Crying Over Spilt Milk

My first Mother’s Day six years ago was spent doused in vomit and tears (Caedmon’s and mine, respectively), which sounds about right for a new mom of a one-month-old. We were on our way to church—our first attendance after the arrival of the baby—which was significant because while we had ventured into the world a few tentative times before, this was our first attempt at returning to an old routine, paving the way to what I hoped would be some semblance of structure in our topsy-turvy lives. The fact that it was Mother’s Day only added to the salience of the occasion.

It’s not that we hadn’t WANTED to go back to church (or anywhere with a more defined framework) prior to this point, it was more a matter that we COULDN’T. Still learning to handle this creature whose sole purpose seemed to be to ruin our lives, we just physically couldn’t get our acts together enough to leave the house to arrive anywhere on time. We were running frantically on this endless hamster wheel of feeding, burping—and because Caedmon had moderate reflux—near-projectile vomiting, which then meant cleaning up, changing, and then repeating from the beginning. And while I so appreciate the imagery of “herding cats”—plural—I can’t even use it to accurately describe our desperation as new parents. Though the sentiment of harried rushing and running about, trying to corral a number of feral beasts who are simultaneously scampering away and scratching out your eyes is spot-on, we only had one cat, and one who—as a newborn—didn’t even move! But still, herding that one, immobile cat took everything out of us. (Anyone who has cared for a newborn for any prolonged amount of time will attest that those unmoving baby cats are the worst.)

So it really was a near-miracle when on the morning of that first Mother’s Day, Wayne and I had managed to get ourselves up and dressed early, and had even enjoyed a peaceful breakfast while Caedmon still slept soundly. And as if he understood my carefully detailed timetable and lofty expectations for the day, Caedmon stirred at the perfect hour that would begin our perfect day. I nursed him, we changed his diaper and put him in his special outfit, and then strapped him into his car seat. Even though the drive was across town, we had plenty of time to spare and would even be early—something I rarely was, even before I had children to blame. I was just patting myself on the back for such a job well done, when Wayne hoisted the car seat, and Caedmon, with his sensitive tummy, suddenly and violently spit up his entire meal, dousing me, himself, and our carefully laid-out plans in a thick layer of baby vomit. So much for going to church this Mother’s Day, or anywhere, it seemed, for the foreseeable future. Time to break out the emergency survival kit; we were hunkering down for the long-haul.

There was little to do at that point but to clean up the mess—which is what Wayne did, because I just sat there and cried pathetically on the couch. I cried for our plans, so painstakingly synced with Caedmon’s schedule, that had just folded like a house of cards. I cried for this complete loss of control over our lives and the ineptitude I felt over accomplishing the simplest tasks. I cried for my body that still hurt from birthing a tiny human and from keeping this tiny human alive; my toes still curled at the onset of each nursing session. I cried that that same body, once in marathon and triathlon form, could now be a stand-in for Jabba the Hutt. I cried and cried and cried. There was nothing happy about this day or being a mother!

But thank goodness for dads who know to take the baton when Mom has fallen flat on her face and refuses to budge from her pity party. I was useless as Wayne quietly extricated Caedmon from his soggy car seat, changed him into a new set of clothes, and then washed all the soiled seat covers. And because the seat was all wet, which I thought dictated our sequestration at home, Wayne resourcefully lined Caedmon’s chair in a thick layer of towels, even padding the undersides of the wet straps. And while I was still ugly-crying on the couch, Wayne came over to give me a hug and a quick pep talk along the lines of “this is hard, but we can do it” (which rings truer each and every day), and then presented me with our newly clean and highly absorbent baby: “Okay, Mom, we’re ready!”

We did make it to church that day, even if it was literally for the last two seconds of service. And we even held it together long enough to make a trip out to Costco afterwards for supplies and lunch. (Look at us, surviving!) It was clearly nothing fancy, but that first Mother’s Day was monumental. To me, it symbolized an inauguration into this league of undercover super heroes who had been making and sustaining lives all around me. I had been Lois Lane, blind as a bat to all these phenomenal women, most notably my own mother, disguised loosely—not in glasses—but in kid-friendly cottons and synthetics. How amazing and awesome and all-sacrificing a mother is—whether she even wholly embraces it or not.

