Lover

photo credit: Serena Grace Photography

It’s the slow, steady rhythm of the percussions—that reminds me of a heartbeat—that draws me in every time. It’s deliberate but gentle, swaying but steady, syncopated yet soothing. Taylor Swift’s album, Lover, has been steadily streaming in my earbuds this past year, but it’s this title track that hits a particular chord. In it, she sings about mundane things, like keeping the Christmas lights up on their home until January (don’t we all?), that make up the life she wants to spend with her lover. But it’s the chorus that really gets me. “Can I go where you go? Can we always be this close? Forever and ever… Take me out, take me home. You’re my, my, my… lover.” The requests are so simple, yet suppose a trust and comfort, a security, but also a vulnerability in revealing one’s most tender self. Within the bridge, the “lover” is belted with such girlish glee, I imagine her with arms flung wide open in pure delight. It is young, contented love at its best.

It takes me back to the night during our Freshman year in college when Wayne and I got caught in the rain while delivering my research paper across campus (straight out of a vintage movie, I tell you—complete with the antiquated method of turning in a physical assignment in person)… to the first time he brought me back to his hometown of Sacramento, and we took a long, meandering walk in the evening around the greenbelt levy, only to be eaten alive by mosquitoes and thought it was well worth it… to our drawn-out goodbyes that had a way of stretching into the night.

As I listen and mouth the lyrics, I can’t help but feel a pang in realizing: I relate to this song… as a memory. Sometime along these 12 ½ years and churning out three kids, our marriage grew up and out of the honeymoon phase. These days, my requests to my lover are more, “Can you take the kids where you go? Can you leave me all alone?” (Forever and ever.)

In all seriousness, though, can I just say… marriage is hard. And pandemic life hasn’t made it any easier.

During these last 11 months, my moods have sometimes swung like a wrecking ball. Being home all day, every day with young children—without the buffer of everyday interruptions and interactions to grease the wheel of constant home-life—has turned me into a lunatic. (I know I’m not alone!) Sometimes I want to cry, though I can’t even pinpoint exactly the reason. Other times, it’s a simmering anger. Most of the time, it’s just a general melancholy with bouts of grumpiness. And all of this has naturally taken its toll on our relationship. In these last 11 months, we have fought over a waterslide, a wrong McDonald’s order, how we structure our family devotional time, and most recently, how Wayne agreed with me TOO much. (Yes, I know, but you don’t know the details, okay?)

Though I’ve always felt and known our differences acutely, I haven’t felt our differences so… frequently as I have during this pandemic that has acted as a crucible for probably all of us to some extent, burning away the dross, revealing the core of who we are. And who we are—Wayne and I—has never felt so diametrically opposed.

A few months ago, I came across the poem “Epiphany” by Ted Hughes from his collection, Birthday Letters, about a man who encounters a boy on the street, selling a fox. The man actually contemplates buying the fox, ruminates over how to care for it, how his wife might react, what the fox would bring to his family… In the end, he lets the fox go, but not without looking back at that fork in his life, wondering “what if.” And it seems like such an ordinary, innocuous story, until the end:

“If I had grasped that whatever comes with a fox

Is what tests a marriage and proves it a marriage—

I would not have failed the test. Would you have failed it?

But I failed. Our marriage had failed.”

That ending was a sucker-punch, and I literally gasped and cried at the last line—not because this is true for us in its entirety, but I can still relate to it on so many levels. How many times have we brought home our own “foxes”—becoming parents; bringing home another baby and yet another; making the transition to a one-income household; making the transition to a one-income household with me as the one at home, a woman with so much ambition and extroverted energy that sometimes I feel like I’m dying inside while I care for my children, even as my heart simultaneously overflows; quarantining together during a pandemic?? And each time, these trials test and (we hope) prove our marriage. I cried because I understand that tension, the strain, the trying so hard and still the regret of how opposite two people can be. There is no judgment when I read this poem, no “whoa, that will never be us” rosy invincibility of our younger selves—only empathy and heartbreak, because I understand the precariousness of a marriage meant to last forever.

