The Smell of Pumpkin Lattes Can Only Mean One Thing--It's Almost Christmas!

Well, it's October.

A lot happens in October: the World Series; several family birthdays, including two of our children's; Halloween; football; and wonderful weather.

So of course, all I can think about is Christmas.

Every December 26th, I hate Christmas. I never want to have Christmas again. Truth be told, I kind of start hating it on December 25th. Not the Jesus' birthday part---I love that. But the rest of it.... well, it's exhausting.

Yes, the consumerism is problematic, but that's the least of my problem.

You see, every September I start planning for Christmas. I don't want to, but I know that to fulfill my role as creator of tradition, passer-down of history, and keeper of all things family, I have to. Despite my seemingly joyful preparation, I am full of dread. I can't believe I'm about to go through the agony of planning, decorating, creating, and dragging out dusty boxes of clutter for my home.

But then October gets here. I unpack the pumpkins, the seven-foot inflatable Scooby Doo that my husband finally, after all these years, has come to appreciate, the scarecrows, and even some things that glow. Grabbing the decorations from the basement, I see stack upon stack of plastic bins labeled "Christmas." I go to buy candy corn and chocolate, and mixed in among the jack-o-lantern Peeps, I see peppermint bark. Spiced cider. Pumpkin flavored EVERYTHING. And my heart and mind begin to race with joy.

Normal life goes on the back burner. Birthday prep and Halloween costumes become afterthoughts. I eyeball the house for clear places to put tacky knick-knacks and stuffed animals that sing Christmas lyrics to the tune of famous country songs. Advent is weeks away, but my own personal countdown has already begun. Is the corner clear enough for our 10-foot Christmas tree? Check. Is the wrapping station stocked with tape, scissors, and fine-point Sharpies? Check. Do we have enough money to lavish our kids with gifts and our family with buttery foods? Well, two out of three isn't bad. My feet and back start to hurt just thinking of all the cooking I know is coming my way, but it's a hurt I welcome.

For a while, anyway. Come December 20th, I will be emotionally overwrought, financially strapped, and more than slightly cranky. My to-do lists will transfer from desk-sized Post-Its to legal pads, and, at times, I will have to convince both the baby and the dog that the "Get Low" singing snowman is not a threat to their safety.

The shining light in all this (other than the exterior of our house, of course), will be the celebration of Advent and the final culmination on Christmas morning: the ceremonial candle lighting, opening another window every morning to count down the days, singing holidays hymns in the kitchen while night falls early and I relish in the love I know passerbys can see radiating through our open blinds.

It is beautiful.

With each pumpkin latte I know I shouldn't be buying, I inhale the aroma of cinnamon and spice. The steam fills my heart, tingles my toes, and I know this smell means only one thing: it's almost Christmas.

Feeling intimidated.

Christmas cooking is even fun during a kitchen remodel. Oh, and thanks for stirring, Mom!

We're Back, a Little Worse for the Wear, but Alive

Well, we're back.

We made it to Florida and back, minus one whole person.

I can't say the travel was as terrible as I thought it would be, but I can say it was pretty darn close. The saving grace was that Aaron barely cried. Rachel, on the other hand, spent what seemed like 17 hours straight crying because she woke up mid-nap and couldn't get back to sleep.



The flights were interesting---my most thought-of memory from the flight there is Rachel taking the dress off her Rapunzel Barbie (her first ever Barbie, bought in a moment of this-might-save-the-entire-trip! weakness), giggling like Beavis at the naked plastic in front of her, then proceeding to play Tune in Tokyo with it, much to the embarrassment of the mother/daughter pair waiting in line for the bathroom.

Getting off and on the planes with approximately 27 pieces of luggage while also carrying a baby and trying to get a small child to figure out that people really want off the plane once those doors open was the low point of travel. The most Lampoonish moment each way was when, on all four planes we entered and exited, I hit each and every traveler I passed in the head with my Trader Joe's cooler and Unicorn. And probably the princess castle pillow, too, but I can't really remember.



A close second, however, was when we literally, LITERALLY, made our flight with one minute to spare. Tied for third: returning the rental car to the wrong place, then circling the airport frantically looking for the right company while trying to get Andy's phone to stop yelling at us to reconfigure our driving route; realizing we had one less grown-up with us to carry luggage, yet we had two additional bags; and having a flight attendant who wanted to throw all of us--okay, just me--off the plane. Oh, and they lost our luggage.

And that was just the air travel.

We now also have fond memories of taking Aaron to the ER after he possibly sustained a concussion; a one-week late car delivery that had us on the phone with everyone from the DOT to the local Sheriff's Department; every family member but one throwing up repeatedly; and the psychotic break down I had after going six days in a row with four hours of sleep while doing various exhausting things during the day and spending nights with a ten-month-old who apparently won't sleep in states that begin with the letter "F."

But thankfully, we weren't there to vacation. We were there to set up Collin in college, and that part of the trip---the most important part---was fantastic.

The housing was great, the school was great, the dorm mate was great, the shopping adventure at Publix was great.... it was truly an incredible experience setting my child up to be off in the world on his own.

Of course, it didn't really feel like I was setting him up to be on his own. Right up until the moment it came time to say goodbye. And in that moment---the moment when I was about to get into a van and drive to an airport two hours away so I could take a flight 3000 miles across the country, knowing that I wouldn't see my son for 3 1/2 months and there would be no one, NO ONE watching over him---THAT is when I really felt it. I cried, Collin cried, Rachel was confused, Aaron babbled, and Andy tried to keep all of us from falling apart.

And now, we're home. I keep thinking of when we purchased our tickets to fly to Florida and back. Andy and I came within one (unconscious) mouse click of buying Collin a return ticket. As Andy said, that sort of tells you everything you need to know about parenting.

But at some point, you don't buy the return ticket. Instead, you come home empty handed and leave them there, wherever "there" is, all alone, hoping that those few short years you had them 100% of the time will be enough to see them through.

More photos here.

Related posts: Like Money in the Bank, The Child I've Grown Up With, Doing the Unstuck

Rachel Gets Stuck

The other day, just one day before our dramatic trip to the ER in an ambulance, we went to the Berkeley Kite Festival.



