I haven't written anything on my blog for almost 6 months. I know this because my last post was in celebration of my baby girl's first birthday party. And then, it was suddenly summer, and, as summers always seem to do, it flew by in a whir of green and heat and sticky, sweet smelling nights sprinkled with the songs of crickets, frogs and cicadas. We played in water at every chance, in pools, oceans, lakes and puddles. I became engrossed in my garden and soaking up all the beautiful weather we could. And just as quickly as it appeared, summer has gone, tucked in for another year while fall here makes her grand appearance. And grand it has been, the leaves where we live become so vibrant, that despite seeing this particular phenomenon for the past thirty one years, I still stare and gawk and drink it in every year as if I had never seen it before. The beginning of every season brings on the romance, the thoughts and fantasy of what is soon to come.
My sister recently, intelligently, introduced me to her idea of romance. While she is experiencing her first bouts of baby fever as she watches her friends bellies swell, she has a concrete understanding that she is in love with the romance of motherhood, but the reality is something she is not currently prepared for. The irony being, that if you understand this, you actually are more prepared than most parents.
Another mother blogger (ok, I like that, I really like that, mother blogger, mother bl#@%gger) recently wrote a post about firsts. How we look forward to all these firsts, cherish them, remember them, document them with photos and locks of hair taped to albums or tucked in silver boxes...but never the lasts.
Over the summer, we had so many firsts and lasts. J's last nursing session, where she solidified her decision to cease nursing by vomiting all over me the last time I offered. She took her first steps, first big fall, first, and second, asthma attack. She said "I love you" and "mama" and she has little conversations with her sister. My big girl potty trained, started preschool, and is suddenly drawing letters and spelling her name. I didn't even have time for the romance, the reality came too soon.
I was taken aback at first, by my sisters revelation of romance. She seemed to understand what most of us don't, pre-children. The fantasy is better than the reality, a lot of the time. Yes there are sweet moments of a baby sleeping in your lap, it's beautiful to see, but to the owner of that lap, there is little time to enjoy that moment. We try, we really do. To force ourselves to stay in this moment, memorize their faces, smell, the crease of their eyelids...I often took pictures of these moments to help me remember. Understanding how difficult it is to enjoy that sleeping sweetness when you haven't slept a night in months, have only been eating junk foods, feel the weight of all the house chores and daily tasks that need to be done, and all you want to do is end that moment, remove the sleeping child from your lap without waking her so you can have your thighs and arms and hands to yourself for just a few minutes...there is no romance here.
But here is the fun part again. Romance doesn't die with reality, I have discovered. It only hibernates. It returns with more vigor after the moment, later that night, the next day, month, for years, for life. Every night at about 7:30 my husband and I want nothing more than for our children to be asleep so we can enjoy our time to ourselves. We have plans to watch non-Pixar movies with good swear words, drink beer, eat foods we don't wish to share. To play on our computers without little hands slamming down on keys and somehow unlocking cell phones. We fantasize about that bedtime with stars in our eyes. We cant wait to enjoy our time.
And then we do....by retelling each other cute stories of what our amazing kids did or said that day, and each time we tell it, it gets funnier and sweeter and every part of me swells with pride and amazement and happiness. And to fit the true definition of romance, if it isn't happening to you, it is vomit inducing. But if it is, the feeling is unbelievable.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Another 'One Year'
One Year.
A different kind than my last post with the same title.
One year ago, when my second baby girl was born into my arms, and subsequently, the floor of my Honda CR-V.
My first daughter made me a mother, but my second daughter made me a better one.
My beautiful baby girl. One heavenly year of being able to sleep with you by my side, one amazing year of watching you grow everyday, one year of nursing your growth, giving you perfect nutrition from my own body. One year of my body being more in tune with yours than I can even recognize, but I know it to be the truth. One year of your smiles, your squeals, your cries, laughs and cubby hands grabbing at my hair. One year of being able to look into your endless blue eyes and see nothing but happiness.
I love so much about you, I can't even hold it all in my thoughts. I vainly grasp at moments, pleading with my brain to memorize them, keep them frozen forever in all their perfection. Sometimes I catch myself actually trying to talk my mind into remembering a moment forever. Most of the time, I understand how fruitless this is, so instead I take way too many pictures, thousands, literally. I keep them all, even the blurry ones. I can't even bare to part with even a single, fuzzy, distorted memory of this year.
I love your phases. I mourn the loss of each as you move on, one week shaking your head no at every question, the next week all you do is nod. Your first steps, first word (Mama), your first sign language ("more" for food, I should have known). All your sweet little white teeth, your scrunched up faces, your nasal pants as you crawl with vigor toward food, or your momma (in that order). All of it. So amazingly, wonderfully perfect.