On the day of our wedding, we had only an idea of what our vows meant. They were words that sounded honorable and right, and so with earnestness and sincerity and stars in our eyes, we uttered these champagne promises, not knowing the full weight they actually carried.

What did I know of commitment? Of forever? Of a covenant not yet tested? What do I know now, except that commitment is weighty, and forever is much longer than 12 ½ years.

And what do we do when the champagne has flattened? When the glitter has rubbed off? When your husband is giving off some serious roommate vibes with his overgrown, shaggy hair? When your wife is circling the cage, snarling and eyeing you with contempt because you didn’t break down the boxes for recycling?

Standing at the alter those 12 ½ years ago, bolstered by youthful invincibility, “forever” was an opportunity, never an oppression. It was young, contented love at its best. But did we know anything about love?

Maybe… we did have an inkling. As a belated gesture towards Valentine’s Day this year (a day that usually passes with zero fanfare around here), Wayne left a video on my computer desktop for me to find. In it he sings “Water Under the Bridge” by Jars of Clay, recalling that this was the same song he had played for me all those years ago when he asked me to marry him. It’s not your usual doe-eyed song of sweethearts, but even as two people who were about to embark on Forever, we knew, at least a sliver, of the effort it would take to get there. And now, it means so much more.

“I do not love you the way I did when we met.
There are secrets and arguments I haven't finished yet.
But it's only that grace has outlived our regret that we're still here.

So maybe we can stay, till the last drop of water flows under the bridge,
We can stay, till the last drop of water flows under the bridge.”

I cried then, too. And I realized that I chose a man who not only fought for me when we were young, contented lovers, but is still fighting for me, clad in all my surliness and the same hoodie sweatshirt I’ve been wearing for a year. And that, I should think, far outweighs all our very real differences that remain, that will probably be there forever.

Someone once told me, before I was married, that we often want to find someone we can go skiing with. We want the excitement, the adventure! But who we should actually marry is the person who, if all the lifts suddenly closed, we could spend the rest of the day with in the lodge. Well……. isn’t it funny that the lifts may currently be open but everything else is closed! And we have been spending days upon days (11 months’ worth of days!) together in this lodge.

A year into our marriage, I had the giddy wisdom to write that marriage was a reflection of God’s love for us and it was a way to hone us, to make us more like Him… and that’s still true 12 ½ years later as we continually lay aside our own rights (even if through gritted teeth) and reach over with grace, just as Jesus did for us on the cross. It will be true 12 ½ years more, if we make it that far, and another 12 ½ years and another. We don’t do it perfectly. Sometimes the hand I offer to Wayne during prayer is like a dead fish, but we fall on our knees together anyway, because if we make it, it is by God’s grace. If we make it, it is because of the grace we, in turn, give to one another. It is what tests a marriage and proves a marriage.

“And the years roll by, and you hold my hand, while the shadows stretch over the land.
Crumble and fall in my arms, and we'll struggle to hold on.
Waters they rise and they carry our hopes and dreams away, baby we can stay, stay.”

So here we are. Twelve and a half years into our marriage, 11 months and counting into lodge-life. Our marriage continues to be tested and refined by fire (if only because I keep setting everything aflame). But we’re still here. Still hopeful, when we can muster it. Still working. Just maybe less naïve than before. And our song, were I to adapt Taylor Swift’s “Lover” to meet us where we are today—less buoyant, though by the grace of God, intact and drawing from a growing depth—is: “I will go where you go… We will keep working to be this close… forever and ever.” It doesn’t have the same ring, but it’s a good place to be. I’m waiting for Taylor, maybe in 10 years, to start writing about seasoned, old-people love, tired love… tenacious love.

Momcation 2019: Bradley House, Folsom, CA

Bradley House in Folsom, CA

The idea germinated at Bible study of all places, about two years ago. "If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?" We all watched and listened as the ice breaker question bounced its way around the circle of women, landing momentarily ("the beach with a good book", "in bed all day", "trekking through Europe") before being batted back up and over to the next in line. When it landed on me, I offered up the first thought that came to mind, something about kayaking along the coast of Kauai (because of a failed attempt during our honeymoon due to a very seasick husband).

