I am a day late. Please don't ever think it has anything to do with anything other than how amazing and crazy life has been these past few months. My beautiful five year old girl. You still have the face of a baby. I look back at pictures of your first, second, third and fourth birthday today, and while you have changed some, I can still see that sweet baby face. You look the same. The sweet baby cheeks have shrunk, your hair is less wispy but still covers your face in soft strings that somehow never seem to affect you at all, and I have to hold myself back from brushing them out of your face. But I shouldn't, and I usually don't. As much as I want to smooth that hair, that hair is you. And you are so perfect on your own. You even cut your own hair this year. I waited in shock when I saw it, and you just calmly replied that you wanted to cut it, so you did. Very matter-of-fact. Because that's you.
Your voice is still sweet, and accented with the sing-songy way young children speak. Your voice is still so much a baby, but your words, ha! You have us all reeling with laughter and pure amazement with your incredible vocabulary. We don't know where or how you learn it, but you accurately use language far beyond our expectations, and I'm thrilled and proud and amazed all at once. You are so clever, you never mispronounce or misuse these words. This makes me think that you hear things, study them, analyze them until you're sure it's right. When you speak, you don't boast. You just calmly and correctly use these words as though you always have. You aren't showy, and I think our amazement even embarrasses you a little.
Your preschool teacher laughed as she told me when you reported a student friend for "being inappropriate". At four years old. You are so curious as to how things work. You also have a wise ass comment for everything, like just tonight when I said you can have one toy in your back packs, but nothing else. Of course you had to eyeball me and say " what about our lunch boxes? You said nothing else?".
That is exactly what I love so much about you. Don't ever change that.
You love routine and fairness. You'll defend your big sister and give her anything she wants, even if there's only one and it's yours, you truly want to see her happy. You will, however, defend yourself as well. I'm still not sure who starts it, but usually it ends after you both get in some hits.
I never imagined what you would be like after your baby sister was born. I thought there must be some jealousy. It's only natural. You were, after all, our baby for four years. You still crawled into bed with us at night. I worried so much you would resent the baby, beg for attention, act out or worse of all, feel sad. But you blew us away again. How could I have ever thought you would do anything different? You took to your sister as though she was always part of our lives. You loved her instantly and completely. You have never once shown any jealousy, any frustrations. Even as the mature adult, the experienced mother, I get frustrated plenty. But not you. Even when I have nothing to give you, even when you need me and I just can't, you never get upset. You simply and gracefully accept it and offer even more love. You inspire me so much. I want to be more like you.
You are deeply empathetic. You are incredibly clever. You are adorably expressive. You are funny. Really funny. Your humor is goofy but clever and well-timed. You are giving, selfless, and kind. You are the brightest light in my day. Your eyes, your voice, your words, your hugs.
You are five years old. You are my baby. You are love.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Sunday, October 18, 2015
When you turn six
You turn six in twenty minutes. I have only twenty minutes to somehow describe this entire past year with you, watching you grow, watching you read, write, add and subtract. Letting you go a little more everyday, as you lunge forward into life, and a little father from needing me.
I know I say it every year, but I'll keep repeating it as I am always reminded of you as a baby with every passing birthday anniversary. It's hard to see the baby in your face anymore, but you never really were a baby anyway. It's like you were never meant to be an infant, and you protested it in the only way you could, by screaming your lungs out for a year, maybe longer. I no longer truly remember the misery of your infancy, only that it happened, but it's been long replaced by the joys you bring me now.
I still can see the world-weary soul I know lives deep within when I look into your eyes. They turn down slightly at the corners, giving your features a saddened look, as if you have lived a hundred lives before. There is a tiny scar at the corner of your eye, barely recognizable to someone who doesn't stare at your face, but it's there, and it accentuates the slope of your outer eye, even impersonating a tear at times if the light catches it just so.
You don't see me do this often, but I stare at you constantly, you look as though you are always deep in thought, worlds away. Sometimes my heart aches for you, because of the burden it looks like you carry. But then you catch me and smile, with your toothy grin and all the sadness disappears and I see only pure love and joy in you.
You don't tell me much. I miss you all day and when you come home I want nothing more than a complete play-by-play of what you did at school, who you played with, what bothered you, everything. But you keep me at bay. Once we talked for an hour about everything. You spoke with such passion and gifpddiness about your day, it made me realize you actually really love school. I had assumed maybe you didn't, I was fooled by your eyes again. I wish we had these conversations everyday, but I know I can't push you hear, you get to decide what you want to tell me. But please, tell me everything. I want to absorb all of your experiences, all of your happiness, excitement, your dear and sadness. I want it all in me too. I want to share your joy, I want to shoulder your burden. But that's yours to share.
Six is different. You're in first grade. There is no disguising you growing up, your independence, how your brain is absorbing so much more in a day than mine can in a month. Little things still make you so happy. You have no idea how much it means to me when you say "this is the best day ever"
I know you say it often, I don't care. It fills me with joy knowing you feel that way, even if only for a minute. I also revel in the fact that you often call me the best momma ever, of course you have no idea what you're talking about, my love, I'm not even close. You deserve better than I could ever be, but I love you so much I will spend my life trying to be better everyday for you.
You are such a caring sister. You melted into that role as easily with your new sister as you did at 18 months old with your first sister. Once again, it just seemed as though you were destined to be the oldest, the caretaker. You weren't meant to be taken care of yourself. I know your sisters will always look up to you, and you will be far too eager to reach them what you know.
I spy on you. Sorry, but I won't ever stop. I catch you reading to your sisters, covering them with blankets, laughing with them as you talk in your made up languages. Nothing makes me happier than hearing my daughters laugh together. That's the best gift I could ever receive.
Everything you do impresses me, every tine you hug me, I am filled with warmth. You are, plain and smile, a really wonderful kid. And I am so grateful, and so incredibly proud to be your mom.
I know I say it every year, but I'll keep repeating it as I am always reminded of you as a baby with every passing birthday anniversary. It's hard to see the baby in your face anymore, but you never really were a baby anyway. It's like you were never meant to be an infant, and you protested it in the only way you could, by screaming your lungs out for a year, maybe longer. I no longer truly remember the misery of your infancy, only that it happened, but it's been long replaced by the joys you bring me now.
I still can see the world-weary soul I know lives deep within when I look into your eyes. They turn down slightly at the corners, giving your features a saddened look, as if you have lived a hundred lives before. There is a tiny scar at the corner of your eye, barely recognizable to someone who doesn't stare at your face, but it's there, and it accentuates the slope of your outer eye, even impersonating a tear at times if the light catches it just so.
You don't see me do this often, but I stare at you constantly, you look as though you are always deep in thought, worlds away. Sometimes my heart aches for you, because of the burden it looks like you carry. But then you catch me and smile, with your toothy grin and all the sadness disappears and I see only pure love and joy in you.
You don't tell me much. I miss you all day and when you come home I want nothing more than a complete play-by-play of what you did at school, who you played with, what bothered you, everything. But you keep me at bay. Once we talked for an hour about everything. You spoke with such passion and gifpddiness about your day, it made me realize you actually really love school. I had assumed maybe you didn't, I was fooled by your eyes again. I wish we had these conversations everyday, but I know I can't push you hear, you get to decide what you want to tell me. But please, tell me everything. I want to absorb all of your experiences, all of your happiness, excitement, your dear and sadness. I want it all in me too. I want to share your joy, I want to shoulder your burden. But that's yours to share.
Six is different. You're in first grade. There is no disguising you growing up, your independence, how your brain is absorbing so much more in a day than mine can in a month. Little things still make you so happy. You have no idea how much it means to me when you say "this is the best day ever"
I know you say it often, I don't care. It fills me with joy knowing you feel that way, even if only for a minute. I also revel in the fact that you often call me the best momma ever, of course you have no idea what you're talking about, my love, I'm not even close. You deserve better than I could ever be, but I love you so much I will spend my life trying to be better everyday for you.
You are such a caring sister. You melted into that role as easily with your new sister as you did at 18 months old with your first sister. Once again, it just seemed as though you were destined to be the oldest, the caretaker. You weren't meant to be taken care of yourself. I know your sisters will always look up to you, and you will be far too eager to reach them what you know.
I spy on you. Sorry, but I won't ever stop. I catch you reading to your sisters, covering them with blankets, laughing with them as you talk in your made up languages. Nothing makes me happier than hearing my daughters laugh together. That's the best gift I could ever receive.
Everything you do impresses me, every tine you hug me, I am filled with warmth. You are, plain and smile, a really wonderful kid. And I am so grateful, and so incredibly proud to be your mom.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
And then, she was four...
I'm not sure when you grew up, but I know it happened too quickly. You went from baby to preschooler so fast I don't even remember what you looked like at two. Thank goodness I take way too many pictures and though I haven't actually developed any prints in years the crazy world of digital photography allows me to take and store thousands of photos for free. So I'm sorry you have no photo albums beyond a year old, but don't worry, your sister probably won't have any at all.
Yes, you are going to be a big sister now. Sometimes I worry how you will handle it, you so enjoy being a baby yourself. You still sneak into our bed every night, and sleep between your parents, your arms and legs wrapped around one of us so tightly it's hard to untangle from your grasp. Your sweet face often covered in tangles of your wispy, wild hair. Hair that refuses to be contained to ponytails, braids or buns, even when shellacked with hairspray. Yes, your hair suits you just perfectly. You would never conform to anything that you didn't want, why should your hair? We have learned to let it fly free, like your sprit, it just won't be contained.
