"Mommy, go."

It finally happened last night.

I was putting Caedmon to bed, which, though I’m exhausted and am looking forward to my imminent freedom, is one of my favorite moments of our daily routine. We talk about his day, we sing “Wheels on the Bus” and “Happy Birthday” to all his friends, we take turns blowing raspberries on each other’s tummies. It is our special time, just him and me.

I prolonged my goodbye, as I often do. I snuggled in for an extra kiss, an extra tickle, an extra whiff of Johnson & Johnson plus little boy. And I don’t know if he was just tired, or if he was simply holding me to the “goodnight” that I kept saying, but he looked at me, and with no ill-contempt, said, “Mommy, go. Can you go?”

My heart just about stopped.

Mommy, can you go? When has my boy ever wanted me to go? I mean, yes, there was a period when he needed his privacy as he did his business in his diaper, or when he would tell me to go, because he didn’t want to stop whatever he was doing for me to change him. And then, sometimes he will urge me to leave when he is playing heartily with his Uncle Ed (his favorite person in the world besides Thomas the Tank Engine) when he senses an impending termination of his fun by my looming presence. ("Caedmon, it's time for lunch/go inside/go to bed."... Moms can be no fun sometimes.) So okay, fine, Caedmon has asked me to go many times, but never like this! Never with such cool insistence and an actual desire to be apart from me simply because he was tired of my presence. And never has it been during our goodnight time! At that moment, my memories flipped like a speed rolodex to all the instances I couldn’t pry him away, when he cried because I had left the room, when he would reach his arms out through the crib slats as I said “goodnight”… But yesterday, it was “Mommy, go.” And so it has begun.

I played it cool, as I didn’t want to make it a big deal, but once downstairs, I had a good cry on Wayne’s shoulder. “I miss him,” I sniffled. “I really, really miss him.”

The truth is, I’ve noticed a marked difference in my boy over these last few months; he seems infinitely older and profoundly altered from Toddler Caedmon. For the most part, it’s been fun, though bittersweet, to watch this development. He helps me with simple chores, like feeding Lucy, and actually manages to keep most of the food in the bowl. He has a real sense of humor and tells “jokes” (his favorite: “Ding-dong!” “Sam-sui!”—his version of a knock-knock joke… though don’t ask me what that means). And when Maroon 5’s “Sugar” comes on the radio, he exclaims, “I wuf that song!” and proceeds to bop his head to the beat. Sometimes, though, he’s an outright menace—eating toilet paper or stepping on my gift wrap like they’re a pair of skis—and he’s taken to saying “hah?!” incessantly so that he sounds like a crotchety old lady. The worst is when he sticks his finger in his ear to fish out a juicy gob of earwax and then waves it in my face, and as I bat his gunky finger away, I warily acknowledge that I am, indeed, raising a boy. And that’s the thing; these antics are not of a baby, but of a boy. It seems as though Toddler Caedmon has turned into a kid right before my eyes.

Maybe it’s his sudden and swift acquiring of language or his recent promotion to Big Brother. Maybe it’s because we said “goodbye” to diapers this summer and that he started preschool for the first time earlier this fall, or perhaps he’s just developmentally on cue for three-and-a-half… It is probably all of the above, but that did nothing to assuage this mama’s bleeding heart, and I went to bed with a sigh and a sentimentality for what I can’t believe is already the past.

This morning, though, was a new day, and all was well again, especially because it was garbage day! At the first distant rumblings of the trucks, Caedmon still stretches out his arms in an excited panic, and though he weighs a fair amount more than a year ago, I heave him onto my hip, and we still rush out to catch the show each week. This morning, after a mad dash across the house, hurdling toys and moving boxes, we made it in the nick of time. And as we basked in the glory of these majestic giants, he was my little boy again, with his arms wrapped around my neck and a gleam in his eye only a three-year-old could have as he followed the blinking lights of the garbage truck disappearing around the corner.