Since then, I have become a mother two more times over, which has left my body worn and damaged beyond easy repair (blistering eczema all over my hands and a herniated umbilical just to name a couple of gripes). I have been doused countless more times in vomit and all other bodily fluids. (In fact, I was puked on all over just yesterday evening, and today, it was baby jelly poo.) And I have had my plans spoiled… what, every day? But still my heart beats so completely for these little beings who have ruined EVERYTHING. They try me and test me and stretch me, but you know, they also rebuild me. That first Mother’s Day—just one month into the fray—I cried for the loss of my self, and understandably so; that forced self-denial is brutal. But what I didn’t yet have the perspective to see is that once the milk has been cleaned up, our schedules sufficiently reshuffled, and those extra pounds—well, may or may not have been lost—I still have this entourage of mini people who, through all my vacillating emotions and self-centered regrets and soul-searching identity crises, have remained my biggest fans. They’re just waiting for me, wrapped in absorbent towels, to finish MY tantrum so they (at least for now in these little years) can continue loving on me with their simple, uncomplicated, yet fierce adoration.

And that’s nothing to cry about.

Our absorbent baby

Introducing Caedmon to one of our favorite places.

Enjoying my first hot dog after following all the pregnancy rules, like a conscientious mamma should. (This happened not at all with pregnancies #2 and #3.)

Family Photos: January 2018

The first thought I had when I saw these amazing photos by our friend Susan of En Pointe Photography was, "Wow, we are so deceptively charming and put together!" Because the truth behind these photos taken earlier in January is that RyRy was unusually fussy, Addie clung to me and refused to set foot on the wet grass (until a timely game of Red Light, Green Light), and Caedmon was being such a menace, climbing all over and jumping in front of shots. I was still feeling high strung from frantically picking up the house just minutes before Susan arrived, as well as every single extra postpartum pound. And of course—of course—I was sporting this raging zit, smack dab in the middle of my face (thank goodness for Photoshop). "Well, that was stressful", I said to Wayne after Susan left. I truly did not expect any good photos to emerge from that morning. 

But Susan is brilliant and works wonders (as can a loose, slightly structured shirt to hide an unflattering midsection), and I am so, so happy with how these photos actually turned out. Which leads me to my second thought when I saw these photos: Though these polished pictures don't tell the complete story of who we are, they still are Us. One day, I'll look back at these images and that feeling of desperate drowning, that often keeps me from appreciating this current stage of life, will fade (as it already has some), and what I'll have are these distilled memories of our children at blissful play (unless you're RyRy, who is doing all he can to hold it together). 

Our life right now is both crazy and mundane, but I'm thankful for Susan for highlighting the beauty that is clearly there as well. So the lesson is this: don't fret so much, because there is something good even on the most desperate of days... and hire a really good photographer!

playing Red Light, Green Light

(Caedmon 5, Addie 2, Ry 7 months)

Oh, Addie...so unhappy that she has to touch the grass. 4 out of 5 smiles is a passing rate, I suppose.

I love that Susan captured Addie's simple delight over a snapping twig.

This just about captures our kids that morning.

That winning smile...

Why, yes, we always huddle together and read while the sunlight pours down on us just so.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

The day Lucy died, we should have been celebrating instead. It was July 2, a Sunday, Ryan’s one-month birthday—a day that, were we more true to the traditions of our heritage, would have been marked with feasting and red envelopes stuffed with money, portending a future filled with fullness and good fortune. But instead we were putting our dog down, and there clearly was no such merriment.

Just two days before, on the heels of an all-night trip to the ER with our feverish newborn, we received the devastating news that Lucy’s bladder was filled—FILLED—with stones. On the x-ray, it was clear that these fist-sized rocks were not going anywhere on their own. The doctor recommended surgery—on Monday at the latest—and just like that, we were slammed with the immense decision of going through with the costly procedure or euthanizing Lucy.

