Salad Days

Yes, Ryan, my sentiments exactly.

How are you? It’s such a common refrain, and yet, if taken as a true inquiry, is such a loaded question. Often accompanied by a smile, How are you? is more of a greeting, a rhetorical question, really, because if life sucks, who wants to hear that? Sometimes I meet older women who clearly have amnesia. “How are you,” they greet me and my brood. Through their rose-colored glasses, they can’t see the bags under my eyes or my wrinkly shirt that I’ve plainly been wearing for days. “Isn’t this a magical time?” they say with a nostalgic smile, or something to that effect.

I can only laugh… Yes, isn’t this a magical time.

How am I, really? Lately, if I am to be honest, I’ve been vacillating between feeling okay to utterly miserable. With Wayne’s ample help, though, I am getting it done—school drop-offs and pick-ups, supervision of homework, changing diapers for two tushies, juggling the naps, errands, groceries, getting a semi-homemade dinner on the table—but I can’t say that I’m doing it with the best attitude. I’m tired and irritable. At an especially low point, I have cried to Wayne, while holding up and rocking my wailing newborn, “I don’t want it anymore…” It wasn’t my proudest moment.

Life with three kids is no joke. I will ascertain that the transition from zero to one was still the most difficult by far, two upped the playing level, but three—though not as completely life-altering as one—three is the game changer. It’s the first dropping of the atomic bomb, the introduction of air travel and its role in widespread epidemics, the release of flesh-eating gas and robodogs in The Hunger Games. Three—right now with a 5-year-old, 2-year-old, and 3-month-old who is supernaturally alert and has not yet learned to sleep well during the day—is hard.

Earlier this week, as I was trying to tell Wayne about my day while he was at work, I was repeatedly and irritatingly interrupted by Caedmon who needed help with the DVD player, then the selection of a show, then with the volume… And as I taxed my already-sleep-deprived brain each time in returning to my story, I all of a sudden realized that I was making this herculean effort simply to report that I had driven to the UPS Store with the kids and dropped off my Zappos return. That’s it. That was my day. And I was so defeated by how seemingly unproductive and uneventful my life had become that I actually had to go upstairs to lie down and wallow in some self-pity for a bit. Isn’t this a magical time?

And so it is that season again… My mom belly hangs over my workout clothes, still pristine, because I’ve barely gotten through my warm-up before Ryan has woken early from his nap—again. And I’m waltzing in the half-dark with him, willing him desperately to go back to sleep. My eyes hang heavy from multiple midnight wakings that I sometimes have no recollection of in the mornings. Soon, my face will be framed by the tell-tale postpartum baby hairs, but first the shedding like a Golden Retriever in July. My sister once related to me how a friend commented on a nursing mother’s serene tranquility, but we suspect that this serene tranquility is more likely extreme fatigue. That glow is from a face that hasn’t been washed in days.

And my time—oh, my precious time. My time, the little that is left over after a full day with three little kids, is spent either keeping our house from acquiring a biohazard designation or mindlessly scrolling through social media and then feeling guilty for not having kept my house out of the biohazard classification.

With the birth of each child, I will think that I’ve died to myself and have given up all of me, but no, with each additional baby, I’m newly squeezed until what I think are the last drops of my individuality, identity, and energy. (Moms with four or more kids, I’m convinced, are essentially zombies. Selfless, brave zombies.) This first year with a new baby has always been hard on me (probably because I am so incredibly selfish!), and so we brought Ryan into this world expecting the rough transition. Still, the complete stripping and re-stripping of my selfhood isn’t any easier to bear. Goodness, isn’t this a magical time?

A few years ago, I read the popular Like Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen. I didn’t love the book, but what I took from it, what stirred me even then as a mother of just one, was a quote from one of the last pages: "Those were the salad days, the halcyon years! The sleepless nights, the wailing babies; the days the interior of the house looked like it had been hit by a hurricane… Even when the fourth glass of milk got spilled in a single night, or the shrill screeching threatened to split my skull… they were the good years, grand years” (Gruen, 327).

Is this what I’m living right now? The salad days? The halcyon years? (Because if these are the halcyon years, I fear I have little to look forward to!) But there is a truth to these words that those well-meaning older women know, that even I know, because when my babies are all asleep, and though I’m dead-tired and grumpy as hell, I find myself snuggled next to Wayne in bed, scrolling through our day’s pictures of these kids who take so much out of me.

And so I keep reminding myself that whatever hardship we’re experiencing is fleeting. I pray for the grace of Jesus to not just get me through this time, but to get me through this time with a grateful and joyful heart… because if I lift my gaze just a bit, I see a grinning, imaginative 5-year-old playing with my spunky 2-year-old who adores him and copies his every move. He is leading her on a space mission, and yes, they have thrown off all the cushions from the couch again. Their joint efforts, to my chagrin, refill the space with reading material and surplus food and supplies from all over the house. But they are laughing, and cooperating (for now), and so happy and content as they shout for Mommy and Daddy to watch them blast off into the abyss. They are beautiful. And most significantly, they sleep. We made it through the rough with them, and look at our reward. Soon, I hope, Ryan will join their ranks … My arms will be free, and we will all play, take a nap, and it will be heavenly. But even before then, I have to recognize, even when I don’t always feel it, that I am, indeed, in the middle of a very precious and truly magical time.