My love for you is beyond unconditional, and you deserve that. But what seems unfair is that your love for me, no matter how imperfect I am, is also unconditional. I'm not sure I do deserve that, so unsure am I that I almost feel guilty enjoying this trusting, unquestioning affection that pours out of your sweet face. To say you light up is an understatement, because while I do see a radiance, you also somehow exude this pure joy when you see my face. It only makes me love you more and want to try even harder tomorrow to give you all the things in this world I can. I just want you to see how much I love you. I am desperate for you to understand what you mean to me, my sweet baby girl.
I love how you can go instantly from a deep throated scream to silently placid in an instant, just because I pick you up. Do I mean that much to you? Just knowing I am holding you can stop all your sadness, all your pain. That kind of love you have for me. I cannot possibly deserve all that.
Everyday of my life, everything I do, is better because of you. I hope I am a good enough mother to show you that. I spent years of my life trying to my my mother proud, to show her how well she raised me. I think she sees this, as most mothers do, but perhaps I still crave proof of this somehow. My own mother is one of the best this world has to offer, but like all good parents, I want even more than that for you. I never want you to question my pride for you, in you. I want you to just know with resounding confidence. You make me happy. Not just satisfied, not simply proud, but soul soothing contentment.
30 years I have had to live thus far, but if I only had one to live, I would choose to relive this past year, as it has been the best of my life thus far.
Thank you sweet baby, for this one year.
A different kind than my last post with the same title.
One year ago, when my second baby girl was born into my arms, and subsequently, the floor of my Honda CR-V.
My first daughter made me a mother, but my second daughter made me a better one.
My beautiful baby girl. One heavenly year of being able to sleep with you by my side, one amazing year of watching you grow everyday, one year of nursing your growth, giving you perfect nutrition from my own body. One year of my body being more in tune with yours than I can even recognize, but I know it to be the truth. One year of your smiles, your squeals, your cries, laughs and cubby hands grabbing at my hair. One year of being able to look into your endless blue eyes and see nothing but happiness.
I love so much about you, I can't even hold it all in my thoughts. I vainly grasp at moments, pleading with my brain to memorize them, keep them frozen forever in all their perfection. Sometimes I catch myself actually trying to talk my mind into remembering a moment forever. Most of the time, I understand how fruitless this is, so instead I take way too many pictures, thousands, literally. I keep them all, even the blurry ones. I can't even bare to part with even a single, fuzzy, distorted memory of this year.
I love your phases. I mourn the loss of each as you move on, one week shaking your head no at every question, the next week all you do is nod. Your first steps, first word (Mama), your first sign language ("more" for food, I should have known). All your sweet little white teeth, your scrunched up faces, your nasal pants as you crawl with vigor toward food, or your momma (in that order). All of it. So amazingly, wonderfully perfect.
My love for you is beyond unconditional, and you deserve that. But what seems unfair is that your love for me, no matter how imperfect I am, is also unconditional. I'm not sure I do deserve that, so unsure am I that I almost feel guilty enjoying this trusting, unquestioning affection that pours out of your sweet face. To say you light up is an understatement, because while I do see a radiance, you also somehow exude this pure joy when you see my face. It only makes me love you more and want to try even harder tomorrow to give you all the things in this world I can. I just want you to see how much I love you. I am desperate for you to understand what you mean to me, my sweet baby girl.
I love how you can go instantly from a deep throated scream to silently placid in an instant, just because I pick you up. Do I mean that much to you? Just knowing I am holding you can stop all your sadness, all your pain. That kind of love you have for me. I cannot possibly deserve all that.
Everyday of my life, everything I do, is better because of you. I hope I am a good enough mother to show you that. I spent years of my life trying to my my mother proud, to show her how well she raised me. I think she sees this, as most mothers do, but perhaps I still crave proof of this somehow. My own mother is one of the best this world has to offer, but like all good parents, I want even more than that for you. I never want you to question my pride for you, in you. I want you to just know with resounding confidence. You make me happy. Not just satisfied, not simply proud, but soul soothing contentment.
30 years I have had to live thus far, but if I only had one to live, I would choose to relive this past year, as it has been the best of my life thus far.
Thank you sweet baby, for this one year.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Waves
Waves are lapping all around me as I travel down the road home tonight. Snowy wisps of barely there flakes dancing across the road harmlessly, playfully. They remind me of Caribbean waves pushing sea foam leisurely about on white sand beaches. I absolutely love the snow. The white, the cold, the sparkle. We are so accustomed to it that most people curse it and wish it gone. How many people still just stare in wonder at snow falling from a black night sky?
Will my children feel they way I do? That each flake is a tiny piece of something incredible that we have far too long taken advantage of. Or will they be like so many of us, swatting away flakes as if they were irritating flies and sighing in disgust as it gathers in drifts? Why, in the dead of winter when all life is brown and naked and lifeless, can we not see the beauty in a blanket of soft white snow? Or, even better, a world covered in crystal ice, creating beautiful arches of sparkling sun as the weight bends branches to their limit, and they bow endlessly to the snow covered grounds. All the beauty winter in New England has to offer. Will they even notice?