While I continue to worry how you will accept your little sister's arrival, part of me thinks it will be so hard on you. But then again, I see you with your big sister. The way you treat her, even though you are the younger sister, you constantly look out for her.
I remember last summer on the beach, we had some lunch. Di was playing in a muddy sand puddle, and you were on my lap. As you finished your sandwich, I gave you two potato chips, just because it was vacation and you were so sweet and cute. You took both chips and walked off. I watched you walk away, as I often do. You went directly to your sister, and because her hands were elbow deep in sand, you told her to open her mouth. You popped one of the chips in her mouth and happily walked away, munching your own.
When what started as an innocent paper cut, turned into a horrific infection that sent us to multiple doctors, specialists and hospitals. It was awful, to see your finger look that bad. It hurt us to look at it. You really never complained at all. Eventually, the doctors prescribed a medication so strong, the flavor of it was comparable to ammonia. Even the pharmacist cringed when we filled it, and I paid the additional price to have extra flavoring added to it. The pediatrician told us to give you anything you wanted to get you to take it consistently. We agreed on one M&M with each biting tablespoon you had to swallow.
Well you demanded TWO M&Ms. Ok, we contended. This is a small price to pay to save your finger, and potentially much more if the infection spread throughout your body. Even your dietitian mother decided it was worth the artificial food dyes and high fructose corn syrup to get you well. Immediately upon reviewing your prize, you called you sister over for her share of your bounty. Even though you had the pain, you had to endure the surgery and dressing changes, you had to taste the awful (but ultimately wonderful) medication, you gave half to your big sister. Without thinking. It was your instinct, part of your innate character, to be selfless. To share your possessions, your joy with her. It is not something you were taught. This is simply you.
You do have this feisty fire that has come up more often as you become more independent. You don't like to be told what to do. I can't ask you to fetch my slippers, but if I mention my cold feet or a budding headache you run off to get my warm socks or cold compress and rush to my aid. The same sister you lovingly feed half of your treats you have whacked out of frustration. While I don't condone that, I do have a sense of relief that you will not be the type to let others tale advantage of your generosity. You are so powerful, I never want anything to break that part of you.
Watching you grow, experiencing you learn. Seeing you play with your little friends at school, I live for these moments. Everything you do fascinates me. Your effort to properly annunciate words that typically don't belong in a preschooler's vocabulary causes you to stutter often, but you persevere until you get it right. You've never once given up for an easier word. When I made the mistake of trying to say it for you, you don't appreciate my efforts at all. I get it, baby. You are so independent in many ways, but you still need so much from us as parents. You demand it, and you suck in every ounce of attention we give you. And you return that love so sweetly, so generously and genuinely, I often feel undeserving of something so beautiful.
You are hilarious. Always doing anything for a laugh. I love how you dance in the car to our gym music, how you can't take dancing with you sister seriously and just end up shaking your bum around, how you give the sky side look and half smile when you are up to no good. How you run so much faster than your little legs seem meant to, often falling frequently. But rarely do you cry, even when you are visibly injured. Not much can deter you from doing what you want to do, even the occasional blood shed.
Your are still strikingly beautiful. No, beauty isn't everything, but part of it is that personality that shines through your face. And of course, those eyes. The way you sleep. It's as if you were perfectly
posed for a nocturnal photographer. Every position you turn to, your face, hands, you're angelic. You certainly aren't even trying to look like that. Just like your personality. Unintentional perfection.
It's not anything you control, it's just you baby. My beautiful, sweet, powerful four year old.
Yes, you are going to be a big sister now. Sometimes I worry how you will handle it, you so enjoy being a baby yourself. You still sneak into our bed every night, and sleep between your parents, your arms and legs wrapped around one of us so tightly it's hard to untangle from your grasp. Your sweet face often covered in tangles of your wispy, wild hair. Hair that refuses to be contained to ponytails, braids or buns, even when shellacked with hairspray. Yes, your hair suits you just perfectly. You would never conform to anything that you didn't want, why should your hair? We have learned to let it fly free, like your sprit, it just won't be contained.
While I continue to worry how you will accept your little sister's arrival, part of me thinks it will be so hard on you. But then again, I see you with your big sister. The way you treat her, even though you are the younger sister, you constantly look out for her.
I remember last summer on the beach, we had some lunch. Di was playing in a muddy sand puddle, and you were on my lap. As you finished your sandwich, I gave you two potato chips, just because it was vacation and you were so sweet and cute. You took both chips and walked off. I watched you walk away, as I often do. You went directly to your sister, and because her hands were elbow deep in sand, you told her to open her mouth. You popped one of the chips in her mouth and happily walked away, munching your own.
When what started as an innocent paper cut, turned into a horrific infection that sent us to multiple doctors, specialists and hospitals. It was awful, to see your finger look that bad. It hurt us to look at it. You really never complained at all. Eventually, the doctors prescribed a medication so strong, the flavor of it was comparable to ammonia. Even the pharmacist cringed when we filled it, and I paid the additional price to have extra flavoring added to it. The pediatrician told us to give you anything you wanted to get you to take it consistently. We agreed on one M&M with each biting tablespoon you had to swallow.
Well you demanded TWO M&Ms. Ok, we contended. This is a small price to pay to save your finger, and potentially much more if the infection spread throughout your body. Even your dietitian mother decided it was worth the artificial food dyes and high fructose corn syrup to get you well. Immediately upon reviewing your prize, you called you sister over for her share of your bounty. Even though you had the pain, you had to endure the surgery and dressing changes, you had to taste the awful (but ultimately wonderful) medication, you gave half to your big sister. Without thinking. It was your instinct, part of your innate character, to be selfless. To share your possessions, your joy with her. It is not something you were taught. This is simply you.
You do have this feisty fire that has come up more often as you become more independent. You don't like to be told what to do. I can't ask you to fetch my slippers, but if I mention my cold feet or a budding headache you run off to get my warm socks or cold compress and rush to my aid. The same sister you lovingly feed half of your treats you have whacked out of frustration. While I don't condone that, I do have a sense of relief that you will not be the type to let others tale advantage of your generosity. You are so powerful, I never want anything to break that part of you.
Watching you grow, experiencing you learn. Seeing you play with your little friends at school, I live for these moments. Everything you do fascinates me. Your effort to properly annunciate words that typically don't belong in a preschooler's vocabulary causes you to stutter often, but you persevere until you get it right. You've never once given up for an easier word. When I made the mistake of trying to say it for you, you don't appreciate my efforts at all. I get it, baby. You are so independent in many ways, but you still need so much from us as parents. You demand it, and you suck in every ounce of attention we give you. And you return that love so sweetly, so generously and genuinely, I often feel undeserving of something so beautiful.
You are hilarious. Always doing anything for a laugh. I love how you dance in the car to our gym music, how you can't take dancing with you sister seriously and just end up shaking your bum around, how you give the sky side look and half smile when you are up to no good. How you run so much faster than your little legs seem meant to, often falling frequently. But rarely do you cry, even when you are visibly injured. Not much can deter you from doing what you want to do, even the occasional blood shed.
Your are still strikingly beautiful. No, beauty isn't everything, but part of it is that personality that shines through your face. And of course, those eyes. The way you sleep. It's as if you were perfectly
posed for a nocturnal photographer. Every position you turn to, your face, hands, you're angelic. You certainly aren't even trying to look like that. Just like your personality. Unintentional perfection.
It's not anything you control, it's just you baby. My beautiful, sweet, powerful four year old.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Five
Five. Five. five. My daughter is five. My first born, blonde baby girl. My blondie-blue. Five years old. Five is the scary age when you really can't kid yourself anymore, she is not a baby. Not even close. Of course you, my love, never really were.
I still marvel at how you never were a baby at all. You looked like one, sounded like one. But you just didn't quite fit. Those blue eyes knew more than you could express, and the frustration drove us all mad until your language erupted and then, it settled. You are now so calm, collected, and so intuitive. You don't like blood but you rush to doctor any wound. Your body is becoming strong, graceful, and resilient. You are so eager to read and write, draw and paint. You come home everyday begging to do homework, that I have to usually create as most kindergarteners don't have much to do.
Kindergarten. Now some strange woman I barely know spends far more hours with you than I do every week. The endless days of lazy mornings with blueberry pancakes and pillow forts have been replaced with a strict breakfast to bus schedule that we struggle to keep. I have to watch you walk away from me, happily, to start your day without me. I don't know the names of all your friends, nor the details of your day. You share a little, but I know you well enough to know there is so much more that goes on. But it doesn't belong to me anymore, it's only yours. And you decide what pieces I get. I want them all, but it's not up to me.
As much as I wish I could be by your side, I am so grateful for who you are, because I trust in you more than I thought I would. I can look into your eyes and see how much older you are. You keep me at bay with your shrouded mysteries, but, in your moments of half sleep or early states of awakening, I get a glimpse of that little girl, who whispers words of love in your vulnerable sleepiness. It leaves me aching for more of you, but all too soon you are again veiled in maturity you shouldn't posess. I'm quite sure you did not inherit this trait from either of your parents.