Our First Day of Kindergarten

Caedmon started Kindergarten last week two weeks ago earlier this month last month, and his first day of school was our first day of school. I felt the nerves and excitement and pride at having reached this point, as if I were the one hoisting the superhero backpack on my shoulders and marching through the gates of his school myself. I suppose that’s the nature of the parent-firstborn relationship: his milestones are essentially ours, as well.

Our new life with three kids, the last who, alas, does not sleep, has been harried as of late, and so, as evidenced by the edited and re-edited first line, I have taken a good amount of time to write this post. My hands have been literally full as I rock and will my baby to sleep, and I find difficulty in forming coherent thoughts and stringing them together in a way that is more than a mere stream of sleep-deprived consciousness, but I feel compelled to commemorate this great milestone.

Caedmon has come so far from the anxious and volatile stranger-danger baby to the sweet and agreeable little boy who cooperates with and plays well with just about everyone and who, when greeted by an acquaintance, will now respond with a quiet “hi” or at least a shy wave (which is a huge improvement from screaming in your face). He is kind and good-natured. He’s funny and still has the best belly laugh, but now his adorable chuckle comes along with his own set of jokes. He is a meticulous and creative builder (LEGOs, train tracks, etc.). He is earnest, silly, gregarious. But I remember when he was not so well-adjusted.

I remember the little boy who communicated in grunts and gestures, improvising with his own rudimentary made-up words, because his speech didn’t come to him until he was three. “Ah-vah” meant car or truck, and “ai-yah” was dog or fountain. How adorable he was with his bumbling speech, but how frustrating for all parties when he wasn’t able to fully communicate his feelings or desires. My poor child is trapped in a Neanderthal’s framework, I sympathized.

I remember the seemingly endless succession of Sundays spent in the church nursery, as Wayne and I took turns staying with Caedmon, unable to pry our screaming boy off our necks. On the days we were able to escape his grasp, the nursery workers would inevitably call us back to our inconsolable boy, who was also setting off other kids with his misery. And so eventually we resigned ourselves to our positions as unofficial volunteers; the only factor keeping us from formally enlisting our services was our repeated attempts to sneak off in our dogged determination to wean Caedmon off us… until tears, tantrums, and snot would fly and return us to our posts. I recall how defeated I felt. How bleak our future, I lamented: my son would forever be attached at my hip (how inconvenient and awkward this would be on his wedding day).

And I remember my seemingly affectless kid who showed no reaction whatsoever when he accidentally hurt me in an overly boisterous bout of play nor any remorse when I disciplined him for (fill in the blank). And I worried that he lacked empathy. Was he slow? Was he autistic? (Because early intervention is key!) Was he a sociopath?

In the throes of the stuck-at-the-hip days, it seemed like an end couldn’t come soon enough. A mother with grown children, who had been there and done all that, encouraged me that this—the frustrating games of charades that devolved into meltdowns, the split Sunday services that either Wayne or I might as well have stayed home from, the apologies made to others for our child’s inability to cope—this was just a passing season. At the time, these wise words fell on very distracted ears and were more a nebulous nicety than effective encouragement. But then just like that, the seasons changed.

Something just clicked when Caedmon turned three. He started talking, and consistent with the experiences of many others, once he started talking, he hasn’t stopped. (Which makes me grateful for the extra year of quiet we were able to enjoy. 😉) He started preschool, and though for a week, I expected a phone call from his school to pick up my child, he never cried even once at drop-off. And one day, when we walked him to his Sunday school class at church, he just let go of our hands and joined the other kids. As for his emotional capacity, not only is he showing signs of empathy, he’s also developing courage and leadership. My heart especially swells with love and pride when I remember the day Caedmon stuck up for his sister, who had just been shouted at by another little boy, still learning his social graces. “Don’t say those things to Addie,” I could hear Caedmon saying assertively yet kindly from the other room. “She’s nice. She does bad things sometimes, but she’s nice.” My son has a heart! And it’s a kind and good-natured one, at that.

These are the normal patterns of development for all children; my child is not extraordinary for growing, but it’s no less amazing to witness this transformation, especially for the first time.

And now we are in a new season: I am sending my baby into the World. Here is the beginning of best friends and bullies, crushes and heartbreak, first picks and dead last, and all the other new and sometimes uncomfortable, yet necessary, triumphs and growing pains that mark the path to adulthood. Truly, it has been like a blink of an eye. And—to throw out another cliché—like the slipping of sand through my grasp, I am constantly trying to hold on and remember and cherish. I know, there is no stopping of time. All I can do is open up my hands and enjoy the sand as it cascades through my fingers. 