For the second year in a row, we had a fantastic if windy time. We got to experience much sibling love, funnel cake, and a Kite Liberator.





This year, we added to the mix a good old-fashioned Parent Experience.

Our 3.5-year-old daughter is not what you would call a risk-taker. She doesn’t like swings, or slides, and although we haven’t tried it, I’m sure she’d avoid even the Teacup ride at the county fair. I won’t tell you which parent she inherited this from, but I will tell you that Andy is especially bothered by this trait. It bothers me, too.

Despite being “bothered,” we know we shouldn’t push Rachel. And we don’t. We encourage her, stand by her, and let her move at her own (snail’s) pace in trying new things. So at the Kite Festival, we were very happy to wait in a 45-minute-long line for her to go through the Pirate Bounce House (or boat. Whatever.)

The boat is set up for kids to go in one side, climb up a slide and walk in a half circle to go out the other side. When Rachel first went in, she sat in a corner by the front door letting all the other kids go by her. I stood leaning over the side of the slide, waiting to snap a picture of her going up. I waited. And waited. But she never came. Instead, Rachel remained in the corner, smiling, watching the kids go by. My husband and I verbally encouraged her to go up, but still she sat. Andy asked if he could go in and help her, but the ticket-taker said “no, what if every parent wanted to go in?” Duh. So then Andy asked for our ticket back. Just as the guy handed it back to him, Rachel decided to venture up the slide and head around the half circle.



Andy and I high-fived, congratulated ourselves for our gentle encouragement, and waited for Rachel to emerge happily from the exit door. We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally Andy said, “I’m going to go around the other side to see her.”

I stood with the stroller, kite, and bags, metaphorically twiddling my thumbs. After several minutes, I said aloud to no one in particular, “my daughter is stuck. She is the stuck kid.”

I didn’t really know what to do. I knew Andy was watching her from the back of the bounce house, and I thought maybe I was wrong. Surely he would let me know if she were stuck.

And he did, just seconds before a little girl told the ticket-taker the same thing. The ticket guy dramatically threw himself into the exit door (he was probably all of 14-years-old) and carried out a sniffling and red-faced Rachel. We promptly enveloped her in hugs, asked her cheerily if she’d had fun, and handed her funnel cake. Because if powdered sugar on fried dough can’t make a girl feel better, what can?



Thankfully, Rachel didn’t seem to realize it was a big deal to be the kid who’s too scared to make it through the bounce house. She was a bit upset, but not overly so, and she quickly moved on to the next item on the must-do list: face painting and a pony ride.





So what’s the take-home message here? I dunno. We already knew how to handle Rachel’s fears, so we didn’t learn any sort of lesson. We didn’t have an epiphanal moment, nor did Rachel. We just kept going and enjoyed the rest of our day.



Maybe that’s the take-home message: the fears and weaknesses of our children aren't anything to obsess over. The world won’t end if Rachel gets stuck in a million bounce houses, and we aren’t bad parents because she was born a little risk-adverse. She is what she is, which, in our opinion, is nothing short of perfect.




Related post: OMG, I Have a Daughter Now

The Back of the Ambulance

Sometimes a parent just knows.

My husband demanded I hang up on the advice nurse:

“It doesn’t matter what she says, we’re going.”

My mom later told me she had never seen my husband move so fast.

We rushed our 9-month-old, Aaron, to the emergency room for high fever and extreme lethargy. Our rush ended when we hit unexpected traffic from a weekend festival. I sat in the back of the van with Aaron, listening to his breathing slow.

I tried not to cry, but I couldn’t help it.

“I need to pray.”

I leaned over Aaron, and just before I shut my eyes I saw my husband’s arm snake around the driver’s seat to reach me in the back. He held my hand tight and prayer flowed through us, incomprehensible, but given to God in the form of “please,” and “live,” and “not again.”

“Andy, I don’t know.... I don’t like this.”

“It’s really bad, he’s just... not right. This isn’t right.”

Then:

“Pull over. We have to call an ambulance.”

My husband pointed out that an ambulance wouldn’t actually get us there much faster.

“Yes, but they have things. Oxygen. Skills. CPR.”

He readily agreed.

When the ambulance arrived and the EMT let me ride in the back with Aaron, I knew Aaron would be okay.

Before that, during the drive, I knew God’s will would be done. Sometimes, though, that doesn’t bring the comfort one might expect. I know firsthand that God’s way is not always my way. That sometimes the path God has for us in this world is painful and full of sorrow. And that sometimes, the EMT won’t let you in the back of the ambulance, and that in those times, you don’t take your son home four hours later.

And that’s where my mind was as we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic and I listened to Aaron’s ragged breath and watched his eyes glaze. As I put my cool forehead against his hot one and tried to get him to focus on me, to smile, and got nothing in return.

But when we waited on the street corner for the ambulance to arrive, the cool air blowing his hair, Aaron looked around. Smiled a little. Was aware enough to question where we were. He would be fine.

Later: a catheter, a blood draw, a failed IV. My back burned from holding Aaron down while the doctors and nurses did various things to prove him healthy. We ate horrible sandwiches and gave Aaron hospital formula that made him spit up for the next 24 hours. It was miserable.

But to hold those 24 hours, now going on 48, is a beautiful thing.

The first time, the time I didn’t get to ride in the ambulance, there was no blood draw. No catheter or failed IV. We followed from behind and noticed that after the first few blocks, the ambulance turned the siren off. Then the lights. Because there would be no 24- or 48-hours later. Just prayers and pleading. Our pastor looking at me with fear and defeat: “There’s nothing I can do.” This 6’5 man of God, ebony-skinned and deep voiced, stepping back and spreading his weighty but empty hands: “You can’t ask. There’s nothing to be done.”

But this time, just two short days ago, I came home with a stunningly robust 25-pound nine-month-old squirming in my arms. I sat him down and he played, ankle bracelet and gauze still in place. A little fussy, slightly worse for the wear, but breathing. Healthy. Alive.