You are so appreciative of everything, the simplest token, a nickname of praise. I see you cherish these things without gloating or boasting, but with that way you smile and try to conceal it by curling your lips in. That's when I can see how happy you are. But you try so hard to hide it. I wish I knew why you felt the need to hide your joy, I so love to see it in your face.
You just started school, and yet I found hidden pages of your notebook where your are phonetically spelling out words, like "kosand" (cousin). You don't want us to know what you do, on those secret pages. Like your joy, you're keeping your intelligence cloaked within yourself, and I find myself wondering just how much more there is under those blue eyes of yours.
I look at you now as I looked at you years ago, knowing there is so much more to your mind than you will ever share with me. I'm so incredibly curious, but so overwhelmingly proud. I admire your strength, your intelligence, your pure, kind soul, and all the things that continue to make me wonder just how much more there is inside my little girl.
I hope you always know I am hear to help you carry that burden, whatever it may be. You will be one of the great ones, who carries the weight of the world's problems in your arms, and I will always be there to hold you in mine, whenever you allow it.
Happy birthday, my beautiful old soul.
I still marvel at how you never were a baby at all. You looked like one, sounded like one. But you just didn't quite fit. Those blue eyes knew more than you could express, and the frustration drove us all mad until your language erupted and then, it settled. You are now so calm, collected, and so intuitive. You don't like blood but you rush to doctor any wound. Your body is becoming strong, graceful, and resilient. You are so eager to read and write, draw and paint. You come home everyday begging to do homework, that I have to usually create as most kindergarteners don't have much to do.
Kindergarten. Now some strange woman I barely know spends far more hours with you than I do every week. The endless days of lazy mornings with blueberry pancakes and pillow forts have been replaced with a strict breakfast to bus schedule that we struggle to keep. I have to watch you walk away from me, happily, to start your day without me. I don't know the names of all your friends, nor the details of your day. You share a little, but I know you well enough to know there is so much more that goes on. But it doesn't belong to me anymore, it's only yours. And you decide what pieces I get. I want them all, but it's not up to me.
As much as I wish I could be by your side, I am so grateful for who you are, because I trust in you more than I thought I would. I can look into your eyes and see how much older you are. You keep me at bay with your shrouded mysteries, but, in your moments of half sleep or early states of awakening, I get a glimpse of that little girl, who whispers words of love in your vulnerable sleepiness. It leaves me aching for more of you, but all too soon you are again veiled in maturity you shouldn't posess. I'm quite sure you did not inherit this trait from either of your parents.
You are so appreciative of everything, the simplest token, a nickname of praise. I see you cherish these things without gloating or boasting, but with that way you smile and try to conceal it by curling your lips in. That's when I can see how happy you are. But you try so hard to hide it. I wish I knew why you felt the need to hide your joy, I so love to see it in your face.
You just started school, and yet I found hidden pages of your notebook where your are phonetically spelling out words, like "kosand" (cousin). You don't want us to know what you do, on those secret pages. Like your joy, you're keeping your intelligence cloaked within yourself, and I find myself wondering just how much more there is under those blue eyes of yours.
I look at you now as I looked at you years ago, knowing there is so much more to your mind than you will ever share with me. I'm so incredibly curious, but so overwhelmingly proud. I admire your strength, your intelligence, your pure, kind soul, and all the things that continue to make me wonder just how much more there is inside my little girl.
I hope you always know I am hear to help you carry that burden, whatever it may be. You will be one of the great ones, who carries the weight of the world's problems in your arms, and I will always be there to hold you in mine, whenever you allow it.
Happy birthday, my beautiful old soul.
Saturday, April 26, 2014
She is three
My baby girl, my second baby girl, is three years old. You are a walking contradiction, in the most amazingly beautiful way. Never have I seen a person, certainly not a child of two or three, act the way you do. I marvel at your selflessness. I have seen you literally give others the shirt off your back, hand your sister your favorite toy, be satisfied with one item while everyone else around you has dozens.
Any time I offer you a special treat, you demand one for you sister as well, and never even consider keeping both for yourself. Your instinct to think about others, well that's typically something more forced, learned as adults, not ingrained at birth. You are so special. You don't even have to think, it's automatic. You have no ulterior motives nor expectations of reciprocation. Pure, untaught, unaltered, kindness.
You are still my baby in so many ways. You will lay confidently in your bed in your room, fall into a deep sleep there, but without fail, I will feel the warmth of your body, and likely the heel of your foot in my face, by the break of dawn. I love how you demand the love you deserve. You tell us how to hold you, tightly, against our chests with both arms wrapped around you. And no one will get back to sleep until it's done right. My hope for you is that you never lose that. I hope you will always demand love as fiercely as you give it. And I will always come snuggle you whenever you ask, and many times between.
Your generosity and empathy knows few limits, but what I am so proud of is how you have set those limits. No one takes advantage of your kindness. For as easily as you give to others, if anyone tries to take from you, they will feel your wrath quickly and heavily. You are so strong willed. I admire so much about you. I hope no one ever breaks you down, no one ever takes this incredible power from you. You have a sense of self worth that most women don't, and even if they once did possess it, it is long gone by adulthood. That is a difficult bridge to rebuild. I promise to do everything I can to preserve this in you. You deserve to always feel strong, powerful, and self actualized the way you are now.
I love how you love. You love so hard, so deeply. When I give you a hug, you return it with all of yourself. Your sweet little arms wrapped tightly around my neck, your head pushed against mine. I love how you hold my face when you tell me you love me more, draw my world into your endless blue eyes. I love the perfect curve of your nose and how it turns up when you laugh, how your eyes sparkle even behind your squint, and how you giggle through your slightly parted tiny teeth. Your special double tooth adding just a touch of the sweetest goofiness to your smile. Your smooth cheeks have just the perfect amount of plumpness and just begged to be kissed over and over.
Your words. You stutter quite a bit right now, but I believe that's only because you are so damn determined to say the words correctly, and you are choosing words few other three year olds would know. Your slight lisp and mispronunciation of these words is so endearing to us, I find myself wishing I could record everything you say so I'll never have to live without the sound of your words at this age. I don't want to forget them. The way you say "weallwy", and then remind us you just said "weallwy" so we are further assured of your cuteness.
You are undeniably beautiful. We still get stopped by strangers on a weekly basis, people who remind us over and over how stunning you are. You've always been beautiful, certainly, but add in your huge personality and it's almost overwhelming to pack all of that into your tiny little body. We can rarely keep your wispy hair out of your face, often having to talk to you through a veil of hair. I see your eyes glow beneath it when you give us that guilty sideways stare, when you know you're doing something we wouldn't approve of.
You talk openly and freely now, the type of child that will say hi to random people, and give way too much information. You love to tell people about your puppy, and the fate of our deceased rodent pets. You love to talk to people, but to try to get you to speak when you don't want to? Well that's a feat that's nearly impossible. No one makes you do anything you don't want to do. No amount of bribery or coaxing works with you. As frustrating as that can be for your parents at times, it makes me so proud and confident for you.
Your birthday is "tismorrow" and I can't believe you're three years old, but I also can't believe you weren't always a part of our lives. I guess being a parent involves a lot of unbelievable things. But I believe in this: you girls are the best, most amazing thing to ever happen in my life. It is an honor to be your mother. I get to have you, live with you, raise you, teach you, love you.
Happy birthday to my amazing baby girl. And thank you for every wonderful second of these past three years.
Any time I offer you a special treat, you demand one for you sister as well, and never even consider keeping both for yourself. Your instinct to think about others, well that's typically something more forced, learned as adults, not ingrained at birth. You are so special. You don't even have to think, it's automatic. You have no ulterior motives nor expectations of reciprocation. Pure, untaught, unaltered, kindness.
You are still my baby in so many ways. You will lay confidently in your bed in your room, fall into a deep sleep there, but without fail, I will feel the warmth of your body, and likely the heel of your foot in my face, by the break of dawn. I love how you demand the love you deserve. You tell us how to hold you, tightly, against our chests with both arms wrapped around you. And no one will get back to sleep until it's done right. My hope for you is that you never lose that. I hope you will always demand love as fiercely as you give it. And I will always come snuggle you whenever you ask, and many times between.
Your generosity and empathy knows few limits, but what I am so proud of is how you have set those limits. No one takes advantage of your kindness. For as easily as you give to others, if anyone tries to take from you, they will feel your wrath quickly and heavily. You are so strong willed. I admire so much about you. I hope no one ever breaks you down, no one ever takes this incredible power from you. You have a sense of self worth that most women don't, and even if they once did possess it, it is long gone by adulthood. That is a difficult bridge to rebuild. I promise to do everything I can to preserve this in you. You deserve to always feel strong, powerful, and self actualized the way you are now.
I love how you love. You love so hard, so deeply. When I give you a hug, you return it with all of yourself. Your sweet little arms wrapped tightly around my neck, your head pushed against mine. I love how you hold my face when you tell me you love me more, draw my world into your endless blue eyes. I love the perfect curve of your nose and how it turns up when you laugh, how your eyes sparkle even behind your squint, and how you giggle through your slightly parted tiny teeth. Your special double tooth adding just a touch of the sweetest goofiness to your smile. Your smooth cheeks have just the perfect amount of plumpness and just begged to be kissed over and over.