Caedmon’s first day went without a hitch, but not without a fair share of hoopla, as we celebrated this big moment for him, as well as for us, his parents. We have successfully maneuvered the baby years with our first child, and that is no small feat. And now we—all of us—embark upon the early school years. Let the new adventure begin!

Caedmon and the obligatory first-day-of-school-with-a-chalkboard-sign photo. This was actually taken after school, following some outside play in the dirt, hence the sweaty hair (no, it’s not gel!), because this is what he looked like before school: 

Having been woken up early and then pelted with a barrage of overly-excited directives ("Put on your uniform!" "Come eat some breakfast!" " Sit next to Gus!" " Say, 'cheese!'" "We have to take your picture outside!" "Stand next to Daddy!" "Wait, put on your backpack!" "Say, 'cheese!'" "Hurry, we have to finish your breakfast!" "Don't forget your socks!" "Say, 'cheese!'") left Caedmon a little apprehensive and grumpy. I.... don't really blame him.

A breakfast of champions (and little boys starting Kindergarten): blueberry lemon zest muffins!

Caedmon and his entourage. My parents actually drove in from the Bay Area to participate in Caedmon’s first day of Kindergarten. As we made our way to school, we must have been quite the sight for the older neighbor we passed who was sipping his morning coffee on his porch. Like a scurrying parade of not very interesting people, we had Caedmon leading the way on his scooter, followed by his cousin Gus on his balance bike, I walked with Ryan in the carrier, my mom had baby cousin Max on her back while pushing Addie in the stroller, my sister, Sam, trotted behind, catching up with the forgotten water bottles and helmet, while my dad ran along and ahead of everyone, in order to take video and photos. This was serious business.

For this first day of school, parents were invited in to help our children find their hooks for their backpacks and then their spots at the tables where there was an activity page waiting for them. When everyone was settled, Mrs. C taught the children their first procedure in how to get up by table color, push in their chairs, and make their way to the carpet. And like magic, the children filed orderly to the designated space on the floor for her reading of The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn. (They were better than high school Freshmen, I tell you!) In the story, Chester Raccoon’s mom eases his anxiety on the first day of school by kissing his hand and telling him to press that hand to his cheek whenever he wanted to remember her. It was very sweet, and I think it was as much for the parents as for the kids, especially us first timers. When it was time for us to leave, our kids kissed their own hands and blew us their kisses while we filed out the door. 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my mom got some cuddle time with RyRy. Why does he never sleep so contentedly on my chest?

And then it was time to pick up Caedmon, who said he had a "great" day at school. (That's his answer to everything these days.) On our walk home, Gong Gong wanted to try out Caedmon’s scooter. My dad is so big that it’s not obvious right away that he's actually riding anything.

For lunch, Gong Gong took everyone out to McDonald’s and treated the kids to Happy Meals. This was a celebration, indeed! I took about 50 pictures, and this was the best I could get. Addie was doing her Chicken McNugget dance in all of them.

And so Caedmon’s debut into the real world started with a bang. Since then, his entourage has dwindled to just me, Addie, and RyRy, and mornings are a lot more frantic than celebratory, but how lucky this boy is to have so many who love him and hope big things for him. 

Addie's Birth Story

Addie will be 20 months in just a few days, and it's high time I wrote her birth story. From the beginning, she proved to be exceedingly sweet and easy-going, melding so perfectly and unobtrusively into our existing mile-a-minute lives. Except for the occasional extra cuddle time or middle-of-the-night wakings, she barely slowed us down with her arrival as we sold our house; purchased, moved (when she was just a month), and set up a new home; potty-trained Caedmon; and started him in preschool. Even her birth was a whir, barely causing a blip in the physical time lapse of our lives. But that seems to be her modus operandi: unobtrusive yet monumental, and altogether wonderful. Though I haven't been writing much lately, I really do mean to celebrate and remember all the moments we have with her, so without further ado, here is how Addie came into this world.

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As a second child, of course Addie is subject to comparisons, and her birth is no exception. If Caedmon's birth was a long, grueling, yet rewarding marathon in which I sweated and endeavored (cue musical montage of heroic and herculean efforts at mile 20), Addie's was a quick 100-meter sprint. No, that makes it sound too light-footed and focused. Her birth was more like a mad dash from an oncoming runaway semi-truck—frantic, harried, quick, and filled with relief when the episode was over.

But it didn't begin like that. It started with my water breaking at 10:15pm on July 14 of 2015. We know this exact time, because we happened to have a phone appointment with our very accommodating realtor regarding some final details on the sale of our old home and the purchase of our new one. But contractions hadn't yet begun, so there was no immediate urgency. As second-timers in this whole birth thing, we were pros—calm, cool, carefree, even. We finished our phone meeting with our realtor (me, chiming in over the speakerphone while I mopped up my mess in the bathroom). I called my friend Stefanie and gaily related that it would be go-time soon, joking, laughing... What a contrast it was to the first time, when I was gasping into the phone, begging her—my nurse-friend and often go-to source for medical advice—to tell me whether I was, indeed, in labor or not (uh, yes, I was). I did some last-minute packing and then curled my hair and put on just the tiniest bit of makeup. (Because I learned from ALL those photos of myself after giving birth to Caedmon that a little help in the beauty department couldn't hurt.) With our affairs in order and my vanity sufficiently indulged, we left at 11pm for Kaiser Labor & Delivery for an initial check-in with the baby.