And as I stood barefoot on the cool sidewalk, our hearts still thumping in our chests, I held him to me just a little bit tighter. Who knows how much longer we’ll rush to meet the garbage truck or that he’ll let me carry him at all. Until then, I will certainly savor the vestiges of his babyhood and do my best to nurture and foster my growing boy (all the while so thankful I get to do all this over again with my baby girl). Because more than ever, I feel just how fleeting and few these little years are. 

Caedmon recently found his old hat and stretched it over his head. See the difference between 8 months and 3-1/2!

I love this mixture of baby and boy: still donning his bib and drinking from his sippy cup but sitting at the table like a big boy and "reading" his construction "magazine" (a mailer updating the community on the local EchoWater project).

Our Family of 3.5

Back in early February, my dear friend Calvina took some photos of our little family of 3.5. At the time of the shoot, I was just starting my second trimester of pregnancy, so in other words, I was in that dreaded in-between stage in which I looked less pregnant and more like I had simply let myself go. But no matter; there is much a loose top will hide, I have since learned after giving birth to Caedmon, and so my vanity appeased, we set about a usual day while Calvina snapped away and so beautifully and artfully captured those moments that make these usual days so special.

Now, in this last week before my due date, there is definitely no hiding this burgeoning mass that is my abdomen. And with Baby's imminent arrival, I find myself frantically hoarding my time and energy in order to finish projects, read books, spend time with Wayne and Caedmon, see friends, cook and freeze meals, wash and organize Baby's things... I am a whirling dervish of productivity, because we all know that life is over when a newborn arrives! (At least for a period of time.) But tonight, I'm taking a (small) breather as I peruse and enjoy these photos of our family of three-not-quite-four... because it really has been a special and significant time. (And because our worlds are about to be rocked, never to be the same, whether we're ready or not!)

See our full gallery here.

Poop for Peyton

More poop, pease!

Caedmon turned three last month, and with the approach of this milestone, (finally) came the beginnings of his speech. 

While other little friends his age and younger were churning out words and then deftly stringing them into sentences, Caedmon was perfecting his grunts and whines and pointed gesticulations. It has been confirmed by his pediatrician that he, indeed, has a speech delay.

I was never concerned though; enough moms and dads have related stories of how their now garrulous Gabby or chatty Charlie didn't start speaking until the age of three. And Caedmon is proving to be another such case. 

Still, by the encouragement of our pediatrician, Caedmon has been working with a speech therapist since the beginning of this year--first through Alta Regional, a state-funded program, and now that he's three, through Elk Grove Unified. (Can I just say how impressed and thankful I am for the support our country and state provide to those with disabilities, slight as Caedmon's is.)

And though the speech therapist reports that he is able to produce all expected sounds for his age, he has a tendency to mix his sounds, so that the first sound in his word will match a latter sound, made in the same region of the mouth. For example, the b- and p- sounds are made in the same region, as are the g- and k- sounds. So Caedmon's "stop" becomes "bop", "Caedmon" is "Peyton", and "muffins" become "fuffins". But my favorite has to be how he pronounces the word "fruit"; often, after dinner, he holds his hand to his face, a vestige of his baby signs, and asks in all earnestness, "More poop, pease!"

How can I not love this stage?

Though Wayne and I have become experts at deciphering his garbled code, sometimes even we can't understand what he is saying, and poor Caedmon is left gesturing wildly, unwittingly repeating his same clumsy words over and over, louder and louder, like the stereotypical American in a foreign country. The more I guess wrongly (You want James? You want beans? You want brains?), the more frustrated he becomes, until on more than one occasion, he has burst into pitiful, defeated tears. 

But he is developing and learning fast, and so thankfully, these episodes are becoming fewer and farther between. (Or I've just learned to stop after a few wrong guesses and then proceed to nod and feign comprehension, "Mm-hmm! Yeah! That's right!" It's been working pretty well for me.)