Your words. You stutter quite a bit right now, but I believe that's only because you are so damn determined to say the words correctly, and you are choosing words few other three year olds would know. Your slight lisp and mispronunciation of these words is so endearing to us, I find myself wishing I could record everything you say so I'll never have to live without the sound of your words at this age. I don't want to forget them. The way you say "weallwy", and then remind us you just said "weallwy" so we are further assured of your cuteness.
You are undeniably beautiful. We still get stopped by strangers on a weekly basis, people who remind us over and over how stunning you are. You've always been beautiful, certainly, but add in your huge personality and it's almost overwhelming to pack all of that into your tiny little body. We can rarely keep your wispy hair out of your face, often having to talk to you through a veil of hair. I see your eyes glow beneath it when you give us that guilty sideways stare, when you know you're doing something we wouldn't approve of.
You talk openly and freely now, the type of child that will say hi to random people, and give way too much information. You love to tell people about your puppy, and the fate of our deceased rodent pets. You love to talk to people, but to try to get you to speak when you don't want to? Well that's a feat that's nearly impossible. No one makes you do anything you don't want to do. No amount of bribery or coaxing works with you. As frustrating as that can be for your parents at times, it makes me so proud and confident for you.
Your birthday is "tismorrow" and I can't believe you're three years old, but I also can't believe you weren't always a part of our lives. I guess being a parent involves a lot of unbelievable things. But I believe in this: you girls are the best, most amazing thing to ever happen in my life. It is an honor to be your mother. I get to have you, live with you, raise you, teach you, love you.
Happy birthday to my amazing baby girl. And thank you for every wonderful second of these past three years.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Language Barriers
The most beautiful things in life are untouchable. Some are impossible to touch, and must be admired from afar. Sunsets, rainbows, the stars. Too far away to do anything but enjoy them. Then there are butterfly wings, coral reefs and snowflakes. While they are close enough to touch, even the gentlest fingers could render them destroyed forever.
I've been avoiding my blog for many months. I think about writing often, however I've been too afraid to touch the most beautiful experience of my life. As if putting it down on paper will shatter it somehow. Will render this amazing entity useless or at least far less beautiful than it once was. It's so delicate, I've been terrified to touch it, even with words.
He was born three and a half weeks ago. This isn't his birth story. That's so much easier to tell. That is just remembering facts and events. What isn't easy, and has been nearly impossible to do, is describe my feelings through this experience. I wake up at night thinking I may have the words to say, but them I realize they don't exist. I have to try, I know. I owe it to him. He needs to know how incredibly special he is to me, and how much he was dreamed of by his parents. There is not a fiber in my being that doubts that his parents will ever falter in making him understand how loved he is by them. It's my job to make sure he knows what he means to me.
I went to visit him last week. He has grown already. I finally got to see his eyes open wide. I met so many members of his family. They are so loving, kind, gentle and generous. I can already tell he will be the same. His grandfather doesn't speak English. I can't communicate with him at all verbally. But I see the way he looks at me and hugs me and the gratitude is unmistakable. I understand. He holds out his arms to take the baby and rocks him on his knees. Love has no language barriers.
There are many words that don't directly translate to my language. I read recently about a German word meaning "the feeling of being alone in the woods". There is no English word for that. There is also no English word for "the feeling of carrying a baby for another couple and birthing that baby and watching him go home and be loved by them". I wish there was a word, or even a combination of them that would communicate to other people, make them understand. I feel like a failure, the writer in me is shirking away hanging my head in shame for my inability to pour out these feelings in beautifully parallel words that will instantly make anyone reading feel as though they understand.
I can't write about this the way I want to. I stumble over my own words as I try to explain to well-meaning people who are looking to satisfy their curiosity. I've had so much support, so many positive, wonderful people who have sent me loving thoughts and sent notes and emails and my gratitude for that is immeasurable. I am incredibly humbled by the outpouring of emotional and loving thoughts. I sat many nights starting at the letters on the keyboard willing them to please start making sense of this all. How do I express my own gratitude, my love, how do I tell you all that this experience was so life changing I hate even writing that because it sounds so frivolous compared to my actual feelings I just want to tear up this paper except it's not paper it's my iPad and it's expensive and I need it!
Slowly, a part of me has become elated. I was able to experience something so incredibly profound it's beyond words. While I desperately wish to share it with the world, part of me revels in the fact that I simply cannot. It's far too deep within me, too far away from the words I know. It can't be explained by mouth or on paper, in English, Chinese or any language. It belongs to me and me alone. And maybe that's what keeps it eternally beautiful.
I've been avoiding my blog for many months. I think about writing often, however I've been too afraid to touch the most beautiful experience of my life. As if putting it down on paper will shatter it somehow. Will render this amazing entity useless or at least far less beautiful than it once was. It's so delicate, I've been terrified to touch it, even with words.
He was born three and a half weeks ago. This isn't his birth story. That's so much easier to tell. That is just remembering facts and events. What isn't easy, and has been nearly impossible to do, is describe my feelings through this experience. I wake up at night thinking I may have the words to say, but them I realize they don't exist. I have to try, I know. I owe it to him. He needs to know how incredibly special he is to me, and how much he was dreamed of by his parents. There is not a fiber in my being that doubts that his parents will ever falter in making him understand how loved he is by them. It's my job to make sure he knows what he means to me.
I went to visit him last week. He has grown already. I finally got to see his eyes open wide. I met so many members of his family. They are so loving, kind, gentle and generous. I can already tell he will be the same. His grandfather doesn't speak English. I can't communicate with him at all verbally. But I see the way he looks at me and hugs me and the gratitude is unmistakable. I understand. He holds out his arms to take the baby and rocks him on his knees. Love has no language barriers.
There are many words that don't directly translate to my language. I read recently about a German word meaning "the feeling of being alone in the woods". There is no English word for that. There is also no English word for "the feeling of carrying a baby for another couple and birthing that baby and watching him go home and be loved by them". I wish there was a word, or even a combination of them that would communicate to other people, make them understand. I feel like a failure, the writer in me is shirking away hanging my head in shame for my inability to pour out these feelings in beautifully parallel words that will instantly make anyone reading feel as though they understand.
I can't write about this the way I want to. I stumble over my own words as I try to explain to well-meaning people who are looking to satisfy their curiosity. I've had so much support, so many positive, wonderful people who have sent me loving thoughts and sent notes and emails and my gratitude for that is immeasurable. I am incredibly humbled by the outpouring of emotional and loving thoughts. I sat many nights starting at the letters on the keyboard willing them to please start making sense of this all. How do I express my own gratitude, my love, how do I tell you all that this experience was so life changing I hate even writing that because it sounds so frivolous compared to my actual feelings I just want to tear up this paper except it's not paper it's my iPad and it's expensive and I need it!
Slowly, a part of me has become elated. I was able to experience something so incredibly profound it's beyond words. While I desperately wish to share it with the world, part of me revels in the fact that I simply cannot. It's far too deep within me, too far away from the words I know. It can't be explained by mouth or on paper, in English, Chinese or any language. It belongs to me and me alone. And maybe that's what keeps it eternally beautiful.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Four years...
Four years ago today, I was preparing for your birth...for the second time. You were almost born on the second day of this month, but at the very last minute, you changed your mind and decided to do what you should had done weeks earlier. Walking back out that day, wearing the same clothes, belly still swollen with you tucked away inside, I was pretty devastated. I was picturing walking out of that hospital holding a little brown haired, brown eyed girl. Your grandparents and aunt were there. We all thought that was the day we would meet you. Although we had to wait a little longer, it's been four years exactly since the day I first saw your eyes look at mine...and they weren't brown. Although it took over two years for you to have any significant hair, that wasn't brown either. In fact, you were nothing like what I expected, in any way.
In your babyhood, we were hard on each other. I didn't expect those nights to be so hard. I didn't expect the months to pass so slowly. I didn't expect most of what happened in those early days, and today isn't any different.
I didn't expect you to be so grown up at four years old. I call you my little old soul, because of the way I catch you staring out the window, deep in thought. You have always seem to grasp concepts far beyond what your years should allow. I can speak to you like a friend, and never have to simplify my thoughts. You understand it all. You even understand me when I don't have words to speak. How often do we look at each other and break out into smiles?
I found myself staring at you once recently, you fell asleep in the car. I pulled into our driveway, and normally I would jump right out to begin the process of removing children, shoes, socks and whatever else happened to make its way into car on our trip. I happened to glance at you in the rear view mirror, and stopped short. I saw such a mature face it made me simultaneously sad, proud and overwhelmed with the realization that you were growing up, and you aren't going to stop. I stare at your face now and it's impossible to see the baby you once were.
You're so appreciative for everything you have, everything you are given. I have never seen another child show so much gratitude and excitement when you are offered gifts, no matter how boring or mundane they may seem. What kid gets excited about new socks for Christmas? Or a magnet brought back from a business trip? Well, you do, and you show as much excitement and gratitude for these little things as you do for the "big" gifts that most kids crave. It only makes me want to give you more.
You're so much like me. The deep thinker, the animal lover, the attachment to your family. You never asked for a lot of affection, independent from the time you were a baby. But on those occasions you ask to snuggle or request a hug, I just want to hold you so tight I'm afraid to hurt you. You're such a great big sister, watching how you love your little sister , how you care for her, consider her, it multiplies my love and pride for you even more. How lucky she is to have you to look up to, how lucky I am to have you as her role model.