That's when we met Ionie. Ionie was the admitting nurse that night, a small but formidable woman in her 40s with close-cropped hair and a quick, deliberate gait. I learned soon enough by her firm demeanor and stern Nigerian accent that she was not to be messed with. As I lifted my hospital gown for her to hook up the fetal heartrate monitor, she pointed at the rashes on my belly. "What is that," she ordered more than asked. "Uh, eczema. From my pregnancy," I faltered meekly. Her reply was a mere grunt as she continued to hook up the device, but she did take the extra care to avoid the more irritated parts of my skin. Ionie's directive was simple: lie on the bed (in this contorted position) until she could record a solid 20-minute block of the baby's heartrate. It should have been easy enough, except that Addie decided to fall asleep at that very moment, and in order to wake her up, Ionie gave me a large tumbler of sugary juice to drink, and then left to tend to other patients, leaving me tethered to the hospital bed while my bladder quickly filled beyond comfortable capacity. After 45 minutes and still no sign of Ionie, I couldn't take it any longer and sent Wayne out to find her. Ionie bustled in, rebuking me impatiently for disrupting her workflow, "I was coming; I hadn't forgotten you." But she did unhook me from the monitor, and with a relieved bladder and a satisfactory recording of the baby's heartrate, we were discharged at 1am and sent home until my contractions commenced and became a consistent four minutes apart.

Upon returning home, we went straight to bed, since we knew the fun that lay ahead of us. Wayne quickly fell into a steady rhythm of snores, but sleep eluded me, because of course, that's when my contractions finally decided to begin. At 2:15am, I crawled wearily out of bed. Leaving Wayne to sleep, I retreated to the family room to wait out the early stage of labor, snatching the book lying on my bedside table to pass the time and distract my mind. Book club was in a week, and I was almost finished with our book selection, and so for the next two hours, I went back and forth between the sobering words of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited and then tossing it aside as I bent over our couch, head buried in the cushions, rocking back and forth, riding out my early contractions and jotting down my stats on a piece of scratch paper. At 4am, I finished my novel, and so I woke Wayne to tell him it was time to go. 

I pride myself in being task-oriented, reveling in a to-do list riddled with check marks and crossed out items, but I wonder if, in crossing out "finish book for book club", I had taken a tad too long to leave for the hospital, because by then, my contractions were VERY strong. When we arrived at Kaiser, there was no questioning whether I was in labor this time; I was screaming in agony. 

We met Ionie again, this time in the midst of an embarrassing kerfuffle in which I had misunderstood the nurse over the phone who had advised me to go THROUGH the ER to Labor & Delivery and had mistakenly checked myself INTO the ER, and was thus stuck in some sort of administrative gridlock when I did make my way upstairs. As we waited for my name to clear from the ER computer system so that Labor & Delivery could add me, I was pelted by wave upon wave of soul-crushing, abdominal convulsions. "What's going on? Why is she still sitting here?" demanded Ionie of the receptionists at the front desk, who looked at each other helplessly. Ionie grabbed the phone, dialed the ER and shouted into the receiver, "This is Ionie from Labor & Delivery. You need to discharge my patient—NOW!" and hung up. She promptly led me down the hall towards a room, no question her order would be heeded. That's when I knew it was good to have Ionie on my side. 

Though I was a pitiful, tearful mess at this point, Ionie’s no-nonsense demeanor did not let up. This time, though, it was a godsend. Admonishing me for my effusive cries of pain, she made me stop walking, ordered me to look at her, and sternly demanded that I breathe, modeling for me the deep breaths that reached her diaphragm—in through her nose, out through the mouth. No screaming, no crying. Focus. Control. I needed energy, and this was sapping all my resources, not to mention my oxygen. Indeed, I was already feeling light-headed and had started hyperventilating. I needed to take hold of myself emotionally and physically. And so I mustered all my self-control, willing myself to stay calm as I made my way slowly to the birthing room and crawled onto the hospital bed, quietly convulsing. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. No screaming, no crying. Focus. Control.

At this point, Wayne returned from parking the car, and as he took his position by my side, he jokingly quipped, "I almost passed this room; I didn't hear you screaming." Pathetically, like a jailbird, I looked at him and nodded over to Ionie, "She won't let me." It was that moment that I was seized by another gut-wrenching contraction. I suppose sometime during the short trip between the waiting room and the hospital bed, I had slipped into transitional labor, though all I could register was that I was in the grip of a most violent pain that was mercilessly unrelenting. As with last time, Wayne dutifully took up the role as Supportive Husband, holding my hand, and proceeded to give me the most loving and kind gaze, as if to say, so sweetly, "You are doing wonderfully, Sweetheart. I love you." 