So no, things don’t always go my way. But faith is not a crutch and life is not always easy. And right now, Aaron is napping. His sister is playing at Grandma’s and his big brother is somewhere doing big brother things. I will gladly take their health and happiness and tantrums and tensions. Even ambulance rides to the ER. Because at the end of the day, I am confident that these three will always come back home. Perhaps a bit beaten and bloody, but alive.

Sometimes a parent just knows.

The Youngest Athlete

I met my wife through little league, which is probably not where most people meet their wives.  And no, "little league" is not a euphemism for a seedy bar or okcupid.com.  We literally met through little league.  I was a coach, Collin was one of my players, and Jamie was a young mom who I thought was pretty good looking but assumed was much too old for me because of Collin's age until I realized I could just check and see for myself given that I had her son's birth certificate in a binder that I had to take to tournaments to prove I wasn't sneaking 15 year old's onto my team.  Which tells you about all you need to know about little league.

Collin was a pretty good baseball player when I met him, but he got a lot better as he grew bigger and played more.  When he was 11, the all-star team he was on won the state title, their run ending only because there were no more levels at which to compete (only the 12 year old's can play all the way to the Little League World Series).  I became heavily involved in the league, including the ridiculous politics intrinsic to a group of grown men who cannot bring themselves to admit that what they are doing is not, in fact, akin to either Major League Baseball or nuclear disarmament negotiations.

I wanted Collin to be good very badly, and luckily he wanted that for himself as well, so there was little conflict.  When he entered high school and began to be pulled in lots of different directions, I clung perhaps a little too long to our initial baseball dreams, causing a small amount of conflict in the process.  But when it was clearly time for Collin to move on, when the fun of the sport had been eclipsed by the pressure, the amount of singular dedication needed to succeed, and the ruinous influence of bad coaching, I thankfully realized that Collin's happiness was far more important than his baseball dreams.  We both miss it, but we're ok.

All of which gave me a lot to think about as my next two kids were born.  What sort of sports would they play?  Would I coach?  I got started with Rachel early, playing catch with her and teaching her complicated basketball plays.  She likes playing catch, but....how can I say this without regretting it later...she has other more highly refined skills.  She likes basketball for about five minutes at which point she likes lining up all the basketballs in order of size and having her stuffed unicorn sing songs to them.  Maybe one day she will be the first female shortstop in the major leagues.  Maybe.

Then Aaron came along.  I assumed he would have my level of athletic ability, which led me to a career high .238 batting average in little league and to a coveted 4th doubles spot on my high school tennis team (there are only 3 doubles pairs that actually play).  Or I assumed he would have my wife's athletic ability, which would mean we would be getting him interested in music at an early age.

But then he started growing.  At one point, he was literally off the charts: the doctor showed us the height chart for babies and then there, above where the chart ended, was an X for Aaron.  And then he started crawling about 2 months early.  And fast.  He can crawl all around the house in no time, forcing us to scramble after him, picking up dangerous objects, toddlers, and dogs in the process to clear a path.  He can stand too, sometimes for hours, a giant smile on his face.  I think he can throw a slider, but I don't want to mess his arm up this young.

So when we learned that there would be a 4th of July crawling contest at the local park, we got very excited.  First came the Facebook trash talk.  Aaron, we (I) claimed, was going to put on a show.  The only question was whether the trophy would fit on our mantle.  I started feeling a lot of pride, too.  My baby could crawl.  "That's my baby!" I would tell the other dads as they watched him destroy the competition on Independence Day.  "We work a lot on his crawling."

The day arrived, and the first thing that happened was that Aaron napped too early and would thus be ready for his second nap of the day just around the time the competition was set to begin.  When your child's athletic competition is impacted by a nap, that's the first sign that maybe you should not be taking the event too seriously, but this did not deter me from being excited.  He was all set to go in his flexible pants and his clean diaper, a goofy looking sun hat on his head to protect him from the sun, which he hates.  My child hates the sun.  That's the kind of gumption that makes a good athlete.

We also brought his stuffed penguin, which is a surefire way to make him crawl.  He sees it, he laughs hysterically, he crawls to it in about 3 milliseconds, he tries to eat it.  With Jamie at the finish line holding Penguin (Jamie is the only "thing" he likes more than Penguin), and the competition limited to a bunch of babies, I figured the victory was in the bag.  When Aaron tried desperately to crawl out of my arms before the race began, my optimism only increased.

Finally, it was time.

The race official yelled "go!"

Everybody watching went crazy with excitement.

And....none of the babies moved.  Startled by the loud noise of the crowd, they all froze up, sitting in place on their hands and knees.  Ten feet away, Jamie started waving Penguin frantically.  I urged Aaron on verbally, but was forbidden from helping him physically, a rule that says all you need to know about baby crawling competitions.  He didn't move.  The baby next to him, however, upon seeing a very attractive Penguin (we had even washed him for the occasion, so Aaron's dried drool was not present), started crawling about half as fast as Aaron crawls when he's tired, and covered the ten feet to Penguin quickly, winning the race.  Some other babies had started crawling a little bit by this point too.  Aaron never moved.  He finished last.

On the way home, I was struck by how differently I felt about Aaron as a result of his athletic failure.  Had he won, I would have hugged him and held him up and smiled at him and told him he was a super baby, the greatest crawler in history.  But seeing him sitting there on the crawling mat, a little confused, maybe a little scared, and a complete competitive failure, a very different parental emotion kicked in.  As I held him as we walked back to the car, his goofy hat still on his head, I felt an overwhelming sense of protection and love for my child.  The world is a big scary place where lots of things can go wrong.  I put him in his car seat, strapped him in, and smiled at him.  My baby.

The whole ordeal was exhausting.  We got home and my parental protection instincts overwhelmed by my desire to just collapse on a couch and watch baseball, I put my emotionally fragile, recently defeated little baby down on the ground rather than continuing to cradle him in my arms.  I flipped on the TV and turned on a game.

He crawled across the room in two seconds, pulled himself up to a standing position in front of the TV, and started smacking his hand against the screen.

Of course.