I struggle with the fact that I can not change the world, or think for my children. I know I can only guide them as best I am able, to be as true to themselves and to believe that the good in life will always outweigh the bad. But in a world where we are ruled by wireless paths of socialization, will they pick their heads up long enough from their personal devices (here I picture miniature tablets that act as a phone, television, computer, personal assistant, GPS, friend, mother etc) to see everything that has always been? Or are we too concerned with what we have yet to have?
I made a difficult decision recently. My husband and I decided to eliminate cable from our life. This is equivalent to me losing a dear friend, a late night companion, and an occasional (very short term) babysitter.
The truth is that I am scared. Scared I won't be able to give my children all they deserve. Scared I won't raise them to appreciate, and love a snowstorm, a crackling fire, a soft summer night, the colors of the fall leaves or the warmth of a hug. How will they define beauty in their world? In the glow of a sunset, signaling the day's end, or in the chrome reflection of some new technology I am not even capable of imaging?
Change in good, I try to believe this. However I do not want my children robbed of all the things that will never change. The seasons and all they have to offer. Watching life pulse back into the world in the spring, blankets of green grass and leaves so thick they create a wall around our home. Flowers and butterflies so beautiful and so brief its difficult to picture them once they are gone. Snow so deep and white it hides the ground for months, and then it becomes unrecognizable with life. And of course, watching my babies grow and experience all these things for themselves the first, second and third time.
30 years later, I am happy to be still inspired by the birth of a snowstorm. My one great hope is that as their mother, I will have influenced them enough to feel the same.
Will my children feel they way I do? That each flake is a tiny piece of something incredible that we have far too long taken advantage of. Or will they be like so many of us, swatting away flakes as if they were irritating flies and sighing in disgust as it gathers in drifts? Why, in the dead of winter when all life is brown and naked and lifeless, can we not see the beauty in a blanket of soft white snow? Or, even better, a world covered in crystal ice, creating beautiful arches of sparkling sun as the weight bends branches to their limit, and they bow endlessly to the snow covered grounds. All the beauty winter in New England has to offer. Will they even notice?
I struggle with the fact that I can not change the world, or think for my children. I know I can only guide them as best I am able, to be as true to themselves and to believe that the good in life will always outweigh the bad. But in a world where we are ruled by wireless paths of socialization, will they pick their heads up long enough from their personal devices (here I picture miniature tablets that act as a phone, television, computer, personal assistant, GPS, friend, mother etc) to see everything that has always been? Or are we too concerned with what we have yet to have?
I made a difficult decision recently. My husband and I decided to eliminate cable from our life. This is equivalent to me losing a dear friend, a late night companion, and an occasional (very short term) babysitter.
The truth is that I am scared. Scared I won't be able to give my children all they deserve. Scared I won't raise them to appreciate, and love a snowstorm, a crackling fire, a soft summer night, the colors of the fall leaves or the warmth of a hug. How will they define beauty in their world? In the glow of a sunset, signaling the day's end, or in the chrome reflection of some new technology I am not even capable of imaging?
Change in good, I try to believe this. However I do not want my children robbed of all the things that will never change. The seasons and all they have to offer. Watching life pulse back into the world in the spring, blankets of green grass and leaves so thick they create a wall around our home. Flowers and butterflies so beautiful and so brief its difficult to picture them once they are gone. Snow so deep and white it hides the ground for months, and then it becomes unrecognizable with life. And of course, watching my babies grow and experience all these things for themselves the first, second and third time.
30 years later, I am happy to be still inspired by the birth of a snowstorm. My one great hope is that as their mother, I will have influenced them enough to feel the same.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Light
I have a confession. I have baby fever. Badly.
I have had this condition since the moment my J was born. Perhaps it was that I didn't expect her to be here for at least 3 more weeks, perhaps it was her impatience and insistence on being born in the fashion she was. But man, I want another baby.
My children fulfill me in ways that are indescribable. Everything has the potential to be fun, exciting, terrifying, and a new life experience for us all. A trip to the grocery store, a day at the mall, breastfeeding my little baby as I browse electronics. Our secret, sweet, intimate moments on full display (because that is how I get down) and yet when I catch her shimmering, happy little eyes in mine, everything else fails to exist for that moment. I get to relive my favorite childhood moments through them, and its even better this time, because now I know how precious and amazing and temporary those moments are. And I do my best to lock at least part of it away in my brain so it may someday be a flash, just an instant in time, where I can see their faces frozen in time until the end of mine. All I want is to collect these internal photographs, as many as I can. And for what I can not store in my head, I take thousands of pictures. That is not at all an exaggeration, either. I take, and develop, thousands. They are amazing. I cant imagine loving anyone else as much as I love them, and yet, I know I would if I had another baby.
My relationship with my girls is unique and special to each of them. But, it is a very different entity than my relationship to them while they grew inside me. It feels different, it was a different life, a different being. After they were born they were different people to me than the ones who first fluttered and turned, then eventually evenly violently kicking and jerking. Those sweet hiccups, rhythmically soothing my nerves. The luxurious rolling as they learn to twist and stretch tiny limbs in their dark warmth. All of these moments, memories. Before they ever saw me, and I them. Heart aching moments that are gone forever, and as much as I love these amazing beings that fill my days and nights with laughter and happiness, I still do mourn the memory of our most intimate growth together. I long for that again. I want it back so badly, even though I know how fleeting that time truly is.