But this was not like last time! And his loving and kind gaze was like fighting the blaze of a roaring fire with puffs of sweet, summery perfume! In the throes of pain that had overtaken me so suddenly and swiftly, I had turned feral and animalistic. I was in survival mode. At that moment, I needed a coach to push me forward, not a cheer squad to brightly encourage beside me. I turned away from my loving husband and frantically sought out Ionie. "Help me!" I cried out, pathetically.

At my feet, she looked over at me, intense as ever. "Breathe!" she ordered, and so I inhaled. "Focus on my face." I looked at her with wild eyes. "Loosen your shoulders. Ease your muscles." And so, to the best of my abilities, I relaxed my tingling arms. Though I made little noise, lest I anger Ionie, I still felt an overwhelming desperation. Never did I want an epidural in all 15 hours of labor with Caedmon, because though the pain and discomfort were immediate and excruciating, the process was long and slow, allowing us to rest and even snooze in between each monster contraction. It felt right, controlled, and even beautiful, in my body’s steady progression toward its natural function of giving birth. But this time, nothing felt “right”, and I was no way in any kind of control, as I was seized so suddenly and sharply by what felt like the ultimate assault to my body. In the face of what I thought would be another few hours of torture, I wanted the epidural—NOW, but before I could gasp my wishes, I felt the overwhelming urge to push or burst or implode or something. I could hear myself, and I sounded like a scared, wounded, crazed animal. With all propriety and decorum out the window, I yelled what I considered to be a fair forewarning to the nurses, "I NEED TO POO!" Ionie looked at me, and with the most intent of expressions, shouted back, "Then poo!"

What I had felt was not a bowel movement, but was actually the baby pressing urgently into the birth canal. Who knew that in a matter of half an hour, I would be fully dilated from the 7 centimeters I was upon arrival (just one centimeter more than I had been when admitted for Caedmon’s birth) and my body would be doing all it could to expel the contents of my uterus. Unlike last time, when we were left on our own for what seemed like an eternity, the sheer absence of medical staff a demoralizing indication of my lack of progress, this time, there was no opportunity for anyone to leave. There was a great commotion as nurses pulled out the bright overhead light and rolled over the tray of tools. Ionie gowned up, preparing to catch the baby, before the midwife arrived in the nick of time. I pushed for less than 10 minutes, compared to the 90 minutes with Caedmon. I barely remember the ring of fire this time, because it was so brief, but I do recall the immense relief that rushed over me as the baby's head emerged, followed by the rest of the body. It was 5:38am on July 15, just less than an hour from the time we arrived at the hospital. In the mad chaos, there hadn’t been time to even fully admit me, but now, as the baby emerged, the room stopped.

It was that cry again that stilled the atmosphere. Second time, but still so distinct, buoyed by the torrents of relief and emotion so that its tiny vibrations filled the room. It’s the cry that signifies all is well, that it’s finished and that it’s begun. It’s the cry to herald that nothing is to be the same ever again. And so that cry pierced the air, but to be honest, it didn't penetrate my heart as it did with Caedmon’s. Everything was too quick for me to feel anything except sheer relief. The baby was here, we were surely overjoyed, but I was far from the tearful, blubbering first-time mother whose entire world—inside and out—had just been turned upside down. Instead, we all focused our excited attentions to the next order of business: was it a boy or a girl?

Wayne was the one who was given the honor of revealing the gender, and he hesitated as he performed a double-take. "It's a... girl?" he announced haltingly; he had so convinced himself that we were having another boy. And with that, they placed our new daughter on my chest... our baby Elydia.

Yes, Addison was first Elydia in the early hours of her existence. Liddy, we would have called her. We had written it on her little bassinet tag, even, but scratched it out when, in just the first hour after her birth, we heard ourselves repeating what I'm sure would have been for the rest of her life: “Her name is Elydia. No, EL-lydia, not Olivia. No, not Lydia..." And so Elydia became Addison, and our sweet Addie fits her name so well now that I can't imagine her as otherwise.

So just as with the whirlwind that was her birth, Addie has not missed a beat and has so competently and considerately kept up with the push and pulse of our lives. In fact, that same day, Wayne was on the phone with our mortgage company, closing the loan for our new house. And the next week, I did, indeed, make it to book club, not just clutching my copy of Brideshead, but also the tiny being that compelled me to the finish the night before her arrival. Though parts of the book's ending are a bit fuzzy, details from Addie's birth, though quick and harried and without much of the mounting emotion of Caedmon's, are etched in my heart, equally cherished and ready to be retold as less of a pull-at-the-heartstrings kind of tale than perhaps the source of a good chuckle. 