Long Overdue Because We Keep Writing About Other Stuff: An Update

Lately Andy and I have been spending a lot of time writing in places other than here, about things other than family. So today, while I'm supposed to be collating judicial council forms and arranging for personal service of a guy who's AWOL (have I mentioned how much I miss having a secretary?), I think I'll do a little check-in here instead.
____________________________________________________________

On Saturdays Rachel goes to "pre-ballet" class. I'm not quite sure what "pre-ballet" means, but Rachel seems to enjoy it so we keep taking her.

Today when I was rounding the corner to pick her up, I heard her teacher say, "This is Rachel. She's from my last dance class, but we're waiting on her mommy to pick her up."

Crap.

"Wait, I'm early!" I looked at my watch and sure enough it was 11:29, a whole minute early.

The red-headed, freckle-faced, too-cute teacher who spends her day jumping up and down with little kids, exerting an energy I haven't felt in at least three years was totally chill, bless her. "Oh, it's okay! We're over at 11:20, not 11:30. I know it's an oddly-timed class, and parents forget that a lot." She kept talking, telling me what a joy Rachel is, and how it truly didn't matter, and all the while Rachel is chattering away while putting on her shoes.

"My mommy didn't come get me. Why, Mommy, didn't you get me? I was here for a long, long time and you still didn't get me. This is the next class not my class and all my friends left and these aren't my friends I know. Why didn't you get me?" Plunks tiara on her head and relishes the moment.

And this only two hours after Rachel asks the perpetual teenaged question ten years too early: "Why isn't there any food in this house?"

Argh. We talk, she's fine, and we head for the 12-minute walk down one flight of steps. There are cute 3- and 4-year-old girls in ballerina clothes running around everywhere, and Rachel sees one she knows.

"That's my best friend! Her name is Clarissa.Unicorn's mama's name is Clarissa."

"I thought Unicorn's mom's name is Jamie?"

"No, it's Clarissa. She's my best friend." Spies another leotard-clad girl. "She's my best friend, too!"

"Wow, Rachel. You have a lot of best friends!"

And now she's in the groove. Anyone under 4'5 is her best friend. We walk down the steps, through the lobby, halfway down the handicap ramp. She has pronounced, loudly, each 4'5-or-less person we've encountered along the way as her best friend. Some parents smile, others look at us like we're nuts, and the rest, who I just don't understand, remain stony-faced, like they're speed-walking in downtown New York.

On the elevator with another little girl: "She's my best friend!"

Two steps off the elevator, forlornly: "I really miss her."

In the car: "Rachel, can mommy be your best friend?" (I know, I'm pathetic.)

Rachel, thinking. "Ummm.... no. Reilly is my best friend. But those other kids can't be my best friend because they don't go to my class but everyone else is my best friend and why didn't you come get me and left me there for a longlong time?"

Thankfully she moves on from best friends, not best friends, and how I screwed up. She segues with three-year-old aplomb into a story. A story about a butterfly that went up her nose, tickled her tummy, then went all the way into her bottom.

I, of course, inquire about the origins of this story. She tells me it happened in dance class. I vow never to be late again.

We get home and Rachel makes me buckle and unbuckle her a dozen times until she's happy with the results. We walk in and Andy asks, "How was dance class, Rachel?" I know exactly what's going to happen next. Rachel, gleefully, yet somehow with sad longing for a good mommy in her voice, "Mommy left me for a long time she didn't get me and then a butterfly went up my nose!"

In other news, Aaron is pretty much a perfect baby, thank goodness, and Collin is enjoying his Florida prep purchases, which I am secretly hoping will result in a new couch for us.

Rachel and .... best friends? Not best friends? Who knows.

Eight months old, already standing independently, took half-step yesterday. Calls us all Dadadadadada and loves penguins. Well, one penguin. If you notice, it's curled up against him in this picture.

Awwww.....

Doing the Unstuck

Today I took down the streamers.

The balloons have become my daughter's weapons of war.

The flights from California to Florida, we're finding, cost more than we feared.

For at least a year after my son quit playing baseball, I cried, just a little, every time I drove by the ball field. I never wanted to stop hating the grass stains.

For four years, I've waited for high school to end. To be rid of open campus lunches and rules that don't work for kids mature beyond their years who are too smart for their own good.

And now, it's done.

Hallelujah?

Yes, of course. But there is also a grief I never expected to feel in leaving behind an institution that has brought 6am wake-up calls, 6pm-like-clockwork auto-dialers, and more missed back-to-school nights than I care to admit. Grief in unrealized things and the messiness of life and that odd, ridiculously unnerving feeling that comes when you realize there are no do-overs.

When a part of your life for so long is simply... gone.

A few things remain. We still need to pick up the diploma. Still need the final grade to come in.

Because my son skipped a grade, because he is leaving home for college just three weeks after he turns 17, I feel unnerved. That feeling of knowing you've forgotten something but not remembering what. It's a vague unease, an incompleteness.

I suspect it will soon pass. Soon we will be mired in packing and planning and cross-country trips and U-Hauls. Soon I will be crying and rejoicing for the future, not the past.

For now, I will try my best to learn from yet another unexpected mom-moment, take hope in the power of prayer, the technology of Skype, and a calling plan that includes unlimited texting. Rejoice that my youngest two have more than a decade to go before we head down this messy, surprising, absurdly difficult path all over again.

Pictures of the Jag!

Okay, yes, it's been a couple of months, but surely these are pictures worth waiting for! (The Jag story can be found here.)

Collin's College Choice: Who, What, When, Where, and Why

We have a decision!

In case you're wondering why, or how, a full month after decision day Collin is finally choosing a college, here you go: Collin was accepted at over half of the schools he applied to, which is great! But, after visiting, re-visiting, or re-re-visiting them, Collin felt that they all seemed to be lacking... something. So, we reserved a spot at the school closest to home but continued to apply to late-decision schools. And thank goodness we did!

In that process, we came across a great private school in St. Augustine, Florida, that seemed to very much suit Collin's college wishlist. He applied, was accepted, and yesterday I sent the check to reserve his spot. Collin will now, barring major catastrophe, be going to Flagler College. Flagler is a private liberal arts college, with slightly less than 3,000 students total. It is absolutely beautiful, highly ranked, and has a strong business major, which is Collin's chosen area of study.

