Making memories to find the unique you! By R. Penny

Today's post is by mama R. Penny, an author and mom of two who shares how she makes memories with each of her kids, in a different, and yet similar way. Her story of acceptance and peace as a parent is heartwarming and we're excited to share her story here today. You can find R. Pennys book, The Baby, on Amazon. Did you know you can order your Stitches by Natalie animal to be made with your baby's clothing and mementos, such as hats and socks? Savor those early days forever as you continue to make memories with your little ones. Click over to see all the unique animals you can order for each of your children on our website.

Making memories to find the unique you!

I've wanted to be a mama for as long as I can remember. And "mama," specifically, for all it's storybook-ness. I imagined myself making porridge, melting crayon ends into psychedelic rainbow cupcakes, sewing aprons, replacing button eyes, climbing trees in great kite rescues, baking bread, building fairy homes and knotting the tiniest beads on the end of the thinnest thread, so nothing beautiful could ever slip off. All my heroics as a mother would be quiet, without a cape.

When my oldest was small, I would walk her through the mall in a fugue of postpartum depression. The first time her eyes really lit up, she toddled into Windsor Fashions and clutched a sequined gown and said, "dis!" In my overalls and sneakers I followed her as she took it all in, toddling down the storefronts to the MAC Counter. She banged the counter, "dis!" She lined her lips with a marker and perfect precision in her car seat. She was everything I never expected.

When our second came along, we moved her sister's old clothes into her new room. We laughed when she kicked off tights, tucked dresses into her diaper, pulled at patent leather shoes. We worried, some, when she said she was a boy. Every. Time. She was our small, fat spark - all giggles and faces. She could not understand. Or we could not. Each day she was a little quieter, a little softer or paler, like construction paper hung in a window. She cried at night, throughout. She would tantrum when someone said girl or she or her or sister. She pulled at her hair and her body. She laid on her stomach for diaper changes. She started hiding under a blanket when friends came, when we were home, when we rode in the car. One day she said, "would you like me to pretend to be a girl? Would that be better?" And no. It would not. What could we do? But talk. To her, doctors, therapists, teachers, friends, Google. We asked her, who she is. She said she was a son. She told my husband, "I just want you to say, I love you, my boy." And we did and we do. And a bright light came back to him. His scribbles became self portraits over night. He toilet trained in three days. He started sleeping through the night for the first time ever. And when we cut his hair he said, "oh!" to the mirror, surprised and joyous, "I is me!" And he is. And I hold him and his truth and his sister and know that there are no quiet heroics in motherhood. There is much unexpected heart shouting and soul shrieking and spirit surprising. And for my sweet boy, there is a book, for now, that is just the shape of him. Because I want him to know, that while his story isn't everyone's, it's an important one. For him and for all the hims and hers.

Book link: e%20baby%20r.%20penny&pi=AC_SX236_SY340_FMwebp_QL65&qid=1519708228&ref=plSrch&ref_=mp_s _a_1_1&sr=8-1

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