Lucy was our Pennysaver pup and had been with us from nearly the beginning of our marriage nine years ago, essentially growing with us as we became real adults. “Thirteen adorable puppies” was what the ad had read. That night in early January, because we were unprepared for the sudden addition to our family, Lucy slept in a Crate and Barrel box salvaged from the stack of wedding gift debris still waiting its turn for the recycling bin. She was my companion during that first winter of our marriage, when the frost nipped extra hard. I was a recent transplant from sunny San Diego where winter means (possibly) putting away the flip-flops for a month or two, and with no friends or job of my own, I had spent day after aimless day in our dingy once-bachelor pad going stir-crazy from loneliness and cabin fever. Lucy was my bright spot then and gave some purpose and structure to my day. After all, I was a pup-mom now! All day we played rope and “drag” (a game that is exactly as it sounds: I dragged Lucy around the house by the end of her rope, an activity Lucy especially loved); at night, I dutifully got her up from her cardboard box and took her out for multiple potty breaks. “I’m so tired!” I remember wailing to Wayne, as I collapsed on our bed in exhaustion. Oh, how I chuckle at my “exhaustion” then (though I suppose it’s telling that I was never a baby person even at that point). It was good training, though, for the real deal, a practice in selflessness and expanding our hearts, in patience when she chewed up my designer flats, and disciplining when she did it once more (and wisdom never to buy designer flats again!).

As that winter warmed into spring, we started running. Around and around the levee and green belt and Sacramento’s Pocket area and all the way to marathon shape; together we trained for multiple races. Though I eventually made friends and found a job, there was always time for rope and drag (until she grew too heavy—a day, I’m sure, Lucy regarded with dismay). She was there when, as newlyweds, we worked to make our house a home—me, blithely (and unevenly) coating our living room with Barn Door Red, because I loved the name even more than the paint shade. With each subsequent home we grew into, the tips of Lucy’s fur reflected all my varying color choices and ever-evolving tastes.

When we had Caedmon, and then Addie, the dynamics of our family changed dramatically. I’m sure she felt this tangible shift in the social order: these new varmints that Wayne and I had brought home one day were suddenly taking all of our time and attentions. They let out funny sounds and smelled even worse, but for some reason we insisted on keeping them, so she scooted over and made room for them. But she was just as loyal to us even then. She was up with me at all hours of the night, and she would sit by me in the glider as I nursed the babies, and she would follow me when I changed their diapers, then plod behind me as we both collapsed into our respective beds, waiting for the next midnight feeding.

And when she and I matured into middle-age together, me with the remnants of baby bulge, we both hit the pavement once again, and though she regarded with suspicion the strange contraption with very scary wheels that I now pushed the babies in, she never flaked once on our running dates. Though the fur around her muzzle was showing just a touch of gray, her quick gait revealed a youth that remained from our levee days. She could still run like the wind—especially when she spotted a squirrel on the horizon.

It was on the day we brought Ryan home from the hospital that we first noticed something was wrong with Lucy. Never one to make accidents inside, Lucy had left small puddles of urine in various corners of the house. In our absence, she hadn’t been let out frequently enough, we had reasoned. It was almost another month—a crazy month of transitioning to life with a newborn, family drama, and sick kids all around—before we realized that something more serious was going on with Lucy.

In that last month of Lucy’s life—that first of Ryan’s—I hadn’t realized how relatively happy we were. Sure, we were collapsing with exhaustion, drowning in the needs of our tiny children, struggling, elbow-deep in parenthood, but our family—for that one month—was wholly complete.