We are too busy right now for me to focus on the fact that Collin will be 3,000 miles away; I will have to process that later, as well as worry about how we are going to get Rachel to understand (without non-stop tears) that Hatty doesn't "live downstairs," but rather across the country. As for now, we're just trying to survive making it through prom, graduation, finals, visiting Florida, finishing all the paperwork and logistics, and purchasing a whole new wardrobe for Collin that is light on sweaters and heavy on Bermuda shorts. Thankfully, I already spent some time grieving my empty-Collin-nest-ness a while back, the details of which can be found here.

I don't think Collin can fully feel it either, as he is even busier than we are in some ways. He is, after all, the one who has to go through the high school exiting process, which is very similar to when I left my internship at the White House a few short months after 9/11. Speaking of which, although I certainly can't speak for Collin, I can say that Andy and I will be happy to leave high school behind. Elementary school is amazingly fun and junior high is still a fairly good time for parents, but (listen up you parents of little ones!) high school is a whole new ballgame where, despite your best pitching, you lose every game by one run. Or at least it feels that way.

There are many good aspects of Collin being in Florida: some of Andy's cousins live very near to where Collin will be, and my aunt Lucy and cousin Graham also live in Florida. And have I mentioned that Collin will be 3 hours from where Karen (Collin's girlfriend of over a year) will be attending college?

In late June or early July, Andy, Collin, and I will visit St. Augustine and check out the area and the housing situation so we'll know what to throw into the U-Haul that will not be pulled by Collin's Jaguar, but rather by one of our (much) lesser cars. Unless we're in too much of a hurry (and when aren't we in a hurry?), the road trip should be a great opportunity to see some people along the way.

When the time comes for the the actual move to Florida, we will have to beg (or bribe) my sister to let us borrow Nana, as Nana will be on Katie-time then, and we will very much need Nana's moving-in skills to keep Collin, Andy, and me from arguing over the best place to hold on to a dresser to move it up 12 flights of stairs or who gets to walk backwards up all those steps.

But in the meantime, tomorrow is prom. I will flood your Facebook news feeds with pictures, so you may want to block my status updates for a while.

A Day Like Any Other

Despite the fact that I have had 364 days to prepare, today still caught me by surprise.

The hours passed, chasing fairy wings, crying over mismatched clothes and sand-filled shoes. Knowingknowingknowing that I should enjoy every bit of the 45 minutes it took to walk 10 feet, remove every “hurry” from my mouth.

The fairy princess waltzed across the grass, owned the world around her, asked to walk up the big stairs by herself.



I thought of the day they’ll all be gone. Because they will.



I yearned for a bigger pocket, a bigger purse, a bigger heart to carry them in.



I shattered when the little one patted my hair, my face. Placed sticky fingers against my cheeks, hugged me with spit-up covered arms.

Shattered again at bad news from my oldest, and again when listening to Oklahoma funeral plans.

Put myself back together with shoestrings and Silly-Putty when the fairy princess belted out the blessing for the entire restaurant to hear:

God is great.
God is good.

A ketchup-covered french fry halfway to her mouth.

Let us thank Him
For our food.

So be it.

I'm Not Coming Out and You Can't Make Me

My family knows that my shower- and getting ready time is “my” time. They know that, unless I am absolutely forced to, I will not open the bathroom door during the entire 45-60 minutes it takes me to shower and apply makeup, which is something I do every single day, unless I am so sick I can barely stand. Like the Fly Lady needs her shoes, I need my shower and eyeliner.

This doesn’t mean that in particular life seasons I don’t have someone either in the bathroom with me or banging on the door, screaming, from the outside. In fact, with a teen, toddler, and infant in the house, this happens more often than not. And my husband and I are often forced to plan an entire day’s schedule by shouting through the bathroom door. Nonetheless, the fundamental rule remains the same: if mama is in the bathroom getting ready, you better leave her alone or be prepared to face the consequences.

Sometimes I hear major chaos going on beyond the locked door of my sanctuary. Loud thumps and bumps followed by cries, phones ringing, dogs barking, teen requests intermingled with toddler tantrums and an infant’s demand to be feed. In these moments, I sigh, hastily apply 8-minutes worth of make-up in two, and head out the door to sort it all out.

The other day I heard all those things at once. My husband and mom were surviving, but they certainly could have used more (wo)manpower to ease the hurt.

As I listened to my husband try to make a phone call for our sixteen-year-old while the little ones’ battles raged around him and my mom pleaded with Rachel to stop poking her in the eye, I sighed a sigh of resignation and started to go into getting-ready overdrive.

But then... I didn’t.

I thought, “I am not coming out of here and you can’t make me.” If I could have locked the door even tighter, I would have.

No one knows what’s going on behind the bathroom door, and they aren’t going to ask. And if they do, I’ll tell them that mama’s getting-ready bathroom time is like Vegas—what goes on in there stays in there.

This was a particularly empowering moment, but don’t worry. I have no intention of abusing my loved ones by hiding out in the bathroom during the morning crazies. But you know what? Despite the cries and chaos coming from beyond the door, despite the stress and frustration I heard in the outnumbered grown-up voices, everything turned out just fine. My oldest son’s car got to the shop, the phone call was made, the baby was fed, and my mom’s eye remained in tact. And all of this was done just fine without me. Can you believe it?

Why We Cancelled Mother's Day

Now that Mother’s Day has come and gone, my household can finally celebrate it.

(The official) Mother’s Day dawned bright and early in our house and quickly became a mad scramble to get 6 people out the door for brunch. Mad scramble + emotional overload (see below) caused me to have a migraine. Migraine + necessity of being present at my own brunch caused me to take slightly more migraine medicine than normal, which worked just a teensy bit too well: Andy asked me at one point if he should wear jeans or pants; I believe my response was “shorts.” So the baby and I stayed home while everyone else went to brunch.