Addie, dear, you are such a bright light in our lives, and you have made it so effortless and enjoyable to care for and love you. I don’t know what the teenage years will hold, but whatever difficulties, may they, like your birth, come quickly, even if intense, and be resolved with the same alacrity.

Addie at birth, weighing 5 lb 15 oz, a whopping four ounces more than her brother.

Our new family of four. (See how pretty my hair looks?)

Addie at almost-20-months, shouting, "CHEESE!!!", while insisting on Caedmon's rain boots as her footwear of choice.

Addie's First Birthday: the Best "No-Theme" Party

Though I have not written about her, I assure you my baby daughter does exist. I know, I know... I am a classic example of a second-time mom who has exhausted all her awe and attention on her first-born—pictures, scrapbooks, recordings of all milestones—and with the second one? We celebrate the mere fact that we have thus kept her alive! But of course not. Just as I had wrestled over and succeeded in making room in my heart for Caedmon when I was just a pup-mom (I kid you not—I cognitively could not fathom loving another more than Lucy), we have so seamlessly and effortlessly opened and entwined our hearts around our sweet Addie. The truth, then, for my delinquency in writing about our new baby thus far is, 1. We had a new baby. And 2. Addie has been a pretty easy baby, and, comparable to the likes of Taylor Swift, whose creative genius is honed by the shards of her broken heart, I, too, apparently need some sort of strong emotional catalyst to get me all emo and introspective and... writing. So while Caedmon is my muse, if for no other reason than the fact that he sometimes drives me nuts, Addie is my prize who I simply and tenderly delight in. Addie turned one last month, and so finally, I decided to flex my writing muscles and set my fingers over the keyboard to share about her first birthday, because it really was a memorable day for one remarkable little lady.

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Addie's party was intended to be effortless. Originally, I had wracked my brain for fun themes that I could lose myself creatively in: an ice cream social, a Cheerios party, or, in a nod to her signature trait, a bed head bash. But while I wanted to celebrate big, the thought of prepping for a party with an over-the-top theme and not only cleaning up, but then packing for a family vacation scheduled two days afterwards, was already giving me hives. So I decided to scrap the theme! You can't go wrong with food and friends (and a small activity in the form of a tournament bracket). And the themes? I decided to save them for later parties, when Addie and her friends can appreciate and participate in all the to-do. It was freeing, really.

So I found a pretty Evite and sent out instant (and free) invitations. I asked my dear friend Amanda of Paper Heart Patisserie to make her sugar cookies as our favors, so that took another huge task off my to-do list. I decided we would grill, so even in the food department, Wayne would be doing most of the work! I was set! This party would require minimal effort from me! I felt a little sneaky, actually.

Except... Amanda needed to know what I wanted the favors to look like, so we decided to extend the summery-fruity vibe of the Evite and go with watermelon- and pineapple-shaped cookies. I felt that familiar flicker of creative inspiration as my mind leapt to the gold pineapple-stamped dress Addie had hanging in her closet, still waiting its debut. So much for my no-theme party, because one pineapple led to another, and before I knew it, I was snipping gold foil confetti and constructing a watermelon balloon garland ala Pinterest late into the night. But it was just one garland, and perhaps because it was created on a last-minute whim as opposed to an imperative as part of an elaborate concept, all the preparation was still minimal and enjoyable.

top: Amanda's gorgeous cookies! How could I not go with a theme after seeing these?

bottom left: My watermelon balloon garland with palm fronds, snipped fresh from a friend's yard. The week prior to the party, I scanned the terrain each time we hopped in the car, looking for low-hanging palm trees planted on public property, because yes, I had planned to return at night with tree trimmers, but apparently, Elk Grove does not landscape with palm trees. Luckily, I have a friend who does.

bottom right: Addie's healthy smash cake (that was saved by Amanda who effortlessly whipped up and applied a fresh batch of frosting when my healthy version resembled more pancake batter than anything else), and my ever-favorite chocolate cake from Ina Garten (coated with toasted coconut) that I make for all celebrations, because I love it that much (and because I'm really a one-trick pony).

See, Wayne is doing all the work.

Our Addie photo wall that was put up by washi tape, and the fun tassels I found on sale during a random shopping trip at Nordstrom. So effortless. So easy. (Especially when it was actually put up by my sister-in-law, Emily. She and her husband, Carl, have become my tireless events team; their ready and ample help before each festivity, wholly indispensable.) Allow me to breathe out a sigh of relief... ahhhhh.... The random items on the credenza were for our bracket activity.

While we finished eating, we started the bracket portion of the party. This is a game I borrowed from my sister, who borrowed from a friend, and it's ingenious (IF you have a pleasant-tempered baby, which I am still so euphoric we do). Our friends had been instructed to bring a non-food, non-toy item from home that they thought would attract Addie's attention most. They were divided into heats and then, with Addie placed in the middle of the room, competed against one another by shaking their items, in hopes that Addie would crawl towards and take their object, thus advancing them onto the next round.

Ready, set, GO! The action was sometimes intense, though often slow... but always comical as Addie looked quizzically at all of us monkeys dancing around her.