I love our little quiet moments together, morning time hugs, waking up to your hand on my face, telling me you love me. I love how you tell me at the end of the day you had fun, and you thank me for it. A four-year-old, thanking her parents for a nice day. Even as I think about it, I'm am shaking my head in amazement.
Thank you my baby girl, even though the baby is long gone, I am so grateful for every moment we have had together in these four years. I'm excited for the years to come, though I would never want to rush through any of these moments. Thank you for all the fun, the sweetness, the caring, and the understanding of situations that should be far beyond your comprehension, but somehow, for you, they just aren't. Thank you for your unconditional love, your tolerance, your ability to forgive me my faults.
Thank you, my love, for these past four years.
In your babyhood, we were hard on each other. I didn't expect those nights to be so hard. I didn't expect the months to pass so slowly. I didn't expect most of what happened in those early days, and today isn't any different.
I didn't expect you to be so grown up at four years old. I call you my little old soul, because of the way I catch you staring out the window, deep in thought. You have always seem to grasp concepts far beyond what your years should allow. I can speak to you like a friend, and never have to simplify my thoughts. You understand it all. You even understand me when I don't have words to speak. How often do we look at each other and break out into smiles?
I found myself staring at you once recently, you fell asleep in the car. I pulled into our driveway, and normally I would jump right out to begin the process of removing children, shoes, socks and whatever else happened to make its way into car on our trip. I happened to glance at you in the rear view mirror, and stopped short. I saw such a mature face it made me simultaneously sad, proud and overwhelmed with the realization that you were growing up, and you aren't going to stop. I stare at your face now and it's impossible to see the baby you once were.
You're so appreciative for everything you have, everything you are given. I have never seen another child show so much gratitude and excitement when you are offered gifts, no matter how boring or mundane they may seem. What kid gets excited about new socks for Christmas? Or a magnet brought back from a business trip? Well, you do, and you show as much excitement and gratitude for these little things as you do for the "big" gifts that most kids crave. It only makes me want to give you more.
You're so much like me. The deep thinker, the animal lover, the attachment to your family. You never asked for a lot of affection, independent from the time you were a baby. But on those occasions you ask to snuggle or request a hug, I just want to hold you so tight I'm afraid to hurt you. You're such a great big sister, watching how you love your little sister , how you care for her, consider her, it multiplies my love and pride for you even more. How lucky she is to have you to look up to, how lucky I am to have you as her role model.
I love our little quiet moments together, morning time hugs, waking up to your hand on my face, telling me you love me. I love how you tell me at the end of the day you had fun, and you thank me for it. A four-year-old, thanking her parents for a nice day. Even as I think about it, I'm am shaking my head in amazement.
Thank you my baby girl, even though the baby is long gone, I am so grateful for every moment we have had together in these four years. I'm excited for the years to come, though I would never want to rush through any of these moments. Thank you for all the fun, the sweetness, the caring, and the understanding of situations that should be far beyond your comprehension, but somehow, for you, they just aren't. Thank you for your unconditional love, your tolerance, your ability to forgive me my faults.
Thank you, my love, for these past four years.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Because
There are a lot of whys in this life. Some are amazing. Why are my kids so cute, why am I so lucky to have the two best children on this planet, why did they choose me, why do I get such an amazing family, job, life? These whys are wonderful, life affirming, humbling. I try to ask myself these whys at least once a day, but naturally it happens more when the girls we around. I love these whys.
The whys I try to never ask myself, why did she just throw that, why is there traffic, why did the dog pee on the floor when we just got back from our walk? Why did they jerk us around with delayed flights only to cancel and why did I decide to take two children to Georgia without my husband? These are the insignificant whys. They happen naturally, in moments of self pity we have no business pitying ourselves. It's human, to let these stupid details become the big deals they really aren't. Add a bit of sleep deprivation, hunger, hormones or whatever excuse you give yourself ( sleep deprivation is my go- to) and these whys seem like a big deal for a second, but you know they aren't because they don't last long. Kids moods improve, they grow and learn and stop throwing things. Traffic never lasts forever, I've never seen that on the news. We got a new flight and eventually made it home, and the dog usually pisses outside. Short term whys.
The worst whys are the ones that last a lifetime, and are never answered. Why do very bad things happen? War, fires, deaths of children? Newtown, Boston Marathon, September 11, take your pick. There are dozens more I don't care to think of now. These whys fade a bit, but never go away. They can't be answered, they don't get better, they never resolve. Scars on humanity.
How do I raise children in a world of these whys without tainting them? How do I explain these things, what else will they endure in their lifetime? How do I teach them this world is a good place? That good will always outweigh the bad? That two people can set off a bomb, but a thousand people will run toward explosions to help?
I can hope that they see this. I can show them that other people are good. I can talk and talk about other people, wonderful people, doing good things in their lives, selfless things, wonderful things.
And, I could do something myself. As their mother, it's my responsibility to show them good in other people. But who is arguably the most influential person in their lives? Me. I still spend time trying to please my parents, I seek their advice about these things. I admire my parents so much. Of course my children will do the same.
So, two years ago, I decided to do something big. The idea grew out of me a bit unconventionally. I get a lot of great ideas, many never come to fruition. But this was different. If I was religious, perhaps I would say it was what God told me to do. For me it was more of a hormone fueled passion that didn't dissipate even when the post partum hormones did. I couldn't get it out of my mind. I thought about it every day. I researched every aspect of my idea. I opened my life to investigations, probes in to the most personal parts of my life, my history. I spent months tracking down records, doctors, insurance companies etc. It was work, I had moments of being so overwhelmed I thought I would just quit. But things fell into place. When my insurance would not cover what I intended to do, this wall appeared. It looked like this dream was crushed. That day, my husband came home announcing his company is finally offering insurance options, after years of not. They offered only one choice, and this was one of the only insurances that would cover my intentions. I couldn't believe it happened like that, wall removed, we push forward.
I've met them. Not in person, but on the phone. I love them. They could be us, they are us. She is me, in a different body, living a different life. He is Mark. They have no children. They want children so bad. I thought I went through a lot in my journey thus far, how stupid of me not to realize how much more they had to endure. The connection is instant. We are supposed to wait a day or two to make a decision, but I can barely contain myself. Mark feels the same. I never was more sure of anything in my life. I was only half sure about having my own kids, and look how awesome that turned out.
Contracts were created and signed. I received a hugs box of medications, needles, pills, calendars. Several fun exams. I am prepared for this. This is what I want to show my children, this is what they need to see, experience with me. We talk about it every day. They seem excited too. Mommy is going to have a baby. A baby we don't keep. A baby we will give back to his or her mommy and daddy after the are born.
I am going to be a surrogate. Because I want to. Because it is good. Because it is right.
Because I can.
The whys I try to never ask myself, why did she just throw that, why is there traffic, why did the dog pee on the floor when we just got back from our walk? Why did they jerk us around with delayed flights only to cancel and why did I decide to take two children to Georgia without my husband? These are the insignificant whys. They happen naturally, in moments of self pity we have no business pitying ourselves. It's human, to let these stupid details become the big deals they really aren't. Add a bit of sleep deprivation, hunger, hormones or whatever excuse you give yourself ( sleep deprivation is my go- to) and these whys seem like a big deal for a second, but you know they aren't because they don't last long. Kids moods improve, they grow and learn and stop throwing things. Traffic never lasts forever, I've never seen that on the news. We got a new flight and eventually made it home, and the dog usually pisses outside. Short term whys.
The worst whys are the ones that last a lifetime, and are never answered. Why do very bad things happen? War, fires, deaths of children? Newtown, Boston Marathon, September 11, take your pick. There are dozens more I don't care to think of now. These whys fade a bit, but never go away. They can't be answered, they don't get better, they never resolve. Scars on humanity.
How do I raise children in a world of these whys without tainting them? How do I explain these things, what else will they endure in their lifetime? How do I teach them this world is a good place? That good will always outweigh the bad? That two people can set off a bomb, but a thousand people will run toward explosions to help?
I can hope that they see this. I can show them that other people are good. I can talk and talk about other people, wonderful people, doing good things in their lives, selfless things, wonderful things.
And, I could do something myself. As their mother, it's my responsibility to show them good in other people. But who is arguably the most influential person in their lives? Me. I still spend time trying to please my parents, I seek their advice about these things. I admire my parents so much. Of course my children will do the same.
So, two years ago, I decided to do something big. The idea grew out of me a bit unconventionally. I get a lot of great ideas, many never come to fruition. But this was different. If I was religious, perhaps I would say it was what God told me to do. For me it was more of a hormone fueled passion that didn't dissipate even when the post partum hormones did. I couldn't get it out of my mind. I thought about it every day. I researched every aspect of my idea. I opened my life to investigations, probes in to the most personal parts of my life, my history. I spent months tracking down records, doctors, insurance companies etc. It was work, I had moments of being so overwhelmed I thought I would just quit. But things fell into place. When my insurance would not cover what I intended to do, this wall appeared. It looked like this dream was crushed. That day, my husband came home announcing his company is finally offering insurance options, after years of not. They offered only one choice, and this was one of the only insurances that would cover my intentions. I couldn't believe it happened like that, wall removed, we push forward.