I think this alone suffices to explain why we decided not to celebrate, so I will leave out the parts about tetherball injuries, last-minute school projects, tantruming 3-year-olds, missing church, and arguments over the perfect family photo. But really, this is all pretty normal stuff. I think the real reason that Mother's Day weekend was a bust was the even heavier than normal emotional load that came with it this year.

On Friday I wrote a piece about my son, Jeremy. I wasn’t sure if I would actually post it or not, but I knew I had to write it. As my husband wisely said, “writing it is at least 50% of the importance.” But then I decided, after much prayer, to actually post what I had written. The outpouring of love and support in response was phenomenal. With this outpouring, my entire world shifted: it became larger, better, less lonely than it was before. This is a good thing, of course, but sometimes even good emotions can be... exhausting.

But time moves on, emotional tides recede, and mothers must be celebrated. So, this Sunday, we will try a redo. I expect presents, quiet time, and coffee. These things will, of course, have to be sandwiched between tuxedo shopping for prom and getting six people out the door for church, but I am so, so excited to do those things in a world with less sadness, less pain, and much, much more love.

My lovely babies and I just couldn't get it quite right. But they are still cute. : )

The "Crazies"

Around our house, we have a few hours in the day I like to call “the crazies.” I used to call this time of day “the witching hour,” but then the one hour became two, then three, and now it’s sometimes even four, thanks in large part to Nana’s stellar bedtime routine, in which she reads approximately 500 pages of princess/cowboy/fairy tales to Rachel then Rachel feels the need to poke Nana in the eye repeatedly until Nana finally snaps and calls it a night. But I digress.

I’m sure we are not the only ones who have the crazies. For us it hits full force around 4pm, but the mental breakdown starts somewhere around 3:30, when I realize it’s almost 4:00 and begin sweating profusely. It goes something like this:

Collin texts: “what’s for dinner? If you’re not cooking I’ll pick something up, so I need to know ASAP if you’re cooking or not. I may or may not be home. It may or may not be around 5:30 if I do come home. But I need to know.”

About 5 seconds before or after that text, give or take, my mom starts feeling really good because she’s had at least 10 cups of coffee and watched a couple of old movies. For her, 4pm is work time and she starts “finishing” all the unfinished projects we have around the house. I start reminding her, in dripping-faucet fashion, that 4:30 is Rachel’s dinner time (yes, really), and that I would love it if she could help with Aaron while I wind Rachel down. This does not sit well with my mom, who has just dragged out all her various tools and is really hitting her groove.

I’m still ignoring Collin’s text, because frankly, I don’t know what we’re going to do for dinner despite the meat thawing in the sink. This is a “how the kids behave” thing, not a “I forgot to think about dinner” thing.

4:30pm hits, and I feed Rachel something, anything, as long as she doesn’t paint with it, yell at it, or feed it to the dog. I begin reminding her bedtime is in an hour. She screams, “I don’t want to go to bed!” and I point out that she has a whole additional hour in which to play. Have I mentioned she can’t tell time yet?

She eats, or not, and now it’s time to start dinner for everyone else. Aaron decides he wants a nap, and Nana realizes she’s the go-to mom unless she wants to cook, and trust me, she doesn’t.

So she rocks Aaron, Aaron falls asleep, and 10 minutes later Collin gets home, at which point both the dog and Rachel go insane with joy and begin squealing, barking, and turning in circles. They all three play and I’m helpless to stop them, because really, could YOU stop a 16-year-old from playing with his brother-worshipping 3-year-old sister? It warms the heart. Aaron waking up, however, is not as wonderful.

Now it’s 6pm. In case you’ve lost track, that’s 30 minutes past Rachel’s bedtime and she is a MESS. We swipe a toothbrush across her mouth and call it a win.

She’s carted off to bed by an encyclopedia-wielding Nana, and Aaron and I hit the rocking chair with high hopes that he’ll stay down for the night. Right as the bottle comes to an end and Aaron's eyes close, Collin tiptoes into the nursery to ask if he can go to his girlfriend’s house. Aaron smiles and we head to the living room for another round of "Don't Eat the Dog."

But at least I've made it to 7pm and there are only 3 more hours before Andy gets home, at which point I can collapse into a blubbering mess and hand the reins to him.

Please tell me this is what it’s like at your house. And if not, can I move in?

Rachel looks a bit possessive of her Hatty.

My Son Jeremy

For seventeen years, I have been haunted by the seemingly innocent question, “How many kids do you have?”

I used to say two. Then I said one. Now I say three.

The math gets confusing.

Over the last few days, I’ve read a lot of articles about why Mother’s Day is terrible. Articles written by infertile women. Single women. Women who have miscarried time and time again. I understand. Sometimes the happiest of celebrations, the most innocuous of questions, the most common of conversation fillers can be... torture.

Cruel in the extreme.

Take-it-home-and-cry-in-the-shower painful.

Those of us who bear the pain write about it
or not.

Talk about it
or not.

But we always, always think it, feel it, live it.

My first child, a boy, was born in 1994. His name was Jeremy. When he was 7 ½ months old, he died of SIDS.

Five months later, I became pregnant with my second child, Collin. When my belly began to show during that pregnancy, the questions started.

In the beginning of the long years since, I answered honestly... “I have two children; my first son died.”

That was a tough line for others to hear, especially those like grocery baggers and sales clerks. What were they to do with that big, fat, ugly sentence? In what part of the mind does one put that for processing, and where does the conversation go from there?

Friends. Pregnant women. People who told me I was too young to be Collin’s mom. Conversations flagged. Women cried. Others became embarrassed at their gaffe.

So I lied.

At first I didn’t always lie. Just mostly. Let the dust settle a little on a friendship then dropped the bomb. Resolved to never bring out the truth for those with whom interactions were limited to an exchange of goods or services. It was a “need-to-know” kind of thing.

And then the sometimes lie became an always lie, even with my close mama friends.

Why bring it up? Why deal with the awkwardness, the “I’m so sorry-s?” The fear that clutched their throats for their little ones, or even worse: the questions. Questions borne of living in a society overrun with talk shows and tabloids and gossipmongers.

So. Not. Worth it.