I thought she died. So many times. 6 weeks. 8 weeks. 10 weeks. 12 weeks....and more. I thought I lost here every time. I look at her today, and think, how could this amazing little person, who laughs, and sings and counts and loves animals, how could I ever live if I had lost her? Because I knew I lost her, so many times. Seeing all the blood, feeling the pain, knowing she was gone, would never be born, be here, sing a song and dance around the room. She died so many times to me. But she never left me. I know I never could have enjoyed much of my pregnancy with her, but I still regret that I did not let myself love her more as she slowly took over my body. She deserved so much more than I could give then, and she gives me so much more now. I am so sorry, baby. I am sorry I ever doubted your strength, sorry I couldn't love you enough to believe you would stay, sorry I didn't just enjoy you more when I could have. It's nothing you will ever remember, but I always will.
My two girls. My dream come true, not just once but every day I spend with you. Every word you say, and every laugh that escapes your perfect little pink mouths makes me soar. I can't even start to take credit for you, for you are far too special to ever have been created in my mind. You couldn't have ever been imagined before you existed, because I had no idea what was possible.
And now I want more. Selfish, perhaps. I have the two most beautiful, amazing, happy, wonderful children. I am so happy, I am fulfilled completely. Except.
I want more. You give me so much love and happiness, its addicting. I want that feeling again. I know I can't hold it forever, but I can't remember it now. I want to be reminded of it. Maybe if I feel it just once more I will be able to hold in that feeling, lock it away and access it whenever I want to feel that connection. It's like trying to remember the exact feeling of a hug, not the face of the hugger, not their smell, but the actual hug. I can't do it. I don't know if anyone can. I know they were in me, I know I grew them, I know I felt them, all the time. I have the photos, I have video...but I am missing the feeling.
It isn't my time. Someday I will have my light, but not now. Probably not even soon. But I will have that feeling again, I will enjoy it, hold it, capture it, and then, eventually...
set it free.
I have had this condition since the moment my J was born. Perhaps it was that I didn't expect her to be here for at least 3 more weeks, perhaps it was her impatience and insistence on being born in the fashion she was. But man, I want another baby.
My children fulfill me in ways that are indescribable. Everything has the potential to be fun, exciting, terrifying, and a new life experience for us all. A trip to the grocery store, a day at the mall, breastfeeding my little baby as I browse electronics. Our secret, sweet, intimate moments on full display (because that is how I get down) and yet when I catch her shimmering, happy little eyes in mine, everything else fails to exist for that moment. I get to relive my favorite childhood moments through them, and its even better this time, because now I know how precious and amazing and temporary those moments are. And I do my best to lock at least part of it away in my brain so it may someday be a flash, just an instant in time, where I can see their faces frozen in time until the end of mine. All I want is to collect these internal photographs, as many as I can. And for what I can not store in my head, I take thousands of pictures. That is not at all an exaggeration, either. I take, and develop, thousands. They are amazing. I cant imagine loving anyone else as much as I love them, and yet, I know I would if I had another baby.
My relationship with my girls is unique and special to each of them. But, it is a very different entity than my relationship to them while they grew inside me. It feels different, it was a different life, a different being. After they were born they were different people to me than the ones who first fluttered and turned, then eventually evenly violently kicking and jerking. Those sweet hiccups, rhythmically soothing my nerves. The luxurious rolling as they learn to twist and stretch tiny limbs in their dark warmth. All of these moments, memories. Before they ever saw me, and I them. Heart aching moments that are gone forever, and as much as I love these amazing beings that fill my days and nights with laughter and happiness, I still do mourn the memory of our most intimate growth together. I long for that again. I want it back so badly, even though I know how fleeting that time truly is.
I thought she died. So many times. 6 weeks. 8 weeks. 10 weeks. 12 weeks....and more. I thought I lost here every time. I look at her today, and think, how could this amazing little person, who laughs, and sings and counts and loves animals, how could I ever live if I had lost her? Because I knew I lost her, so many times. Seeing all the blood, feeling the pain, knowing she was gone, would never be born, be here, sing a song and dance around the room. She died so many times to me. But she never left me. I know I never could have enjoyed much of my pregnancy with her, but I still regret that I did not let myself love her more as she slowly took over my body. She deserved so much more than I could give then, and she gives me so much more now. I am so sorry, baby. I am sorry I ever doubted your strength, sorry I couldn't love you enough to believe you would stay, sorry I didn't just enjoy you more when I could have. It's nothing you will ever remember, but I always will.
My two girls. My dream come true, not just once but every day I spend with you. Every word you say, and every laugh that escapes your perfect little pink mouths makes me soar. I can't even start to take credit for you, for you are far too special to ever have been created in my mind. You couldn't have ever been imagined before you existed, because I had no idea what was possible.