He is now saying "water" instead of "wa-wa". His "Popmas-Fens" is starting to sound like "Thomas and Friends".  He is replacing his favorite filler "a-jugga" with actual words. And each time, I praise his efforts, but I must admit that internally, I lament his maturing baby speak. Though I don't want Caedmon to talk like a neanderthal forever, a part of me is reluctant for my baby to grow up. I'm sure most moms can relate.

But of course I continue to cheer on my boy as he makes verbal leaps and bounds. And in the meantime, I will cherish this time of choppy, clumsy transition. We will continue our games of charades. We will greet the baghic guck each week as it picks up our trash. And I will keep doling out poop to my Peyton... because you know, it goes so well with peepeebutter and jelly.

Ceci 2.0

Amanda and me at her baby shower last month. See my wavy hair? Amanda taught me that.

Amanda was 25—a friend of a friend's whom I "just had to meet", because "we had so much in common." I, on the other hand, had just pushed into my 30s and had given birth to Caedmon 10 months prior. I was still sporting a prominent baby bump, had the tell-tale ring of post-partum fuzz at my hairline and traces of spit-up on my shoulder. I was tired and run-down. An image of a bedraggled dog—the mother of our childhood puppy, Indee—had been etched in my memory oh-so-many years ago and resurfaced now each time I looked in the mirror. Once a prized Sheltie, Indee's mom now had fur that was long, stringy, and limp. Her teats hung low and heavy, and she had looked worn and unkempt. At 16, I didn't have the maturity to see the bigger beauty in a mother's sacrifice; all I saw was a wreck of a once-beauty, and I felt sorry for her. Fourteen years later, I had become Indee’s mom.

This was the state I was in when our matchmaker friend set up a lunch date for me and Amanda.

Upon arriving, Amanda bounded up to me, bright-eyed, perky, no baby flab in sight. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders in loose waves, and she wore a bright blue blouse with cheery white polka dots and a red felt flower pinned jauntily to her lapel. This was over a pair of tailored skinny jeans that I knew, for me, were about a bajillion lunges away. Her ensemble was polished and exclaimed classic yet fun. I'm pretty sure I wore a potato sack.

But despite our apparent discrepancy in appearance, we, indeed, had much in common. Too much. This is how our conversation went:

    Amanda: "So, Cecilia, what do you do?"

    Me: "I was a teacher until I had my son, and now I stay home with him."

    Amanda: "Oh, I used to teach, too. I got my Masters in Education and then I taught for 5 ½ years.                         You?”

    Me: “Um, no Masters. And I only taught for two years until the kiddo came…” And then to change                 the subject, “Um, I really like to bake...”

Not yet sensing the self-effacing danger I was in, I offered, "When I first moved up here, my sister-in-law and I set up a bakery of sorts. We sold a few items to friends, but it was mostly for fun." I chuckled, remembering our bakery that was more of a grown-up lemonade stand, born out of our shared boredom and temporary unemployment.

    Amanda: “Oh, that's so funny! I actually started my own professional bakery! I make wedding cakes                     and cupcakes and French macarons. In fact, I have 200 rattle-shaped sugar cookies                        cooling at home before I decorate them for a baby shower this weekend."

My eyes narrowed to slits.

    “I run.”

    “So do I!”

    

    “I like to craft and make things with my hands.”

    “I love crafting. I am in the middle of painting my dressing room walls with giant gold polka dots,         and I have this vintage dresser I found at a thrift store that I’m refinishing.”

    "I have two dogs," I offered, warily.

Need I say it? Amanda, of course, had three.

Our conversation was turning all too predictable, and I was turning all too pathetic with self-loathing. When we said goodbye, I made a beeline for my car. Can you blame me that I wasn't super keen on furthering this demoralizing friendship with Amanda?

Later that night, while getting ready for bed, I related the day's earlier events to Wayne. "It was just weird," I said, "how much we have in common. It's like she studied my life but somehow did everything better.” "It’s Ceci 2.0!" He grinned at his joke, because this was clearly amusing to him.