I've met them. Not in person, but on the phone. I love them. They could be us, they are us. She is me, in a different body, living a different life. He is Mark. They have no children. They want children so bad. I thought I went through a lot in my journey thus far, how stupid of me not to realize how much more they had to endure. The connection is instant. We are supposed to wait a day or two to make a decision, but I can barely contain myself. Mark feels the same. I never was more sure of anything in my life. I was only half sure about having my own kids, and look how awesome that turned out.
Contracts were created and signed. I received a hugs box of medications, needles, pills, calendars. Several fun exams. I am prepared for this. This is what I want to show my children, this is what they need to see, experience with me. We talk about it every day. They seem excited too. Mommy is going to have a baby. A baby we don't keep. A baby we will give back to his or her mommy and daddy after the are born.
I am going to be a surrogate. Because I want to. Because it is good. Because it is right.
Because I can.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
731 days
Two years you've been here now. Don't worry, I added correctly, there was a leap year in there too.
If I had one moment in my life to live over again, it would be the day you were born. I guess that is more than a moment, though. Somehow, in my memory, I can conjure it all up simultaneously. The shock, the craziness, your sweet sweet face. Holding your warm, wet little body in the car, the cold, foggy night, the ride in the ambulance, the moment we arrived. They took you away from me...I don't remember that moment. I can't place the face of the nurse. I just know I tried to cry but I couldn't. I wanted to, but I just didn't have the strength. I remember it was a long time until I was allowed to hold you again. But we spent the first night together, you didn't even have a diaper on, but I didn't care. You were snoring. The sweetest, most beautiful little snore. You smiled even. People might not believe that, but I took a picture of it. I can prove it. My sweet newborn, amist all the chaos surrounding her, smiled in her sleep as I stared at her. As if you knew, you were in on the joke. All that craziness, all the drama, and the local fame. I think it was part of your little plan. And I love you immensely for that. I learned more about parenting in that day than any other. That children, will never, ever be predictable. That they don't follow rules, or plans. And after a long day of craziness that would drive any adult to the brink of insanity, they will close their eyes and smile.
These two years have been amazing. You're so much fun, so loving and affectionate. You still spend most of the night sleeping beside us, asking constantly to "snuggle Mommy, snuggle Daddy". You love animals so much. How many times I've been able to distract you, mid-tantrum, to look at a dog or cat, or when I'm really desperate, a bird...real or imaginary. I think I've thrown a few insects in there too, just for good measure.
I love the sound of your voice. The sweetness of your little lisp. The way you pause for a long time in between words. I'm not sure if it is for emphasis, or if you are really thinking about what you are about to say. You certainly didn't inherit that gift from either of your parents. I love how you ask us " mommy, daddy, wassa madder?" When you know your sister is being disciplined. You tell me immediately that you love me when you misbehave. Only two, and you are so smart.
I love staring at your eloquent profile, especially first thing in the morning. I love the crinkles of your sleep swollen eyes. I love watching the light reflect off your skin in the most beautiful glow no model could ever fake, no matter how much make-up or photoshopping is done. I love your perfect smile, your straight little white teeth, but most of all I love your one special tooth, a fused tooth, as they call it. I love how it adds more humor to your smile. I am completely helpless in the presence of that smile. A smile that makes your smooth skinned cheeks swell with happiness, I could touch and kiss those cheeks for hours and never tire of the feeling.
You love your sister so much, I ache when you hug each other, call out for each other, say your good nights and "I love yous". As much as you love your big sister and older cousin, you're not currently a fan of babies. Perhaps you are too in love with the fact that you are my baby, even your teachers at school have commented on how territorial you are. I nod and listen, but I am smiling so hard inside it takes all my strength not to let it show. My beautiful little independent girl, so strong minded, so determined, so much like mommy.
You are demanding, but in such a cute way I doubt I will ever be able to resist your requests. My sensitive girl, whenever you get scolded, you tend to cry and beg for hugs, with I am helpless to resist. Most children may run from their parents, when they are angry with them. You ruin into our arms every time. You demand so much love I sometimes doubt my ability to give you all you deserve.
People still stop us on the street, to comment on your beauty. Many small children look alike, but the reason we get stopped is because you are so unique. Your dark, gilded hair, the furrowed brows that frame your unbelievable blue eyes. So unique it prompted even our pediatrician to comment on how amazing they are. As a person who sees many sets of young eyes, even she was taken aback by yours. I wish pictures did your eyes true justice, part of me fears someday they will change, and I won't be able to look back and see them as they are now. I love looking into those eyes, usually veiled in your hair, early in the morning. I love how they almost disappear when you laugh, I even love how intense the blue looks when your eyes are red rimmed with tears. I love that no matter how old you get, I will be forever fascinated when I look into your eyes. Because whenever I do, I not only see the beautiful little girl your are. I can see glimpses of the woman you will become. I can see memories of the baby you were. And every so often, you grant my greatest wish. When I look into your dark blue rimmed, turquoise eyes, I can travel back in time to relive the moments surrounding your birth. I won't ever be able to thank you enough, baby girl, for that incredible gift.
Happy Birthday, my sweet little bug.
If I had one moment in my life to live over again, it would be the day you were born. I guess that is more than a moment, though. Somehow, in my memory, I can conjure it all up simultaneously. The shock, the craziness, your sweet sweet face. Holding your warm, wet little body in the car, the cold, foggy night, the ride in the ambulance, the moment we arrived. They took you away from me...I don't remember that moment. I can't place the face of the nurse. I just know I tried to cry but I couldn't. I wanted to, but I just didn't have the strength. I remember it was a long time until I was allowed to hold you again. But we spent the first night together, you didn't even have a diaper on, but I didn't care. You were snoring. The sweetest, most beautiful little snore. You smiled even. People might not believe that, but I took a picture of it. I can prove it. My sweet newborn, amist all the chaos surrounding her, smiled in her sleep as I stared at her. As if you knew, you were in on the joke. All that craziness, all the drama, and the local fame. I think it was part of your little plan. And I love you immensely for that. I learned more about parenting in that day than any other. That children, will never, ever be predictable. That they don't follow rules, or plans. And after a long day of craziness that would drive any adult to the brink of insanity, they will close their eyes and smile.
These two years have been amazing. You're so much fun, so loving and affectionate. You still spend most of the night sleeping beside us, asking constantly to "snuggle Mommy, snuggle Daddy". You love animals so much. How many times I've been able to distract you, mid-tantrum, to look at a dog or cat, or when I'm really desperate, a bird...real or imaginary. I think I've thrown a few insects in there too, just for good measure.
I love the sound of your voice. The sweetness of your little lisp. The way you pause for a long time in between words. I'm not sure if it is for emphasis, or if you are really thinking about what you are about to say. You certainly didn't inherit that gift from either of your parents. I love how you ask us " mommy, daddy, wassa madder?" When you know your sister is being disciplined. You tell me immediately that you love me when you misbehave. Only two, and you are so smart.
I love staring at your eloquent profile, especially first thing in the morning. I love the crinkles of your sleep swollen eyes. I love watching the light reflect off your skin in the most beautiful glow no model could ever fake, no matter how much make-up or photoshopping is done. I love your perfect smile, your straight little white teeth, but most of all I love your one special tooth, a fused tooth, as they call it. I love how it adds more humor to your smile. I am completely helpless in the presence of that smile. A smile that makes your smooth skinned cheeks swell with happiness, I could touch and kiss those cheeks for hours and never tire of the feeling.
You love your sister so much, I ache when you hug each other, call out for each other, say your good nights and "I love yous". As much as you love your big sister and older cousin, you're not currently a fan of babies. Perhaps you are too in love with the fact that you are my baby, even your teachers at school have commented on how territorial you are. I nod and listen, but I am smiling so hard inside it takes all my strength not to let it show. My beautiful little independent girl, so strong minded, so determined, so much like mommy.
You are demanding, but in such a cute way I doubt I will ever be able to resist your requests. My sensitive girl, whenever you get scolded, you tend to cry and beg for hugs, with I am helpless to resist. Most children may run from their parents, when they are angry with them. You ruin into our arms every time. You demand so much love I sometimes doubt my ability to give you all you deserve.
People still stop us on the street, to comment on your beauty. Many small children look alike, but the reason we get stopped is because you are so unique. Your dark, gilded hair, the furrowed brows that frame your unbelievable blue eyes. So unique it prompted even our pediatrician to comment on how amazing they are. As a person who sees many sets of young eyes, even she was taken aback by yours. I wish pictures did your eyes true justice, part of me fears someday they will change, and I won't be able to look back and see them as they are now. I love looking into those eyes, usually veiled in your hair, early in the morning. I love how they almost disappear when you laugh, I even love how intense the blue looks when your eyes are red rimmed with tears. I love that no matter how old you get, I will be forever fascinated when I look into your eyes. Because whenever I do, I not only see the beautiful little girl your are. I can see glimpses of the woman you will become. I can see memories of the baby you were. And every so often, you grant my greatest wish. When I look into your dark blue rimmed, turquoise eyes, I can travel back in time to relive the moments surrounding your birth. I won't ever be able to thank you enough, baby girl, for that incredible gift.
Happy Birthday, my sweet little bug.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Unanswered....