The weekend we lost Lucy will forever be ingrained in my memory as one fraught not just with grief, but of ill-timed events and great physical strain. The all-night trip to the ER with Ryan, where I had helplessly and heart-wrenchingly watched him get poked and prodded, had left me emotionally and physically drained and totally unprepared for the news of Lucy’s diagnosis. I left the vet’s office—sobbing and shaking as much from the news as from sheer exhaustion—with a major decision to make about Lucy’s future, but with a weekend agenda that was wholly unyielding to calm, unhurried, thoughtful deliberation. We had kids to shuttle back and forth to VBS, a baby shower to finish planning and then attend, and Ryan’s follow-up appointment with the pediatrician, on top of our usual duties in caring for three kids, the last still feverish and fussy and who demanded so much extra care (as if newborns didn’t demand enough care as is). Our lives were going at a million miles a minute, and we were so, SO tired. It had been nearly 36 hours since I had slept, a whole month since I had slept well. Our brains were barely functioning, and it was in this run-down state that we had to make a decision about Lucy—and quickly. Lucy was deteriorating before our eyes. By Saturday night, she was already completely incontinent, and her urine was tinged with blood. She was sequestered in the kitchen, which for her, being apart from us, was the misery we would be putting her out of. In the months that followed, I’ve replayed the events of that decisive weekend over and over, scrutinizing every move and detail that led us to our final decision, and I ask bitterly, why did Lucy’s fate have to hinge on that crazy, beleaguered, hell of a weekend?

Lucy was 8 ½ when we ended her life. When we decided, based solely on numbers, that she—technically a senior dog—was too old for the surgery the vet had recommended, that the bill would be too high, that her odds for complete recovery without possible relapse were low. In our pragmatism, we weighed the options against the pressing reality of our growing family. And in our pragmatism, we opted to terminate her existence. The morning of Lucy’s last day, we took the whole family for a walk to the park, where we had a picnic with Lucy on the grass, though at that point, she was refusing even the tidbits of sandwich meat we were offering to her. It was the return home that was hardest, that final stretch of sidewalk that lay between us and the car that we would coax her into and drive her to her final goodbye. I sobbed then and all the way to the moment the vet injected her veins with the numbing cocktail and then the one that stopped her heart. And I sobbed as I watched the life, the sunshine drain out of her eyes until what remained of her was just a glassy stare. Oh, how suddenly and quickly our Lucy was here and then gone.

For the next few months, in a mix of postpartum hormones, baby blues, and exhaustion, I felt the full weight of our unalterable decision. It was a reluctant pragmatism that drove our hand, but now, on this side of regret, I say to hell with pragmatism, because pragmatism does nothing to assuage a broken, bleeding heart. I cried several times a week, sometimes a day. Though life’s busyness and keeping up with three kids offered ample distraction—something I was both thankful for and indignant over—always, there was an undercurrent of grief and regret running just below the surface of my composure. It was upon those rare moments to myself, though, when the kids were asleep or after a midnight nursing session that left me awake in bed, when I now made the trek to and from the crib alone, that I most felt the absence of Lucy. And the floodgates would rupture, and Wayne would wake to find me huddled in a ball, sobbing uncontrollably next to him in bed.

But it wasn’t just the grief. It was the unsurmountable guilt that crushed my being. Guilt that we could have saved her (because she still had so much life in her!) but didn’t, that we literally led her to the slaughter. Guilt that I didn’t give her as much attention after the kids were born. Guilt that I resented so much her fur and dirt she tracked in, that I would hiss at her to stop barking during naptimes, or grumble when she got underfoot. And guilt that I was feeling so much grief over a dog, when I have friends who have recently lost parents and other (human) loved ones. But grief is still grief. She was still a life that we had cared for, a life who responded to and reciprocated our love. And when a life like that is taken away, though she was “just a dog”, it still leaves a void that is palpable.

About a month ago, my grief and guilt boiled to a tipping point. In one of those arguments that isn’t really about what originally sparked the argument in the first place (a home security system, in our case), I blurted out to Wayne in thinly veiled accusations that it was his pragmatism that killed Lucy and had he not been so concerned about saving money, we could have saved her instead. Yeah, I went there... I was sobbing and shouting and so out of control. I wanted Lucy back so badly, and when blaming myself wasn’t enough, I needed to blame someone else. In a most desperate and selfish act of self-preservation, I needed to cast off my guilt to bring some order and control back into my world that had become so dark and full of irreparable regret.