I turned my head haughtily away, and as I did so, I caught the heavily-bagged eye of Indee’s mom in the mirror. He was right. Amanda was the younger, cuter, more successful, less lumpy version of me. She was, indeed, Ceci 2.0. And I did not like it one bit. I quickly waved it off, though. It didn't matter that there was a beta version of me jogging with her three dogs around my town, because I had no intentions of pursuing this friendship.

But Amanda had a different idea. Not only was she younger, cuter, and more successful, she was also friendlier and more generous, and so shortly after our lunch date, she called to hang out again. 

    "Aw, I'm sorry, but I'm busy next week," I said. 

    "The next week, then?" was Amanda's reply. 

I pretended to flip through my planner. "You know, I have this thing..." 

    "No problem,” Amanda chirped, “my calendar is open the following week!" 

Apparently, she was also dogged and relentless. There were only so many "things" I could be involved in, so eventually, we settled on a date to meet up and craft.

Over fabric shopping and reupholstering our chairs, I found out that she, too, owned the same yellow paisley picture frame that was sitting in my guest room (of course), that we both got married on vineyards (where else?), and get this, the tag lines to our bakeries, that we had come up with on our own years before, were worded almost exactly the same: my Sweet treats for those sweet occasions to her Sweet treats made to order for all occasions (I mean, what the heck?!). It was unnerving.

But then I also learned about Amanda's classroom and how she stuck mustaches on all her students one year for a class picture, her unsuccessful efforts to end her tutoring gig that somehow resulted in an addition of more hours to her already busy schedule, and that, when we got deeper, she had battled extensively, sometimes fiercely, with her self-image in college and is now all the stronger for it. And that's when something began to change. Against my initial will, Amanda was fast becoming a friend. When we said goodbye, this time, I was the one who asked when we could hang out again.

Later on, we would collaborate on numerous crafting projects and make frequent trips “to town” (what I’ve dubbed Roseville, our closest city with an Anthropologie and Crate and Barrel), and I began to trust Amanda’s friendship, as well as her sense of style. It was over these subsequent trips that Amanda helped me out of my post-partum jeans-and-loose-cotton-tee rut, and challenged me with more flattering silhouettes, bold colors, and pairing—gasp—patterns with patterns (who am I kidding; I’m still not that brave). And over clothing racks and lunch, we’d share more stories of life—listening, relating, and offering advice when applicable.

It has been almost two years now, and Amanda has become one of my dearest companions. I am so thankful that I—or Amanda, really—didn't let my cattiness and insecurities get in the way of what has become a true-blue friendship. 

Amanda will be having her first baby in January (a boy—another thing we will have in common), and I can genuinely and passionately say that I am so excited for her in this next life chapter, and to be able to share all the ups and downs of running after a little one. And if, though unlikely, she ends up looking and feeling like Indee's mom, I'll be there to tell her that I've, too, been there. And we'll commiserate, and do some crunches, and go shopping, and laugh at, yet, another shared experience between my second edition and me.

Garbage Man Caedmon

Friday mornings are charged with excitement and anticipation, because it's garbage day! The trucks usually start coming during breakfast, and everything stops in our house for this weekly spectacle. At the first distant rumble, Caedmon's face lights up in an urgent smile as he points towards the door. "Mama! Mama! A-vvvah! A-vvvah!" (A speech therapist has recommended a hearing test for Caedmon to help diagnose his speech delay, but I should have mentioned his canine hearing when it comes to vehicular reverberations. I'm pretty sure, for this reason alone, his hearing is fine.)

Off flies the bib as I quickly work to remove his highchair tray. His arms are already upstretched and primed as I whisk him onto my hip. In a flash, we're out the door—me, running awkwardly in Wayne's oversized flip-flops, and Caedmon, bobbing like a rag doll and shrieking with giddiness as we approach the sidewalk. And then we see it. A blue beast with blinking lights, roaring as it swallows our neighborhood's trash, house by house.