Except that it is.

Over the last few years, since becoming pregnant a third and a fourth time, it has become worth it. Each time I’m asked “how many?” Or, “Is this your first (or second or third) child,” I die a little bit inside. I feel the lie eat away at me. I feel my son in Heaven wonder if I’m not his mama after all.

But I am. I breastfed, co-slept, sling-wore, and mourned, am still mourning, my child who would be 18 now.

I AM HIS MAMA.

I just want that to be.... known. I don’t need to discuss it. I don’t even want to discuss it. But when another mom is referencing her children, I want to be able to make my own reference. To Jeremy. To say, “Oh yes! I remember dealing with that after Jeremy was born,” and have it be okay.

My now-six-month-old son is the last child I will have. And in the time since that fully hit me, I have become fixated on the number that flashes on my mommy resume: 3. 3. 3. Mom of three.

No.

And so over the last year, I have opened up a bit more. One online profile for me says “mom of four.” Another says of “mom of three.” At least one blog post references Jeremy. I’ve been opening the door a little more each day, and today I'm going all the way.

Why? Because of the stirrings and conviction in my heart. Each day I think about it more and more and MORE and some days it’s all I think about. And now with Mother’s Day on Sunday, and the inundation of articles on how infertile women, single women, and women who have miscarried time and time again suffer through Mother’s Day, I felt the time was right to share my story as they have shared theirs.

I may never post this. It would make things awkward. It would open up questions. It would make my friends feel pressured to say the right thing. Question if they should introduce me to a new mama friend as a mother of three or a mother of four. Honestly, I don’t know how they, or even I, should handle that last question.

But I am, and always will be, a mother of four. To not say so ignores so much, I don’t know if I can continue with it any longer. But to say so seems.... attention seeking. Dramatic. But I can’t pick and choose anymore. It’s either/or not neither/nor.

If this ends up on the internet, I guess I’ll have my answer.

Jeremy
May 13, 1995
October 10, 1994--May 22, 1995

 

 

Rachel at the Dog Park (by Andy)

I work nights.

Much like somebody once said that Washington D.C. combines Northern charm with Southern efficiency, working nights combines all the worst parts of involuntary unemployment with the worst parts of involuntary over-employment.  As I continue my now five-month job search, I am faced with the fact that there is much more at stake than simply my vocational happiness.  Because of my current schedule, my family rarely sits down to eat dinner together, for instance.  Studies show that this means my littlest child, Aaron, will probably become a criminal (not that this is surprising given how tough he generally seems...check out that hard-core bib)




Working nights means I never see our teenager, Collin.  When he is at school, I'm at home. When he's on his way home, I'm on my way to work.  When I get home from work, he's downstairs either solving complicated chemistry equations or deftly operating his smartphone.  The two nights I don't work other than Sunday are Friday and Saturday, and despite my repeated assurances that I will allow him to start in South America, Collin continues to decline my invitation to play Risk on those particular evenings.

There's another downside to working nights, too.  People who work 9 to 5 jobs at an office can come home and spend 4 hours watching Game of Thrones while eating pizza and nobody blames them.  But when you work nights, you often find yourself sitting on the couch at 11:30 a.m., wearing sweatpants, eating cereal, and reading Rembert Browne columns on Grantland.  And while I generally keep very busy before I go to work, there is always that occasional time when my wife, who has been awake since 6am doing fourteen million things and crossing them off a to-do list so long that it has an acknowledgements page, will walk into the living room and find me eating cereal and reading Rembert Browne columns, milk dribbling down onto my sweatpants.  Which is great.

But if there's one perk of working nights, it's that I get to spend lots of time with Rachel, our three year-old, who would generally be asleep by the time I got home from work if I worked normal hours.  Every Monday we have Beanie-Daddy day, a fun adventure-filled day that is planned weeks in advance.  Past activities include:

• Taking the subway train all around town!  Did you know they charge you a fee if you get on and off at the same station?
• Taking the ferry boat across the bay.  Did you know there are drunk old men who ride the ferry boat in the middle of the day?
• Being ninja monkeys who surprise grandpa at work with a hand-drawn card
• That one time when we went to a pet store to try to see some animals (cheaper than the zoo!) but the only animal they had was a parakeet, unless you count the store-owner as an animal, which technically she is, but not a friendly one, probably because she realized when I asked about other live animals that we were not there to buy expensive organic dog treats, but then we went to the library but the library was closed and Daddy spent the whole time apologizing for how bad Beanie-Daddy day was on the way home and vowed to spend more time pre-planning the next week, which led to:
• The Dog Park!

See, Rachel is a dog owner, but mostly her experience with our German Shepherd Winston involves chasing him away and yelling at him for trying to eat her food.  Sometimes this is because Winston is trying to eat her food.  Other times this is because Winston is asleep in the next room, possibly dreaming about eating her food.  Regardless, it's not a happy relationship, and given that Winston is a rescue dog with a traumatic past, I felt that maybe this was a relationship that could use some repairing.

So yesterday Rachel and I took Winston to the dog park.  On the ride there he slobbered a lot, and then when I applied the brakes a little too quickly, he slammed against the back of my seat, sending slobber through the hole under the headrest and onto my neck.  Rachel thought this was funny.

At the dog park, Winston ran around a lot, as did Rachel.  Winston went up to lots of other doggies and greeted them, as did Rachel.  Rachel eventually began talking to every person we met, saying "hi, can I pet your doggy?"  Or "hi, I'm Rachel and I'm three.  What's your doggie's name?"  At one point she met a little girl about her age and said "Hi, my name's Rachel, I'm three."  The girl replied by saying her name as well.

Pause.

"I'm Rachel.  I'm three."

She continues to stare at her new friend, who doesn't reply.  Longer pause.

"I'm Rachel.  I'm three."

The great thing was, though, that as we met other people's doggies, they (the people, I mean) invariably asked Rachel what her doggie's name was.

"Pinston," she would reply, because she can't really pronounce it.  But she was acknowledging that this was her dog.  She laughed when he ran around and she petted him when he stopped long enough for her to catch up with him.  Later, when I admonished her for trying to pet a dog without first asking the dog's owner, she said "you're an owner.  I'm an owner."