And now I want more. Selfish, perhaps. I have the two most beautiful, amazing, happy, wonderful children. I am so happy, I am fulfilled completely. Except.
I want more. You give me so much love and happiness, its addicting. I want that feeling again. I know I can't hold it forever, but I can't remember it now. I want to be reminded of it. Maybe if I feel it just once more I will be able to hold in that feeling, lock it away and access it whenever I want to feel that connection. It's like trying to remember the exact feeling of a hug, not the face of the hugger, not their smell, but the actual hug. I can't do it. I don't know if anyone can. I know they were in me, I know I grew them, I know I felt them, all the time. I have the photos, I have video...but I am missing the feeling.
It isn't my time. Someday I will have my light, but not now. Probably not even soon. But I will have that feeling again, I will enjoy it, hold it, capture it, and then, eventually...
set it free.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Homage to a Power Outage
For the second time in two months, we have found ourselves in the midst of a week long power outage due to storms. The first, a hot summer hurricane which toppled eight of our old trees, though sparing our house, cars and possessions. The second, an October snowstorm which robbed us of our Autumn and blanketed all remaining red and gold in heavy, white snow. So heavy, that trees that have withstood hundreds of years of unpredictable weather, thousands of pounds of snow and ice, and winds strong enough to topple houses, bent to the ground, bowing to the strange storm. Many snapped and crashed through houses, on cars, taking down power lines in a domino effect, leaving the vast majority of our state in unseasonably cold darkness.
Being without power is difficult. Having children you cannot explain this too make things more difficult, the first day. Then there is a second day, and a third.
I remember hurricane Gloria. I remember the excitement I felt as a child, taping up the windows and staring through the small space in the basement, looking up at a greenish, whirling sky and watchings the silvery undersides of leaves whip furiously around each other and tear off. I was in the dark, with my parents, and it was fun. I remember eating food that was cooked on our wood stove, playing board games by candlelight and sleeping on our bellies on blankets in the living room. This is one of my fondest memories as a child. I felt completely safe, and warm, and happy, and loved. It was exciting, different, and an opportunity to be with my family like I never had before, and haven't since. I am reminded that these things which annoy adults to no end, are likely creating happy life long memories in the eyes of our children.
Now my children will likely not remember these days. They don't care if that have been bathed, what they look or smell like, if they have clean clothes or what they play with. My daughter spends much more time playing with food and laundry and my shoes that any of her toys, even combined.
People are so angry. They are cursing each other out, throwing hot coffee, raging at complete strangers who actually are trying to restore normalcy. Did we not survive as a human race before electricity was in every home? Did we not find ways to entertain ourselves for centuries?
I was bored. I missed my internet, my DVR, long hot showers, doing laundry. But it is nothing but electricity. It is essential, I know. But we have witnessed not long ago a significant part of our country ravaged by hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes, and we are fortunate to have lost only electricity. I still have my house, my cars, all my possessions and above all else my family. A week without lights? I am reminded too often of how good life is to curse my neighbors. (I also highly recommend a generator, which seems to take the edge off).
There is just something that can't be duplicated about the taste of food cooked over a fire, or the beauty of a child when they dance in candlelight. There is a rejuvenation that comes of being unable to access the internet no vacation can bring. Or the fun of playing cards and drinking wine with my husband, instead of spending nights bent over computers with reruns in the background. There is no amount of oil that can warm me as much as my family of four huddled in one big bed together, sharing a blanket. A week without electricity has taught me only again, how amazing life is, here and now. How fortunate we are to have all we do, and how we have no control over so many things.
A week without electricity. That is just fine. Because I have all the power I need.
Being without power is difficult. Having children you cannot explain this too make things more difficult, the first day. Then there is a second day, and a third.
I remember hurricane Gloria. I remember the excitement I felt as a child, taping up the windows and staring through the small space in the basement, looking up at a greenish, whirling sky and watchings the silvery undersides of leaves whip furiously around each other and tear off. I was in the dark, with my parents, and it was fun. I remember eating food that was cooked on our wood stove, playing board games by candlelight and sleeping on our bellies on blankets in the living room. This is one of my fondest memories as a child. I felt completely safe, and warm, and happy, and loved. It was exciting, different, and an opportunity to be with my family like I never had before, and haven't since. I am reminded that these things which annoy adults to no end, are likely creating happy life long memories in the eyes of our children.
Now my children will likely not remember these days. They don't care if that have been bathed, what they look or smell like, if they have clean clothes or what they play with. My daughter spends much more time playing with food and laundry and my shoes that any of her toys, even combined.
People are so angry. They are cursing each other out, throwing hot coffee, raging at complete strangers who actually are trying to restore normalcy. Did we not survive as a human race before electricity was in every home? Did we not find ways to entertain ourselves for centuries?