It's always the recycling/yard waste truck first, rumbling down from the northwest, and then soon, the garbage truck will follow, rounding the bend from the east. (I know their routes by heart.) The fact that they drive by (four times, thanks to our corner lot!) in Caedmon's favorite vehicle is reason enough for celebration. But they don't just drive by. Mr. Rod and Mr. Chris always stop to say "hello" and offer Caedmon a lollipop. (Which I stow away. We have been collecting two lollipops a week for the past year, and yes, I gave them out on Halloween... is that bad? Only recently has Caedmon realized he can eat these things, and so sometimes, I do allow him a few licks.)

It is for this reason I know Mr. Rod attends car shows and recently celebrated a birthday, and Mr. Chris has a daughter who just spent a summer abroad. It is for this reason they know I have a sister and nephew who are far away and who I miss dearly. It is for this reason that it is not just Caedmon who looks forward to garbage day, but I do as well, because it reminds me that there are yet genuinely kind and decent people out there who will stop and give a kid a lollipop and spread some good cheer and camaraderie.

For Halloween this year (which happened to fall on a Friday), Caedmon dressed up as Mr. Rod and Mr. Chris. They make our morning every week, and I hope that yesterday morning, we helped make theirs.

Caedmon was actually very overwhelmed with all the sudden commotion and attention. Though he LOVES these trucks, he's still a super shy boy and kept looking down, even after Mr. Rod gave him a lollipop. (Note Wayne's flip-flops on my feet.)

It looks like Caedmon is running with open arms towards Mr. Chris. I'm going to keep this real—Caedmon is backing away.

And then he whines when Mr. Rod and Mr. Chris get back into their trucks to go. This is the case with all people he expresses displeasure at upon meeting. (And I have to explain, "He really does enjoy your company...")

And then, see? He's happy again.

my little introvert...

While trick-or-treating, Caedmon carried his candy in his garbage truck. I was actually VERY proud that he braved walking to strangers' doorsteps! We had to watch a few groups of kids come to our house first, but this is testament to how much he loves candy!

Going through his loot while Lucy looks on... What a fun day and night!

The Heart of Tithing (and How Caedmon is a Pig)

Don't touch my strawberries!

The spring of 2004 was when I first learned about the heart of tithing. I had just graduated from college, and as a young professional recently moved home, this was a timely and powerful message.

The then-head pastor at the church I was attending (The River in San Jose) spent weeks on a sermon series in which he explained not just the necessity of tithing, but the gravity and holiness of the act. He exhorted us to give faithfully, because our monthly tithe is not just a commandment to follow, but it is communion and worship of our loving God. As an experiment, the tithing buckets by the door were whisked away, and instead, our time of tithing became incorporated into the service during the portion of worship through song. Low tables, alit with candles, were set up at various locations around the darkened auditorium, and we were invited to come and kneel before our God, bringing our humble offerings to His feet. (Much as how, perhaps, the ancient Israelites approached God's altar and offered their tithes—their tenths... minus the slaughtering of goats and rendering of fat.) It was intimate. It was so incredibly joyous. It was worship. And I grew so much more fully aware of God's goodness. Even after I moved out of my parents' home and on with my life, this experience has stayed with me.

Recently, I've been reminded of this truth and also given an added perspective on God's desire for our offerings, at the unlikely place of my dining table. 

Caedmon, like all littles, is so completely selfish and greedy. Given a bowl of strawberries, he will eat the entire thing without any awareness of those around him. Sometimes he even shows off, holding up a strawberry like a prized jewel. "Mama!" he chirps, turning his gem side to side as if to catch the light, flaunting his wealth. But if I so much as touch one of his precious morsels, he raises a loud ruckus, shaking his head and reaching for the stolen goods.

And so we've joined the chorus of baby-infested (I mean, -blessed) homes across the world. "Share," we croon and cajole. I give Caedmon his portion of strawberries and intentionally ask him to share with me. I give him as much as I know he can handle. I give to him in hopes that he will learn to give back on his own volition.