My love for my children is indescribable. I blog in a vain attempt to do the impossible, describe it, so that they can someday understand the things I felt raising them, loving them. I'm proud I sleep only a few hours a night and that I grow food for us and that I make our own laundry detergent and dish soap and do everything in my power to protect them from food dye and pesticides and chemicals and bad television and sadness. Some people call it being a super mom, which I'll proudly accept, but I certainly don't do it to brag about it on a blog a few people read. I don't do it to someday guilt and/or embarrass my kids with when they are vengeful teenagers. I am driven only by this need to protect them, from everything I can.
And though I bolted every piece of furniture to the wall, and gated every doorway and hazard, though I ban toys made with unnatural substances, I know there are a thousand things I can't protect them from. I don't need to be reminded so often. But lately, it's all I hear.
The horrors of Newtown still fresh in all our minds. The family massacre in New Mexico. And right in the next town, a horrible fire, taking the lives of two beautiful girls, almost the exact ages of my two beautiful girls.
It takes a while for me. To see, hear, comprehend, and then fall apart. I've cried so many days for complete strangers in the past few months. I'm tired of the crying, tired of the sadness, but I am so damn grateful that motherhood has made me empathetic enough to react this way. I don't need more reasons to appreciate my kids, more reasons to hug them tighter, smell their heads for a second longer. But they keep coming.
There is no greater fear you could imagine than the fear of not being able to protect your own child, from pain, from fear, from death. I would die a thousand times to prevent that. I would not ever want to live without them.
I can't help but imagine I were that mother. It's a self inflicted pain I can not resist. I can feel her sadness, her tragedy, her hopelessness, I hear her scream and I am screaming with grief in my head as tears roll down my face and soak my shirt and waves of grief wrack my body with breath sucking sobs until I'm too exhausted to cry anymore. And, for added torture, when my vision returned, I made myself write this. Because I want to remember how I feel right now.
Why am I trying to rationalize, to understand, to ignore, to distract myself? I know the results. At least I can answer this myself, maybe answer the girls' questions someday, if something similar happens. The answers are difficult and emotional, but they are there.
The worst questions are always this way, because they will remain forever unanswered.
Why why why whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy
And though I bolted every piece of furniture to the wall, and gated every doorway and hazard, though I ban toys made with unnatural substances, I know there are a thousand things I can't protect them from. I don't need to be reminded so often. But lately, it's all I hear.
The horrors of Newtown still fresh in all our minds. The family massacre in New Mexico. And right in the next town, a horrible fire, taking the lives of two beautiful girls, almost the exact ages of my two beautiful girls.
It takes a while for me. To see, hear, comprehend, and then fall apart. I've cried so many days for complete strangers in the past few months. I'm tired of the crying, tired of the sadness, but I am so damn grateful that motherhood has made me empathetic enough to react this way. I don't need more reasons to appreciate my kids, more reasons to hug them tighter, smell their heads for a second longer. But they keep coming.
There is no greater fear you could imagine than the fear of not being able to protect your own child, from pain, from fear, from death. I would die a thousand times to prevent that. I would not ever want to live without them.
I can't help but imagine I were that mother. It's a self inflicted pain I can not resist. I can feel her sadness, her tragedy, her hopelessness, I hear her scream and I am screaming with grief in my head as tears roll down my face and soak my shirt and waves of grief wrack my body with breath sucking sobs until I'm too exhausted to cry anymore. And, for added torture, when my vision returned, I made myself write this. Because I want to remember how I feel right now.
Why am I trying to rationalize, to understand, to ignore, to distract myself? I know the results. At least I can answer this myself, maybe answer the girls' questions someday, if something similar happens. The answers are difficult and emotional, but they are there.
The worst questions are always this way, because they will remain forever unanswered.
Why why why whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Hearts in Connecticut
I moved my children back to my home state of Connecticut for a very specific reason, so that I could raise them in a safe, healthy place. So they could enjoy the four seasons and all the beauty New England has to offer. I researched cancer rates, crime rates, water quality, air quality, school systems, and you bet your ass I know where every sex offender within a 50 mile radius is (there are only 2). We have lower obesity rates, excellent school systems, great universities and, overall, low crime. Our state is so annoyingly perfect, it was even the focus of several movies like Stepford Wives that tease of our over-the-top perfection.
Then, today happened. I write my blog not for you, or even myself. This is really for my children. Not because I am so wise, or have so much experience or knowledge to offer my children. Only because I want them to know someday, everything I felt while raising them. They will know of this story, I'm sure, but fortunately, they are far too young to understand it now.
I love living here. I grew up in Connecticut, moved briefly out of state, and returned to raise my children here. To give them roots, to grow our own food, to play outside on the dirt roads without fear. Fantasy. For there is certainly always fears in parenting. Am I doing this right? Does that food have too much pesticide or food coloring or preservatives? Do I hug them enough? Are my punishments and consequences fair? Are they developing quickly enough, or too quickly? Do I lose my temper too often? Most of us parents have these questions, they are normal....I think.
And Now? Will they live through the school day? Is that a new normal question? I think an article in The Onion says it best with today's article entitled "Fuck it All".
http://www.theonion.com/articles/fuck-everything-nation-reports,30743/
Yup, that pretty much sums it up. Wasn't there a time when even wars were fought with dignity and organization? Where there were some rules of humanity that were followed no matter what the circumstance? Where women and CHILDREN were off fucking limits? Apparently, that time is long gone. In the most perfect little state, in a sleepy little town, babies are murdered. For absolutely no reason. Because there is no reason, that ever did or will exist, for this.
I can't stop thinking about those parents. Who have to go home to their kids' toys on their living room floors. To the dirty clothes strewn about the bedrooms, the clothing they will never want to wash again because it still smells like their children. Clothing that they will cling to, thinking it was only a day ago, a week ago, a year ago, that their child was alive and wearing this shirt. The parents who will struggle to remember what the last hug felt like, did they hold on long enough. The last time they smelled the top of their head, tucked them in. The Elves that won't have any reason to move tonight, or ever again. The Christmas presents that will never be unwrapped. How Christmas, birthdays, any day, will never be the same again. Unmade beds, unworn clothes, promises of holiday magic, a new year, and upcoming summer vacations, crushed to nothing. To non existence.
I feel a depth of guilt for even having children. My children are here because I wanted them here. They never asked for this life, I'm the selfish one who needed them, wanted them, created them. And now, they have to live with my decision, literally.
For years we will search for answers that don't exist. Grasp at any rationale or reasoning that either isn't there or is but offers no solace. Could any reason? We all need something to reassure us, something to comfort ourselves with, to feel that, once again, it will never happen to us. Isn't that the true innocence of childhood? They don't think anything bad will ever happen to them? Isn't that the bubble of security we as parents create for them so they may grow without being stifled in that paralyzing fear that, we as parents, all too often experience?
I have no answers, none of us do. If I did have any, that would bode far worse for our world. All I know is that I have to work so much harder to maintain that bubble. Maybe things such as this happen as frequently when our grandparents were growing up....but how would we know without television, fast vehicles, Internet and access to every corner of the world through our technology.
We need more heartwarming human deeds, random acts of kindness, regular acts of caring, respect, and love. We all need to stifle our hate, anger and judgement of one another. We can learn from this, we have to.
I cried so hard these at few days. Not just tearing, not weeping, but I cried with gut wrenching, nauseating choking sobs that looked and sounded about as ugly as I felt. I am so grateful, that I am still crying. I found myself so relieved, and happy to see how many other people did the same thing. It means we haven't lost it all, it means we may be save-able, it means there are enough of us to make big changes, and, maybe someday, we can all feel safe again.
Then, today happened. I write my blog not for you, or even myself. This is really for my children. Not because I am so wise, or have so much experience or knowledge to offer my children. Only because I want them to know someday, everything I felt while raising them. They will know of this story, I'm sure, but fortunately, they are far too young to understand it now.
I love living here. I grew up in Connecticut, moved briefly out of state, and returned to raise my children here. To give them roots, to grow our own food, to play outside on the dirt roads without fear. Fantasy. For there is certainly always fears in parenting. Am I doing this right? Does that food have too much pesticide or food coloring or preservatives? Do I hug them enough? Are my punishments and consequences fair? Are they developing quickly enough, or too quickly? Do I lose my temper too often? Most of us parents have these questions, they are normal....I think.
And Now? Will they live through the school day? Is that a new normal question? I think an article in The Onion says it best with today's article entitled "Fuck it All".
http://www.theonion.com/articles/fuck-everything-nation-reports,30743/
Yup, that pretty much sums it up. Wasn't there a time when even wars were fought with dignity and organization? Where there were some rules of humanity that were followed no matter what the circumstance? Where women and CHILDREN were off fucking limits? Apparently, that time is long gone. In the most perfect little state, in a sleepy little town, babies are murdered. For absolutely no reason. Because there is no reason, that ever did or will exist, for this.
I can't stop thinking about those parents. Who have to go home to their kids' toys on their living room floors. To the dirty clothes strewn about the bedrooms, the clothing they will never want to wash again because it still smells like their children. Clothing that they will cling to, thinking it was only a day ago, a week ago, a year ago, that their child was alive and wearing this shirt. The parents who will struggle to remember what the last hug felt like, did they hold on long enough. The last time they smelled the top of their head, tucked them in. The Elves that won't have any reason to move tonight, or ever again. The Christmas presents that will never be unwrapped. How Christmas, birthdays, any day, will never be the same again. Unmade beds, unworn clothes, promises of holiday magic, a new year, and upcoming summer vacations, crushed to nothing. To non existence.
