Mothering a baby is less like creating a science fair display and more like developing a relationship.

Research is still my default mode, but on my better days, I find myself doing less frantic googling and a little more surviving, a little more laughing, a little more praying for the souls inside those tiny bodies who will one day grow into fifth-graders, teenagers (Lord, help us), and adults—maybe even with babies of their own.

I’m discovering that one of the central callings of motherhood is not research, but vision—the ability to see past the challenges of this moment or phase, to watch for clues about who my children are, and to imagine who they might become. Perhaps the baby phase is so hard because we are only beginning to see the little person we have been given to raise. Like watching the outer edges of the sun as it peeks up over the horizon, the experience is both breathtaking and makes us wish we could crawl back into bed. But if we keep looking in the right direction, there will be so much more to see.


Guest post written by Jenna Brack. Jenna lives in a very old house in Kansas City with her husband and two young children. She is an adjunct English instructor who loves good coffee, college football, serious conversation, and not-too-serious fiction. Find her on Twitter.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.

Facebook0 Twitter
46 Likes 5 Comments

If these words encouraged you, we'd love for you to consider supporting us over at Patreon.

In New Mom Tags new mom, finding our way
← The Horrifying and Hilarious Tale of the Rogue Suburban FlasherWhere's My Daughter? Call Her Forth →
CoffeeCrumbs_Mark1_High (1).png

Coffee + Crumbs is a collection of stories
about motherhood, love, and the good kind of heartache. 


Subscribe via Feedly

Subscribe via E-mail

Subscribe via BlogLovin'


Our book: 

MagicofMotherhood.jpg

our Podcast:

vsco_030417.jpg

Our Instagram:

Foster care has forced a reality to the forefront of my every day that I would rather pretend doesn’t exist: my children are not my own.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
We said yes to our first tiny boy the moment I heard the words “double fractured skull.” He was mine, wholly and completely, before I even met him.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
We said yes to our first little girl when we heard she was his sister. She didn’t talk; she was terrified of men. She was mine when I had to be brave for her in a way I already wished I had never experienced as a mama.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
We had them for three months. Then they left. I couldn’t stop crying. They were safe and cared for and it was right, but it still hurt.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
We said yes to our second son just a few weeks later. He looked at us with his giant brown eyes and wondered who we were. Six months later, he has favorite things each of our older kids do, he whispers “dadada”, and he snuggles into my shoulder when he’s tired. It'll break us again if he leaves. He has become wholly and completely ours.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Why do I keep saying yes to potential heartache? Because I learned not long ago that my children are not my own. My hope for their safety, their future, their well-being, isn't determined by how well I parent or how wise I am.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Hope grows and bears fruit in the most miraculous of ways. Hope grows out of brokenness and allows us to not just step into others' hurt, but to say yes to the most broken and vulnerable because His hope has become our declaration.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
My inheritance is my hope. Nothing can take away what Jesus has for me. So if for now I live with uncertainty and hurt, it's temporary. Nothing can change the perfectly-healed, no more crying, no more pain future He has for me.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
“Isn't it hard to give them back?” Always. But my Healer is stronger than my fear and His hope is stronger than my hurt. // #growyourhope by @pursuedby_ #ccfreewrite #fostercare

Currently reading:

41vgUt52dBL.jpg

From the archives:

Featured
Anna Jordan
A Prayer for the Mom Who Has Naughty Children
Anna Jordan
Anna Jordan
Anna Jordan
Getting My Body Back
Anna Jordan
Anna Jordan
Ashlee Gadd
The Gift of Each Other
Ashlee Gadd
Ashlee Gadd
Katie Blackburn
When You Love My Children
Katie Blackburn
Katie Blackburn
Katie Blackburn
Thermostats
Katie Blackburn
Katie Blackburn
Jennifer Batchelor
Where Do We Go From Here?
Jennifer Batchelor
Jennifer Batchelor
Sonya Spillmann
How Are You, Really?
Sonya Spillmann
Sonya Spillmann
Katie Blackburn
I Wanted To Be Something Great
Katie Blackburn
Katie Blackburn
April Hoss
I'm With Her
April Hoss
April Hoss
Jennifer Batchelor
Sometimes Babies Don't Sleep
Jennifer Batchelor
Jennifer Batchelor
Jennifer Batchelor
Love You Like This
Jennifer Batchelor
Jennifer Batchelor
Ashlee Gadd
I Became A Mother In That Chair
Ashlee Gadd
Ashlee Gadd
April Hoss
Biological
April Hoss
April Hoss
Anna Quinlan
Momentum
Anna Quinlan
Anna Quinlan
Katie Blackburn
Dance Lessons
Katie Blackburn
Katie Blackburn