Isn't that like God and how He asks us for our first fruits?  God doesn't need my portion any more than I need strawberries from Caedmon, but I ask, because I am asking for Caedmon's good. I ask in order to condition his heart to love, to obey, to keep a loose grip on his things, to put me above his possessions... and I ask because I have another basketful of strawberries I bought just for him in the refrigerator, that I can't wait to give him.  But I must tend to his heart first. And so I keep asking. Afterall, I want him to give with a cheerful heart. 

He squawks. He usually just stuffs the fruit in his mouth before I can do anything about it and gives me a mischievous grin. Sometimes, he even opens wide his mouth to show me its contents, as if to say, "You want some? Here, come and get it!"

Tonight was another round of baby-bartering.

"Share, Caedmon." I asked him brightly. "Please." He stuffed the strawberry in his mouth and grinned.

"Caedmon, Mommy gave these to you. Can you give one to Mommy? It is kind and loving to share." Another strawberry flew into his mouth. 

"Look," I gestured to the bowl of strawberries on the table. "Mom has so many more strawberries to give you. I'm asking that you give just one."

At this, Caedmon picked up his last strawberry, and slowly brought it to my waiting mouth. "Awww," I gushed. My heart filled with warmth, and I swelled with pride. My boy was learning to love.

I brought my mouth closer to his offering, and just as I started to bite down, Caedmon yanked the strawberry back possessively so that what I got was just a sliver of fruit. He cackled and stuffed the rest of the morsel into his mouth. Tithe = 10%, right?

Yeah... we're working on it.

Old Stomping Grounds: San Diego

Back in July, Wayne had the opportunity to attend an AP conference in San Diego (so whimsically named "AP by the Sea"), and so we tacked on a few extra days and made a family vacation out of it! I've already alluded to some of the horrors of traveling with a toddler, but as a whole, and even in individual parts, it was a very fun time! Because even a spirited two-year-old can't (completely) spoil our time seeing dear friends and visiting old stomping grounds in a city which Wayne and I hold so, so dear to our hearts.

One of my favorite parts of the trip was bringing Caedmon to the beach for the first time. He LOVED the sand and was AMAZED when I showed him how to make "sand castles" by flipping over a bucket filled with damp sand. AH-mazed. He also had his first taste of genuine SoCal fish tacos from South Beach in Ocean Beach (a mouthful, I know), but the best was when Caedmon met the ocean. I can still hear his shrieks and giggles... (mostly because Caedmon loves replaying the video clip over and over and over... and over again).

Wait, what?! How did you do that?

He's enjoying himself so much that you can kind of see some drool glistening from his lips.

Taking a bite of South Beach's incredible fish tacos... NOT a meal for the napkin-less.

Hm... I shall write it up as... inventive yet unpresumptuous.

We had just suggested that we walk into the waves. I love his look of concerned anticipation.

Here it comes!

And then he loved it...

... until he got some water up his nose, and then he didn't want to go in anymore.

Another highlight was visiting UCSD again. Oh, my goodness—how it has changed! And how we have, too, made especially apparent by our little guy running around our old campus.

Our block on Library Walk! This shot took about a gajillion takes. Caedmon's zombie-gaze is due to the video we're holding up as a carrot next to the camera lens.

This kid is forever climbing...

forever running...

dancing...

... and sometimes pontificating.

Peterson Hall is where Wayne and I met that fateful night of the Harvest scavenger hunt. Who knew that out of that night would emerge an enduring friendship, and then many years later, this rambunctious little boy! (Though if someone had told me this that evening, I would have FREAKED. OUT.)

In the Muir Quad. My Freshman dorm window was the fourth one down from the top, facing the quad (right above Wayne's little fluffy hairs). 7th floor Tioga!

Geisel Library

 And here are two last pictures of us in the Gaslamp...

... running, as usual.

... and wreaking havoc on the traffic signals. That's my boy!