I feel a depth of guilt for even having children. My children are here because I wanted them here. They never asked for this life, I'm the selfish one who needed them, wanted them, created them. And now, they have to live with my decision, literally.
For years we will search for answers that don't exist. Grasp at any rationale or reasoning that either isn't there or is but offers no solace. Could any reason? We all need something to reassure us, something to comfort ourselves with, to feel that, once again, it will never happen to us. Isn't that the true innocence of childhood? They don't think anything bad will ever happen to them? Isn't that the bubble of security we as parents create for them so they may grow without being stifled in that paralyzing fear that, we as parents, all too often experience?
I have no answers, none of us do. If I did have any, that would bode far worse for our world. All I know is that I have to work so much harder to maintain that bubble. Maybe things such as this happen as frequently when our grandparents were growing up....but how would we know without television, fast vehicles, Internet and access to every corner of the world through our technology.
We need more heartwarming human deeds, random acts of kindness, regular acts of caring, respect, and love. We all need to stifle our hate, anger and judgement of one another. We can learn from this, we have to.
I cried so hard these at few days. Not just tearing, not weeping, but I cried with gut wrenching, nauseating choking sobs that looked and sounded about as ugly as I felt. I am so grateful, that I am still crying. I found myself so relieved, and happy to see how many other people did the same thing. It means we haven't lost it all, it means we may be save-able, it means there are enough of us to make big changes, and, maybe someday, we can all feel safe again.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Three years...and some change....
My baby girl just turned 3 years old.....6 weeks ago. We celebrated, of course, and I remain partially in denial that the years seem to spin faster into this vortex of child rearing. Adults age so little in a year's time, but kids...those things freaking change. A lot. Di grew almost 3 inches in 6 months. Does anyone realize how much 3 inches is? Ladies? Gentlemen? If I were 3 inches taller I wouldn't have to worry about theses 15 extra pounds that have accompanied me so graciously since I had my sweet girls.
What can I say about a 3 year old, except if anyone here thinks twos are really terrible, run far away before your child turns three. Three is the year of attitude, yelling, demanding, and moments of unimaginable sweetness. My daughter has made me cry with devastation at the things she says, and weep with the deepest love I have ever felt. It's quite a mind f@$%.
The yelling just means I need to listen to her more. The attitude is her trying to tell me something she just can't verbally express yet. She is teaching me to be more patient, kinder, and to be a better mother. Annoying. But also incredibly cute and humbling...after a few drinks. She fights with her sister now, there is pushing and grabbing and kicking. But there is also kisses and hugs and times when she feeds her baby sister off her plate, helps her read a book, and even attempts to carry her (yikes). It's is a year of wearing jewelry, skirts, and getting dirty. She will no longer let me pick our her clothes, ever, which leaves me with a desire to explain to anyone and everyone in the public that i am just being a good mother by letting her express her independence. cringe cringe. She is mastering her body and learning to control her strength and movements with gymnastics. She really is quite graceful and beautiful to watch. Her movements are effortless. Her little body is strong enough to hold itself up by her arms or legs, and her balance and flexibility make me cringe constantly. She is amazing.
She told me I was her best friend. She has also said this to a caterpillar, a stuffed cat, and a dead spider, but it was still enough to make me tear up. It was beautiful.
Unfortunately, Di being three means one more sad thing...Jbug is 18 months old. (That's a year and a half to anyone who isn't a parent, believe me, you will use months to describe the age of your child, it's the only way, kids grow fast in a year, but a baby grows abnormally fast in a month).
I am so lucky that JJ is still perfectly content being the baby. She still snuggles with us all night, insists on being carried everywhere, has absolutely no interest in the potty, regular cups, plates or eating utensils, and pretty much uses cuteness and crooked smiles to get anything she wants from either myself or her daddy, or grandparents, strangers on the street. She really is that cute. She is talking so well, when her sister allows her to do so. She absolutely loves all things furry, and literally screams with glee at any animal sighting. There isn't many moments when I don't hear a squeaky "mow mow" or "a woof!". And when she spots them, nothing but pure happiness in her eyes.
I am envious, for I am no longer capable of doing that. Isolating one thing in life that creates joy for me, without any other interferences. I wonder when I lost it, because we all do. I wish I could enjoy them like that more often, without worrying what germs or chemicals or food additives or bad vibes they are exposed to. But I guess that is my fate now, to absorb all the negative so that they see only joy. I can certainly live with that.
What can I say about a 3 year old, except if anyone here thinks twos are really terrible, run far away before your child turns three. Three is the year of attitude, yelling, demanding, and moments of unimaginable sweetness. My daughter has made me cry with devastation at the things she says, and weep with the deepest love I have ever felt. It's quite a mind f@$%.
The yelling just means I need to listen to her more. The attitude is her trying to tell me something she just can't verbally express yet. She is teaching me to be more patient, kinder, and to be a better mother. Annoying. But also incredibly cute and humbling...after a few drinks. She fights with her sister now, there is pushing and grabbing and kicking. But there is also kisses and hugs and times when she feeds her baby sister off her plate, helps her read a book, and even attempts to carry her (yikes). It's is a year of wearing jewelry, skirts, and getting dirty. She will no longer let me pick our her clothes, ever, which leaves me with a desire to explain to anyone and everyone in the public that i am just being a good mother by letting her express her independence. cringe cringe. She is mastering her body and learning to control her strength and movements with gymnastics. She really is quite graceful and beautiful to watch. Her movements are effortless. Her little body is strong enough to hold itself up by her arms or legs, and her balance and flexibility make me cringe constantly. She is amazing.
She told me I was her best friend. She has also said this to a caterpillar, a stuffed cat, and a dead spider, but it was still enough to make me tear up. It was beautiful.
Unfortunately, Di being three means one more sad thing...Jbug is 18 months old. (That's a year and a half to anyone who isn't a parent, believe me, you will use months to describe the age of your child, it's the only way, kids grow fast in a year, but a baby grows abnormally fast in a month).
I am so lucky that JJ is still perfectly content being the baby. She still snuggles with us all night, insists on being carried everywhere, has absolutely no interest in the potty, regular cups, plates or eating utensils, and pretty much uses cuteness and crooked smiles to get anything she wants from either myself or her daddy, or grandparents, strangers on the street. She really is that cute. She is talking so well, when her sister allows her to do so. She absolutely loves all things furry, and literally screams with glee at any animal sighting. There isn't many moments when I don't hear a squeaky "mow mow" or "a woof!". And when she spots them, nothing but pure happiness in her eyes.
I am envious, for I am no longer capable of doing that. Isolating one thing in life that creates joy for me, without any other interferences. I wonder when I lost it, because we all do. I wish I could enjoy them like that more often, without worrying what germs or chemicals or food additives or bad vibes they are exposed to. But I guess that is my fate now, to absorb all the negative so that they see only joy. I can certainly live with that.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Romance
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.
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, 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.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Blind
I am not, nor have I ever been a religious person. I do believe in some semblance of order in this life. There is too much symmetry, too many infinite patterns, too much perfection, for me to believe any differently.
I cringe at phrases such as " all things happen for a reason", in part because I feel it is a copout, in part because I believe it is true, and in part, because I know it isn't, but desperately want it to be, need it to be.
What good can possibly come from anyone with cancer, a child who never makes it through childhood, or is robbed of it,made to grow older than possible in a short life. Or one who is fated never to make it even to birth. How can we hide behind a mysterious "reason" for any of that? How can we justify the worst things that can happen with an assumption that there is some entity, some power choosing this? Some order we know nothing of but must accept as fate? Is there a lesson in all things tragic? Are we supposed to find a glimmer of hope and happiness in all things that devastate us?
Maybe we are. Perhaps it is our responsibility, to our own selves, to find that reason in every instance of sadness. To create a place where we are safe, even if we can not see, or feel it. That reason, behind all things, being something we create ourselves. Is this what I am to teach my children, to find the good in all bad, the wonder in all things sad, the beauty, in all things that make us cringe with discomfort, and to use their own minds to create happiness, and contentment?
I don't know. I haven't a clue, except, perhaps..., well, yes, I think it just may be.
I cringe at phrases such as " all things happen for a reason", in part because I feel it is a copout, in part because I believe it is true, and in part, because I know it isn't, but desperately want it to be, need it to be.
What good can possibly come from anyone with cancer, a child who never makes it through childhood, or is robbed of it,made to grow older than possible in a short life. Or one who is fated never to make it even to birth. How can we hide behind a mysterious "reason" for any of that? How can we justify the worst things that can happen with an assumption that there is some entity, some power choosing this? Some order we know nothing of but must accept as fate? Is there a lesson in all things tragic? Are we supposed to find a glimmer of hope and happiness in all things that devastate us?
Maybe we are. Perhaps it is our responsibility, to our own selves, to find that reason in every instance of sadness. To create a place where we are safe, even if we can not see, or feel it. That reason, behind all things, being something we create ourselves. Is this what I am to teach my children, to find the good in all bad, the wonder in all things sad, the beauty, in all things that make us cringe with discomfort, and to use their own minds to create happiness, and contentment?
I don't know. I haven't a clue, except, perhaps..., well, yes, I think it just may be.
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