Foster care has forced a reality to the forefront of my every day that I would rather pretend doesn’t exist: my children are not my own.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
We said yes to our first tiny boy the moment I heard the words “double fractured skull.” He was mine, wholly and completely, before I even met him.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
We said yes to our first little girl when we heard she was his sister. She didn’t talk; she was terrified of men. She was mine when I had to be brave for her in a way I already wished I had never experienced as a mama.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
We had them for three months. Then they left. I couldn’t stop crying. They were safe and cared for and it was right, but it still hurt.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
We said yes to our second son just a few weeks later. He looked at us with his giant brown eyes and wondered who we were. Six months later, he has favorite things each of our older kids do, he whispers “dadada”, and he snuggles into my shoulder when he’s tired. It'll break us again if he leaves. He has become wholly and completely ours.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Why do I keep saying yes to potential heartache? Because I learned not long ago that my children are not my own. My hope for their safety, their future, their well-being, isn't determined by how well I parent or how wise I am.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Hope grows and bears fruit in the most miraculous of ways. Hope grows out of brokenness and allows us to not just step into others' hurt, but to say yes to the most broken and vulnerable because His hope has become our declaration.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
My inheritance is my hope. Nothing can take away what Jesus has for me. So if for now I live with uncertainty and hurt, it's temporary. Nothing can change the perfectly-healed, no more crying, no more pain future He has for me.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
“Isn't it hard to give them back?” Always. But my Healer is stronger than my fear and His hope is stronger than my hurt. // #growyourhope by @pursuedby_ #ccfreewrite #fostercare
I’m raising four children, two of whom live bravely with special medical and developmental needs. Mothers like me often hear, “You’re superwoman,” but we’re no heroes. I’m certainly not. I am a full-human who often aches for some numbing cream of her own.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
What removes the sting when the doctor tells you to sit down?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
My attempts to make it hurt a little less come in many forms: Pushing my cart through Target, picking a fight with my husband, pouring a glass of wine. Just an innocent application of a little numbing cream on my heart.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
There’s nothing to slather on that absolves the questions that arise late at night. Will he talk? Will she walk? Will I outlive them? Why can’t I make this better?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
But I’d trade all the numbing cream in the world for the ability to take on my children’s pain. I pray that I could substitute my suffering for theirs, but I’m their mother. Not their savior.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I’m an aching mom doing her best to make things hurt a little less.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Be still. I sense an invitation to stop running. My lungs are tired and I struggle to breathe.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// "Numbing Cream" guest post by @kayla_craig, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
“Exhaustion has become the social norm among busy women. And let’s admit the hard truth, we often find ourselves glorifying those busy schedules, giving ourselves a pat on the back when we squeeze one more commitment into an already too-packed day, and admiring others who seem to handle the juggling act as if they were a professional in a three-ring circus.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
On the Coffee + Crumbs podcast today, Indiana talks with Shaunti Feldhahn, author and social researcher, about her latest book, Finding Rest, and the practices science says we should make a part of our daily lives in order to become more rested women. They discuss one BIG lie women believe that keeps us from rest and don’t miss the one simple thing Shaunti shares that has been scientifically shown to improve 89% of relationships within 30 days! (Let us know if you give it a shot …)
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
As always, you can find the Coffee + Crumbs podcast on iTunes, Stitcher, iHeartRadio, or simply click the link in our profile to listen!
Some people try to have a biological baby and when that doesn’t work, they move toward adoption and in a large number of stories, these parents eventually welcome a biological baby into their family.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I think this is fantastic. I mean it. I am crying at the baby showers with all of the rest of the people who for this child prayed.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I know what it is to long, long, to have a child with the person you love most. I know what it is to wonder if that will ever happen, and to mostly believe the fear that resides in your heart that tells you, that tells you all the time: it never will.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I know what it is to be told by a doctor "I feel good about this one," and to hide my maniac, Wuthering Heights Heathcliff eyes, and do all that I can not to grab them by the white collar and say "do you really?!?"
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I know.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
But. That’s not why you’re here. That’s not the reason every single person starts filling out those stacks of papers. And it matters.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// "Voodoo Baby" by @aprilhoss, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
My parents were teenagers when I was born: my father barely old enough to legally drive, my mother taking her first semester of college classes with a newborn at home. I wasn’t the only unplanned baby to come from that area in rural Oklahoma where small towns and winding backroads don’t produce much entertainment for teenagers.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
From the pieces I have gathered along the way, I know my parents were passionate people as teenagers. For years they were on again, off again. They loved and fought with equal intensity, and their parents' indignity toward the whole situation didn't help matters. By the time I was three or four, I think my father realized he simply wasn’t ready for parenthood, nor did he yet have the means to take care of me the way he (and my fiercely-protective grandfather) thought I deserved. When my mom married a man who adopted me on paper and into his life and who I’ve ever since called “Dad,” my father bowed out. And that was alright, really. Maybe it was even for the best. Partly because I was so young, and partly because I still had a wonderful dad to raise me, I never questioned it, though I wondered about it from time to time. // From "Blackberries" by @bek_warren, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
When I saw the bathroom sink full of soapy water and bright pink pants soaking in it, I was upset. The shower floor was covered in toilet paper, open shampoo bottles, and exploded baby powder — all when we were minutes away from bedtime.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
She braced herself as she explained that she forgot to put the pants she wore when she rode the tractor with Daddy — the ones with mud all over them — into the dirty laundry basket before I went to the laundromat. She didn't want me to have to wash them.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
So, she tried to wash them herself.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
She scrubbed and scrubbed, but the mud wouldn't come out. She accidentally dropped the shampoo bottle in her shower, so she used toilet paper to try to wipe it up. The shower floor was still sticky, but she remembered that baby powder helps when her baby brother gets a rash from being too wet, so she thought maybe it would dry up the shampoo, too.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
She said, "I'm so sorry, Mommy," and asked me if I could tell her how to clean it, so she could do it herself. So I wouldn't have to clean another mess someone else made.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
And I felt all of the muscles in my jaw soften, and the tears start brimming in my eyes. She's only four, but she saw me today. She thought of Mommy first. And she tried her hardest. Today, that was so much more than enough. // #growyourhope by @simplystatedok #ccfreewrite

Copyright Coffee + Crumbs © 2014-2018. All Rights Reserved