And you know what Wayne did? He took it. My husband, who loved Lucy just as much as I did, who grieved her as well—though more quietly, who had also been dead-tired that fateful weekend when we made our decision together amidst a million engagements and a sick newborn, who was and is always doing his absolute best to look out for the overall well-being of our family… that husband took the blame that I was passively (yet so aggressively) hurling at him. Not in a spineless, groveling-at-my-feet-for-forgiveness kind of way, but a strong, “okay, lay it on me; I can take it” kind of acceptance. Because he could see my brokenness. Because he loved me that much. Because he saw that I needed him to be there more than I was pushing him away.

The next day, he wrote me a card: “I can’t bring Lucy back, but I do want you to know that it was one of the hardest decisions that I’ve had to make in our marriage. I don’t blame you if you blame me for her loss, but I did care for her as much as you did. I also don’t desire you to change how you feel or how strongly you feel about Lucy… I know that it has been a devastatingly difficult last half year for you, so take what time you need to process… I will bear what I need to bear and be as kind and patient as I can… and give grace when it is needed.” And then he quoted a song that we had both just seen so beautifully performed on So You Think You Can Dance. “The song that I’ve had stuck in my head all week goes like this:

When the rain is blowing in your face,

And the whole world is on your case,

I could offer you a warm embrace,

To make you feel my love.”

And something near-miraculous happened: I stopped randomly bursting into tears and mourning in the middle of the night. Wayne willingly shouldered my guilt and became my scapegoat, which I don’t even know is healthy from a psychological standpoint, but his sacrifice did allow me the space I needed to heal. And that—his selfless, loving act—is a beautiful thing. (I know Someone else who did that for me, and I’m grateful for a husband who emulates that kind of love and grace for me every day.)

                                   

When Lucy first died four months ago, I had wanted to write the best tribute to her. I wanted to share what an amazing dog she was, to follow the expected story arc of delightful stories from her life, tragic end, then tearful but inspiring goodbye. But I didn’t have the words. I was so filled with grief and remorse and guilt—I was all bitter, without a trace of sweet. I am still sad, and could I do it all over, I would save her life in an instant. Most days I still want to go to sleep and, upon waking, thank the Ghost of Christmas Future for showing us our folly, but I am no longer consumed and controlled by the bottomless grief and guilt that had so overtaken me before. With my newfound healing, I started writing the story I wanted to tell about Lucy, and in doing so, I realized that Lucy’s story is also a story of us.  

Who would have known, 8 ½ years ago when we were pulling out that Crate and Barrel box for Lucy, laughing at the spontaneity of it all, so carefree as we camped out on the ground next to her, that we would return to those same positions the night before her death, this time watching and crying over her failing health. We would have two kids asleep upstairs and one sick and fussy newborn in our arms with us on the ground. Our minds and bodies would be spent, but our relationship, solid. Solid enough that when I lashed out at Wayne, he not only took the blows but shrouded me with his embrace. 8 ½ years ago, who could have predicted that. Who could have foreseen the joys and heartaches, the exhaustion, the wrinkles, the extra pounds, the stupid fights, the side-splitting laughter, the comforting silence, the growing up and the growing love that these 8 ½ years would afford.

They say that “dogs know”. And while all of Lucy’s life, I took pride in her beauty, I highly questioned her brains. Even so, I’d like to think that Lucy knew, and that even as we led her by the leash to her end, that when I looked into her eyes and lied and told her it was okay, that she was looking back and telling me that, yes, it is okay. Or, at least, it will be okay. And since we’re talking make-believe, if there truly was a dog heaven, Lucy would be there high in the sky, with her chin tilted up in her beguiling grin and waving her curly tail. Lucy was our primer for all of life’s major milestones—starting a family, purchasing a house and building a home together, and finally, death. The tearing down that is grief has been devastating; its repercussions, toxic. 8 ½ years ago, just six months into a marriage so new and fragile, I wonder how this strain would have driven us apart. But now—literally a lifetime later—we are experiencing this rebuilding and healing and togetherness that is made possible by those 8 ½ years of us. And Lucy—she was there for that, too.

Our "gotcha" moment when we chose her to be ours

(photo by Emily To)

(photo by Emily To)

drag!

Lucy, meet Caedmon. Caedmon, Lucy.

Our last photo of Lucy and the only one of our entire family

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.