By the time we got back in the car to head home, I felt like we'd had a breakthrough in toddler-dog relations. That night, I had a job interview with an organization that brings together Palestinian and Israeli youth.

The dog park.  It's kind of like that.

The Difference With Daughters

My daughter is beautiful. Actually, let me rewrite that: my daughter is BEAUTIFUL.

Sometimes I feel an almost physical shock at how adorably precious Rachel is. And while she is far (far!) from all grown up, she is no longer a “baby,” no matter how often I tell her that she is. Everything we do and say to Rachel now will influence who she becomes in the future, and how she perceives herself and her role in this world. Our words and our attitudes will give her the foundation upon which to base all of her worldviews and will create the lens through which she sees herself and others.

I find that I tell Rachel, over and over again, just how beautiful I think she is. I can’t help it—it just spills out before I can stop it. I say, “you’ve got such a pretty smile!” Or, "you are the cutest daughter I have!” (She has yet to think about the fact that she’s the only daughter I have, but we’ll leave that for another day.) I want her to be confident in her appearance (just think Dove commercial, which is a whole other can of worms), but I also am worried about how frequently we comment on how she looks. Lately I’ve tried to follow every involuntary blurt of “your curls are so gorgeous!” with, “Are you going to be an engineer or an architect when you grow up?” (because I want her to recognize and value her intelligence), or, “Do you know how much we love you just for being you?” (because I want her to know that neither beauty nor brains are what make her special).

We don’t use negative adjectives such as  “fat,” or “ugly,” or even say overly positive things about other people in front of Rachel, in part because we don’t want her to fixate on looks or think that other people will be critiquing her in the same way. In my house growing up, intelligence, kindness, and independence were revered, but so too was a person’s appearance. And when that is combined with society’s emphasis on beauty, bad things can happen.

So I’m worried. Collin is almost grown, so you might think I’ve had to address this issue before and have come to am enlightened viewpoint. Nope! I think Collin is as handsome as Rachel is beautiful, but I don’t worry about him in the same way. Why? Because society isn’t fixated with how men look or dress in the same way it is with women. It’s also understood that even if a man is outrageously handsome, his worth is in his personhood. His job. His intelligence. Good looks are just the icing on the cake. With women, the opposite is true... Beautiful AND smart? Intelligence becomes the icing. And of course, both of those cakes neglect to note that a person’s true worth is found in neither brawn nor brains.

How do we teach Rachel otherwise? She is beautiful. She is smart. She can create intricate machines out of Legos, a stroller, and random bits of paper and tape. She can organize three-hundred and thirty-seven toys into a symmetrical repeating pattern that spans the entirety of our main floor. She also makes my bed, feeds the baby, begs me to use the iron (don’t worry, I don’t let her). And after she does all these things we smile at her in her princess dress and tiara and tell her how lovely she is. How precious she is in piggy-tails. And she parrots back when she feels especially needy, “Look how cute I am!” And darn it, it both scares me and angers me. We should be able to enjoy all of who Rachel is without fear of repercussion. Without fear that she will not only be objectified in the future, but will objectify herself because she thinks that’s where her value is.

How many times in a row should I compliment Rachel about things other than her appearance so she will get the point that there is so much more to life? So much more to who she is?

As a woman, I know all too well the internal struggles Rachel will face in junior high. In high school. In college. And even into adulthood, when just as she is sure she is finally where and who she wants to be, something will happen to make her question herself all over again. And when that happens, I don’t want her to demand, “Look how cute I am!” but rather to say, “I am loved and special.” Period. No justification or explanation needed. 

Only she knows what she built, but it's impressive.

Rachel feeding Aaron.

My Supergirl can do it all!

Rachel's Revenge

Aaron’s bedroom is right across the hall from the main floor bathroom. When I’m the only adult home with the little kids, I leave Aaron’s bedroom door open when I'm putting him to sleep so I can keep an ear on Rachel. Unfortunately, it is always during the most difficult putting-to-sleep times that something resembling the following occurs:

From the quiet calm of the nursery, I hear

pitterpatter pitterpatter pitterpatter

(water goes on) (water goes off)

pitterpatter pitterpatter pitterpatter

1 minute passes.

pitterpatter pitterpatter pitterpatter

(water goes on) (water goes off)

pitterpatter pitterpatter pitterpatter

2 minutes pass and I start to relax. Aaron’s eyes start drifting shut....

pitterpatter pitterpatter pitterpatter

(water goes on) (water goes off) (toilet flushes. Flushes again.)

pitterpatter pitterpatter pitterpatter

I can feel myself getting desperate during these times. If it’s an apocalyptic day when Aaron is mostly refusing to sleep, there’s nothing I can do but pray the mess isn’t too big. If it’s a good day and Aaron is taking nicely spaced, lengthy naps, I might risk sticking my head into the hall. When that happens I get a big grin, and Rachel runs into Aaron’s room:

“CANIHELPPUTHIMTOSLEEPCANI?”

What I think: “NO, dear Rachel. You may NOT. Pitterpatter yourself on out of here before my head EXPLODES.”

What I say: “Sure. Can you please hand me that binkie?”

She hands me the binkie. Then a book. Then another book. Then the boppy and the My Breast Friend and the baby wipes. Then Aaron opens his eyes.

“Rachel, help mommy by watching cartoons. Please. Now.”

Her face falls, her shoulders slump. I hear her drag herself to the playroom and I know I’m in trouble.

She will get back at me for hurting her feelings. She will paint herself. She will cover herself in ketchup and mustard. She will make a “fruit salad” with random bits of food, dog treats, and personal items she pulls off the kitchen counter.

Today she got revenge by filling up a toy house—a PAPER toy house—with toy measuring cup after toy measuring cup of water. It was sitting 2 inches from my laptop.

She also made a “fruit salad” consisting of Smarties, blackberries, flower petals, water, and packets of sugar.

She also covered herself from top to bottom with honey yogurt. The day after I washed her hair.

I'm sort of proud.

Rachel's favorite color.