I was bored. I missed my internet, my DVR, long hot showers, doing laundry. But it is nothing but electricity. It is essential, I know. But we have witnessed not long ago a significant part of our country ravaged by hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes, and we are fortunate to have lost only electricity. I still have my house, my cars, all my possessions and above all else my family. A week without lights? I am reminded too often of how good life is to curse my neighbors. (I also highly recommend a generator, which seems to take the edge off).
There is just something that can't be duplicated about the taste of food cooked over a fire, or the beauty of a child when they dance in candlelight. There is a rejuvenation that comes of being unable to access the internet no vacation can bring. Or the fun of playing cards and drinking wine with my husband, instead of spending nights bent over computers with reruns in the background. There is no amount of oil that can warm me as much as my family of four huddled in one big bed together, sharing a blanket. A week without electricity has taught me only again, how amazing life is, here and now. How fortunate we are to have all we do, and how we have no control over so many things.
A week without electricity. That is just fine. Because I have all the power I need.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Two years...
Two Years.
Two years ago tonight, large, fluffy snowflakes were falling silently on grass that was still vibrantly green. I was experiencing waves of pain unlike anything I have ever felt before, and have only felt once more since. I had no idea what to expect, or what life would be in the next two years, I only knew things were about to change forever.
In two years, I have learned more from you than any number of years spent in school. No amount of money could buy anyone this type of education. Life, as a young adult without children, is quite static in general. Small variations here and there, but in two years of my twenties, little changed. Different relationships, different friends, a different job. Even leaving college to start my next chapter seemed less significant than it should have been, even at the time. Two years is nothing in the lifetime of mine until you were born. Now, I truly understand the significance of two years.
In two years, I have watched you grow from a helpless, albeit, large and quite loud infant, who incessantly screamed her demands in an untranslatable language to her tired parents who felt helpless and useless. No amount of baby books, classes, reading or even advice from be-there-done-that persons could have ever prepared us for you. We spent many of those first nights clinging to fleeting moments of silence and sleep and wondering when it would all change. We counted the days until we could regain normalcy...and now I long for a moment back in those sleepless months to look at you again, memorize your face, your smell, your laugh. I have many pictures, thousands really, and even hours of home video capturing your first steps, words, giggles and smiles. But I still long for the nights of moments I would have never thought to record.
In two years, you have become a little person, physically, but your personality is as big as it will ever be. Your sweet demands make me smile, and I stare at you wondering when you became so smart, so descriptive, so communicative. I think back over the past few months, how much you have changed since the winter, since your sister was born, since yesterday. I feel so proud for you, so proud of you.
But it also makes me realize how unchanged I am. You understand most of a language you have taught yourself by observation in less than 2 years. I could never do that in my adult life, ever. I still only remember the bad words from four years of Spanish class. But you, you know what to say, you understand even more. And my mind is powerless to learn in comparison to yours. I often hear of the young mind described as a sponge, which sounds metaphorical, until you see the literal version. It is enough to blow my non-absorbent mind.
I am most amazed by you as a sister. I watched you so closely today, your long blond hair blowing in wisps as you sailed back and forth on your swing. When did your hair get so long? You have amazed me most with your incredible growth since you sister was born. There was no transition for you, you took to her as though she had always been there, and though I know you may never remember life without your sister, it was there. The day she was born you instantly lost any interest in my once swollen belly, I know you knew that your sister was here in the flesh and my womb no longer carried any more importance. You loved her from day one, and I have never seen siblings act as you do together.
I am fascinated by you. The way you are selfless, as a two-year-old, where selflessness does not typically exist. But then there is you. A two-year-old who is concerned about where her sister is, when she needs to eat, be bathed and cared for. A two-year-old who sacrificed her time on a swing today so she could push her little sister gently in her swing and extract bubbly giggles. I know I loved you even before you were born, but watching you take care of your baby sister, watching you love her with this selfless unconditional, pure emotion, makes me feel so incredibly inadequate. Because I could never communicate through any medium the feelings I have for you today. Its not just love, not even close. It is not a word I have ever known. I am sure one doesn't exist.
All I can do is tell you I love you over and over, hoping words have some exponential value that add up over time and if I can just say it an infinite amount of times you will someday understand. But you won't, I know, until your first baby is two years old, and you try to explain to her how you feel.
And all I can do for now, is look forward to your tomorrows, and try to slow down time, lock in these memories and hope I am everything you need me to be, because you are everything thats gives my life meaning.
Happy birthday, my baby girl...
Two years ago tonight, large, fluffy snowflakes were falling silently on grass that was still vibrantly green. I was experiencing waves of pain unlike anything I have ever felt before, and have only felt once more since. I had no idea what to expect, or what life would be in the next two years, I only knew things were about to change forever.
In two years, I have learned more from you than any number of years spent in school. No amount of money could buy anyone this type of education. Life, as a young adult without children, is quite static in general. Small variations here and there, but in two years of my twenties, little changed. Different relationships, different friends, a different job. Even leaving college to start my next chapter seemed less significant than it should have been, even at the time. Two years is nothing in the lifetime of mine until you were born. Now, I truly understand the significance of two years.