Addie was often a tease...

Ooh, what? Shiny!

Hm, makes noise, too??

I think I like it...

But these bracelet bangles are enticing, too...

I like the bangles!

And the bangles were our ultimate winner!

And then it was time for cake! Here was another instance of significant difference between Addie and Caedmon; at Caedmon's first birthday (that was super small because of his extreme anxiety around people), he burst into tears with all the sudden attention and applause when we sang "Happy Birthday" to him. Addie? She smiled and pointed at all the friendly faces singing to her, as if to say, "I see you, and you! Thank you for coming! I love you, too!" She clapped her hands along with us at the end of the song, like the quintessential Angel Baby.

Watching her take her first tastes of cake as she gingerly stuck her finger in the frosting and then demurely brought it to her mouth was like watching grass grow. Stinking adorable grass... but it defied the idea of a SMASH cake!

I love this series of pictures, above. In the first, Addie is cuteness personified. In the second, Wayne looks like a photoshopped photo-bomber. And the third? It reminds me that though I think about things like what our family is wearing, particularly to special occasions at which we'll be photographed and memorialized for ages, and thus painstakingly pick out the kids' outfits and mine, I need to pass that memo onto Wayne, because otherwise, he will arrive in his "got burritos?" t-shirt. So fancy.

This is so typical my-mom, already exerting her tiger (grand)mom-ness... "Wah?! No eat cake? Work harder!!" Sorry, Addie... I feel ya.

Our charming and delicious cookie favors—the little gems that were the springboard to what became an adorable first birthday for our sweet girl. Seriously, THIS is what made the party and tied all the details together, giving the impression that I actually put forth any real effort! Thank you, Amanda, for doing all the work and making our party so memorable!

Addie's no-theme-but-okay-pineapple-watermelon-themed party was so much fun that Caedmon was completely wiped out on our way to dinner that evening. Couldn't even make it to the after-party. It was that good. And so perfect for our exceedingly sweet and remarkably amiable baby girl.

Happy first birthday, Little One!

Caedmon's Trash Bash (aka Ugly is Good!)

Caedmon turned four in April, so pick and choose your favorite cliché, because they are all true, and I feel them all: I can't believe my baby is already four! Where has the time gone? It seems like just yesterday he was in diapers (okay, that one is almost true). They really do grow up too fast! I love him to the moon and back!

I hadn't done much for his previous birthdays, save the small bread party I threw when he turned a year, hoping to postpone the hoopla for as long as possible. At ONE, he was exceedingly anxious and shy, so a small gathering of mostly family was the only way to go. TWO was a pre-existing dinner with friends, a small smash cake tacked on at the end of the evening and a digger from his toy pile thrown on top as an afterthought. THREE was a simple play date with lunch, no presents (although I couldn't help but include decorate-your-own train muffins that I later realized were way over the heads of my little guests).

But FOUR. Four is different. At four, he has attended enough birthday parties now to be absolutely cognizant and altogether aware of what a birthday is and what a birthday often entails, and so, late one night, as the mounting pressure and looming arrival of his birthday felt especially acute, I begrudgingly opened my laptop and hunkered down for some initial brainstorming and ideas-gathering. Dump trucks and other construction vehicles populated my Pinterest page until it suddenly came to me that there could be no better way to celebrate Caedmon than with his favorite obsession: trash! (In fact, I often overhear him singing to himself as he's playing, "I love trash, trash. I love trash." Just a little ditty he made up.)

And so, knowing how much Caedmon would enjoy his Trash Bash, I planned this party with a new enthusiasm, because that's what truly motivates and inspires us as moms when we plan anything for our children, right? Whether we ambitiously (and sometimes unwittingly) decide to tackle some Pinterest project that we don't really have the bandwidth for, or simply have the thought and foresight to invite a few good friends over for cake, it's that wide-eyed and awe-struck "wow!!!... cool!!" (or maybe a big appreciative smile from those thoughtful types) that makes any trouble worth it. I'm still all about keeping things simple (I tried keeping this party as simple as possible, but if we're really talking simple, Wayne never even had a birthday party growing up, and he's fine), but sometimes, just a little bit of un-simple goes a long way and, only because I like this kind of thing in the first place, is completely worth it!

So one party down... how many more to go? ... Let the hoopla begin!

These invitations were printed at home and coffee-stained individually. No two are alike... artisanal invitations, if you will. And it's a good thing they were SUPPOSED to look like garbage, because they turned out too large for the envelopes, but no problem! Scrunch it all up! Ugly is good! Everything fits, plus room for more trash!

My family knows that I readily accept and am so thankful for all offers of help, especially since I had been battling the tail end of a cold the days before the party, when occasion forced me to stave off rest until after the event. Here are Auntie Emily and Uncle Chuck constructing placards for the food. Leave it to artsy Auntie Emily, of course, to take a simple directive ("Just glue these printed pieces of paper onto some cardboard.") and turn it into something creative (yet still grungy enough to be deemed trash) by cutting up a cereal box to outline the placards.