In two years, I have watched you grow from a helpless, albeit, large and quite loud infant, who incessantly screamed her demands in an untranslatable language to her tired parents who felt helpless and useless. No amount of baby books, classes, reading or even advice from be-there-done-that persons could have ever prepared us for you. We spent many of those first nights clinging to fleeting moments of silence and sleep and wondering when it would all change. We counted the days until we could regain normalcy...and now I long for a moment back in those sleepless months to look at you again, memorize your face, your smell, your laugh. I have many pictures, thousands really, and even hours of home video capturing your first steps, words, giggles and smiles. But I still long for the nights of moments I would have never thought to record.
In two years, you have become a little person, physically, but your personality is as big as it will ever be. Your sweet demands make me smile, and I stare at you wondering when you became so smart, so descriptive, so communicative. I think back over the past few months, how much you have changed since the winter, since your sister was born, since yesterday. I feel so proud for you, so proud of you.
But it also makes me realize how unchanged I am. You understand most of a language you have taught yourself by observation in less than 2 years. I could never do that in my adult life, ever. I still only remember the bad words from four years of Spanish class. But you, you know what to say, you understand even more. And my mind is powerless to learn in comparison to yours. I often hear of the young mind described as a sponge, which sounds metaphorical, until you see the literal version. It is enough to blow my non-absorbent mind.
I am most amazed by you as a sister. I watched you so closely today, your long blond hair blowing in wisps as you sailed back and forth on your swing. When did your hair get so long? You have amazed me most with your incredible growth since you sister was born. There was no transition for you, you took to her as though she had always been there, and though I know you may never remember life without your sister, it was there. The day she was born you instantly lost any interest in my once swollen belly, I know you knew that your sister was here in the flesh and my womb no longer carried any more importance. You loved her from day one, and I have never seen siblings act as you do together.
I am fascinated by you. The way you are selfless, as a two-year-old, where selflessness does not typically exist. But then there is you. A two-year-old who is concerned about where her sister is, when she needs to eat, be bathed and cared for. A two-year-old who sacrificed her time on a swing today so she could push her little sister gently in her swing and extract bubbly giggles. I know I loved you even before you were born, but watching you take care of your baby sister, watching you love her with this selfless unconditional, pure emotion, makes me feel so incredibly inadequate. Because I could never communicate through any medium the feelings I have for you today. Its not just love, not even close. It is not a word I have ever known. I am sure one doesn't exist.
All I can do is tell you I love you over and over, hoping words have some exponential value that add up over time and if I can just say it an infinite amount of times you will someday understand. But you won't, I know, until your first baby is two years old, and you try to explain to her how you feel.
And all I can do for now, is look forward to your tomorrows, and try to slow down time, lock in these memories and hope I am everything you need me to be, because you are everything thats gives my life meaning.
Happy birthday, my baby girl...
Thursday, September 1, 2011
30
I am 30 today.
I have all the grandparents I have ever known. They are still alive and well, and I talk to them often. It took me nearly 30 years to really appreciate their insights. To admire their amazing commitment to their lives and each other. I love to hear their stories of the old days, how they struggled for food, made 30 cents a day, worked a week for a days worth of food, lost their lovers to war, and suffered from diseases that have long been eradicated.
I am 30 today, and I am humbled.
I have best friends in the form of sisters who can always make me laugh, and who are always around to talk and whom I share so many wonderful childhood moments. I have parents who understand me, love me unconditionally. Who have guided me through the best and hardest parts of my life. Offered sound advice for every challenge and who made me feel I would never be unloved, or against the world on my own. Parents who make me want to be a better mother, who have taught me about real love before I knew anything of it. Parents who light up when they see my children, and children who can't contain their happiness when they see their grandparents.
I am 30 today, and a mother, and still my parents' child.
I have transitioned from a completely dependent infant, to a carefree child, to my teenage years where even admitting to having parents was embarrassing. Weren't we so cool that we simply generated from our own awesomeness? Did I not try, behind closed doors, to explain to my parents how uncool they were, and their very existence was eroding my own coolness. I think my eyes rolled into my head for 4 years straight, no wonder my vision sucks. Determined never to be like them....though sometimes they were right.....OK, a lot of times they seem to be right......I need to talk to my parents before I make this decision, they will know what to do....
They don't embarrass me now, not even a little. Not even when my father introduces me by my name, profession, the number of children I have, their ages, how high they can count, something cute they just did/said, and (if he hasn't yet been cut off with a faux phone call) my sisters' names, professions, Alma Maters and children (even in their absence), often to complete strangers.
I am 30 today, and I am still so cool, but my parents are even cooler.
I have experienced pregnancy, a life being formed within me. I have grown that life, nurtured that life, dreamed of these lives, and birthed them. I have birthed a baby in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses, and family. I have birthed a daughter in my car alone, with nothing but the voice of my husband and a thick fog to guide me. I have two daughters whose beauty overwhelms me, whose intelligence astounds me, and whose love envelopes me.
I am 30 today, and I am surrounded by love.
I have the house I want, in the town I want, bought and paid for with a job I love. A job which shows me the very worse parts of life, and allows me to experience the best. A job that fulfills me in a deep way, but makes me look forward everyday to holding my family at the end of every day and reminding me to be very grateful for all that I have. A job which allows me to spend most of my time at home with my family, a husband who would do anything for our daughters, which is all I ever wanted. Two girls, who can stop me in my tracks, even on my busiest day, to just stare at them. I am addicted to their faces, the sound of their voices, the smell of their hair, and their sleepy eyes in the morning, goofy smiles, and eyes that dance with happiness at things that instill chills of disgust in my over stimulated adult mind, spider webs, zig-zagging earwigs, slimy worms. Gross critters that turn my stomach, can make my kids giggle. They are fearless, wanting to touch, hold, and even taste. I am full of fear, thinking of all the diseases they could catch, all the holes that could be invaded, all the night hours I am not watching that my children, my husband, myself, could be covered in disgusting, segmented bodies. But my babies, they see none of the bad. They only see fun bugs. When did I lose that? Well before 30, I am sure. But now, I have my own silly bugs, and I too watch them for hours, giggling at their silliness and wanting nothing more than to pick them up and touch them, smell them, kiss them and wait for the next amazing thing this life has to offer. I have a feeling, it won't be long.
I am 30 today, and I am fulfilled.
I am so very happy.
I have all the grandparents I have ever known. They are still alive and well, and I talk to them often. It took me nearly 30 years to really appreciate their insights. To admire their amazing commitment to their lives and each other. I love to hear their stories of the old days, how they struggled for food, made 30 cents a day, worked a week for a days worth of food, lost their lovers to war, and suffered from diseases that have long been eradicated.
I am 30 today, and I am humbled.
I have best friends in the form of sisters who can always make me laugh, and who are always around to talk and whom I share so many wonderful childhood moments. I have parents who understand me, love me unconditionally. Who have guided me through the best and hardest parts of my life. Offered sound advice for every challenge and who made me feel I would never be unloved, or against the world on my own. Parents who make me want to be a better mother, who have taught me about real love before I knew anything of it. Parents who light up when they see my children, and children who can't contain their happiness when they see their grandparents.
I am 30 today, and a mother, and still my parents' child.
I have transitioned from a completely dependent infant, to a carefree child, to my teenage years where even admitting to having parents was embarrassing. Weren't we so cool that we simply generated from our own awesomeness? Did I not try, behind closed doors, to explain to my parents how uncool they were, and their very existence was eroding my own coolness. I think my eyes rolled into my head for 4 years straight, no wonder my vision sucks. Determined never to be like them....though sometimes they were right.....OK, a lot of times they seem to be right......I need to talk to my parents before I make this decision, they will know what to do....
They don't embarrass me now, not even a little. Not even when my father introduces me by my name, profession, the number of children I have, their ages, how high they can count, something cute they just did/said, and (if he hasn't yet been cut off with a faux phone call) my sisters' names, professions, Alma Maters and children (even in their absence), often to complete strangers.
I am 30 today, and I am still so cool, but my parents are even cooler.
I have experienced pregnancy, a life being formed within me. I have grown that life, nurtured that life, dreamed of these lives, and birthed them. I have birthed a baby in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses, and family. I have birthed a daughter in my car alone, with nothing but the voice of my husband and a thick fog to guide me. I have two daughters whose beauty overwhelms me, whose intelligence astounds me, and whose love envelopes me.
I am 30 today, and I am surrounded by love.
I have the house I want, in the town I want, bought and paid for with a job I love. A job which shows me the very worse parts of life, and allows me to experience the best. A job that fulfills me in a deep way, but makes me look forward everyday to holding my family at the end of every day and reminding me to be very grateful for all that I have. A job which allows me to spend most of my time at home with my family, a husband who would do anything for our daughters, which is all I ever wanted. Two girls, who can stop me in my tracks, even on my busiest day, to just stare at them. I am addicted to their faces, the sound of their voices, the smell of their hair, and their sleepy eyes in the morning, goofy smiles, and eyes that dance with happiness at things that instill chills of disgust in my over stimulated adult mind, spider webs, zig-zagging earwigs, slimy worms. Gross critters that turn my stomach, can make my kids giggle. They are fearless, wanting to touch, hold, and even taste. I am full of fear, thinking of all the diseases they could catch, all the holes that could be invaded, all the night hours I am not watching that my children, my husband, myself, could be covered in disgusting, segmented bodies. But my babies, they see none of the bad. They only see fun bugs. When did I lose that? Well before 30, I am sure. But now, I have my own silly bugs, and I too watch them for hours, giggling at their silliness and wanting nothing more than to pick them up and touch them, smell them, kiss them and wait for the next amazing thing this life has to offer. I have a feeling, it won't be long.
I am 30 today, and I am fulfilled.
I am so very happy.
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