Work gets done, even with a monkey on Uncle Ed's back...

Caedmon is helping with the Rice Krispy treats, and by helping, I mean that he is exercising all his self-control not to touch every single piece in front of him.

Our house The To Landfill

I had wanted to scatter trash all over our porch and front yard, but somehow, I didn't think our HOA would have been down with that.

My trash wreath. I was inspired by this wreath, but given the time crunch, I created this much simpler "design" and pinned all the pieces on instead of gluing, so that I could reuse the wreath later on.

I absolutely love the garbage truck shirt I found for Caedmon made by Anthony of HopperShop on Etsy. The graphic is definitely more cool than cutesy, exactly what I was looking for for my big boy. Check out the shop's designs; he has other trucks, and you can customize the color shirt and logo. (Anthony was also really great in expediting my order. I didn't come across this shirt until the Monday before the party, but I made a Hail Mary order and included a message explaining my situation, and Anthony made sure we received the shirt Friday evening, at his expense! That's customer service that rivals Nordstrom!)

We're still in the process of putting our house together after moving (relatively) recently. I had these empty frames lying around, so we decided to display some grocery ads to add to our "grungy chic" décor.

Our snacks for the day included: trashy (Rice Krispy) treats, smelly (Gold)fish, junkyard dogs (pigs in a blanket), flat tires (Bagel Bites), fruit compost, PU punch, and waste water, all set against a wall of streamers made of trash bags and newspapers. The streamers didn't turn out exactly as I had envisioned (maybe it needs more newspaper strips to fluff it up), but it's okay... again, ugly is good. (This became my calming mantra.)

Did you know that PU (or pee-yew) is actually spelled "piu" and has its root in the Indo-European word "pu" and means to rot or decay? I learned this while looking up the spelling for "piu", although I still went with the shorter, more familiar (though technically incorrect) "PU". 

My favorite cake is Ina Garten's chocolate cake. It has such an intense, chocolate-y flavor and a rich, moist crumb. The only problem is that I suck at cake-frosting, so the crumbs were getting everywhere... but again, no problem! Ugly is good! (I can't tell you how much I love this garbage theme!) I left the cake partially deconstructed and imperfect (not that I really had any control over that) and topped the cake with one of Caedmon's garbage trucks. 

When you're four (or five or 60), it's always time for an impromptu dance party, especially when an awesome trash mix comes on! I spent HOURS scouring the internet and YouTube for songs about garbage, my query made more challenging as I sorted past all songs by the band Garbage for the true gems about refuse and waste. If you are throwing a garbage-themed party (or perhaps simply for your listening pleasure), here you go. You're welcome.

I think the highlight of the day was story time with Uncle Ed. All the kids (and adults) were enraptured by his vivid voice inflections and animated onomatopoeia; if his current career aspirations don't pan out, there's always the children's birthday party industry!

While we had been busy getting everything ready inside before the party, Wayne was in charge of the outside. I handed Wayne several bags of trash that I had collected over the last few weeks (clean stuff, like egg cartons and cereal boxes) with the instructions to scatter it all over our backyard, because (say it together now)—ugly is good! You can imagine his bewildered horror. "Am I going to have to clean all this up later, too?" is what I'm sure he was thinking, but no! I would have my waste management crew for that!

Our one game for the afternoon was the trash pick-up that Wayne had, in such good faith, set up in our backyard despite his reservations. Armed with a trash bag each, the "workers" cleaned the yard in minutes and then presented their filled bags in exchange for their day's wages—two chocolate gold coins.

I almost bought these robot claws for the kids, thinking it would make picking up trash that much more fun, but when I tested it on Caedmon, his little hands weren't able to work the mechanism, so back on the shelf they went at the store. As it turns out, picking up trash is GREAT fun, and the kids all filled their bags with ready alacrity. (Why isn't it like this when it's clean-up time at home?)

Might I add how budget-friendly this party was; I mean, there's nothing more cost-effective than garbage!

Waste Management Crew at the To Landfill. Check out our little friend in the yellow in the back. She's got this trash-picking-up pose down...

... even well after everyone else had dispersed. :)

And then it was time for cake and ice cream and presents!

Make a wish, my sweet boy.

Caedmon: "COOL!!! LOTS OF TRACKS!"

Mom: "Cool........ lots... of tracks.................."

And as guests left, they were instructed to clean up after themselves.

Trash Can Favors: I cut up a trash bag and filled each square with "trash" gummies (Swedish fish, Coke bottles, fruit-shaped gummies, and gummy carrots I found that were leftovers from Easter) before tying up and tossing into silver plastic cups. 

Cheers to turning 4, Caedmon! We hope you had a trashy birthday, in the best possible way! 

(Although next year, what am I going to do when ugly is NOT good???)

Photo Credits: mostly Uncle Chuck and Uncle Ed, with a spattering by Mom and Dad.