But even as the words left my mouth, they felt disingenuous. We had just welcomed Ryan into our lives, and I was struggling with this next level in our juggling act. (Still am!) The new school year had just started, which meant Wayne had abandoned me  gone back to work, and I was tasked each morning with getting four bodies fed, dressed, and out the door (which sounds so simple and straightforward... except I still have yet to master the learning curve). I had barely made it to the study on time, with the youngest two in tow (or maybe I was very late, which was probably more the case), and as I stood there, baby strapped to my body, rocking and bouncing to keep some semblance of a nap schedule while out and about, I kept thinking after my answer, "KAYAKING?? I absolutely do NOT want to go kayaking right now!" What I wanted to do was hand my baby over to the nursery workers and crawl into that dark space in the corner and take a nap. What I wanted was to be somewhere—ANYWHERE—that was quiet, and where I could be by myself.

And so my fantasy was born. That year, every time I dragged my tired body out of bed to nurse the baby, every time I wiped up one bodily fluid or another, every time I ran through the house—gathering jackets and snacks and children—to get anywhere semi-on time, I fantasized about this quiet place where no one needed me, and I could use the bathroom without little hands slipping me LEGO minifigures or picture books. 

Happily, when I confided in Wayne, he was so supportive in helping me actualize my getaway.(Cheaper than therapy.) And that's how I started taking (yearly?) momcations. Last year, I went to the most stunning bed and breakfast in Auburn, called Park Victorian. And this year—just this past summer—I went to The Bradley House in Folsom, CA.

I found the Bradley House by googling "cute bed and breakfast Sacramento area", and this place definitely was that. Built in 1859 in the historic area of Folsom, and then purchased and remodeled in 2015, this house retains its century-old charm but happily incorporates up-to-date amenities and comfort. Mike and Olivia, the owners and innkeepers (also new parents of a not-even-one-year-old and full-time employees of their other day jobs!) are warm and were so fun to talk to. He is your, you know, typical tattooed engineer, Swiss immigrant-turned-innkeeper. She is warm and boisterous and all-American. I think she would have wrapped me up in a bear hug if that weren't so inappropriate for an innkeeper to do. Instead, we chatted for almost an hour about kids, where we grew up, and their aspirations for their bed and breakfast.

During the first day, after I had leisurely finished my coffee out on the wraparound porch outside my room, I walked around the surrounding areas of Historic Folsom, where I was able to catch the tail end of a weekend farmer's market, and then poked around the many vintage and antique shops that line the main street, reveling in the fact that I was able to browse in these stores with lots and lots of small, breakable things! On the second morning, I went out for a run along the American River, pausing at whim to take in the scenery, unhurried in my brisk out-and-back. I ate out by myself and at odd times, on one occasion swapping out dinner for a loaf of really good bread and soft serve. I spent hours reading. I watched TV! (So this is "Tidying Up with Marie Kondo"!) I cleaned not a thing!

In one word, my weekend was self-indulgent, which I feel a twinge of guilt even just typing. But I suppose that this was the goal of my weekend—to simply enjoy some space for myself. Next year, perhaps I'll instill some sort of more structured time of planning and meditation, but for this past momcation, I'm thankful I was able to steal away and hunker down a bit before returning to the home front.

Here's my weekend in a pictorial nutshell:

Slipping Through My Fingers

This past summer, I got to rewatch one of my favorite live musicals: Mamma Mia! And since then, the soundtrack has been on constant rotation in our car. I love that Addie enjoys the music as much as I do, requesting her favorite songs and bobbing her head to the beat. The other passengers in our car seem indifferent, but Addie and I—we rock out: “Dancing Queen”, “Super Trouper”, “Take a Chance on Me”... One song that grabs me in particular is “Slipping Through My Fingers”, which describes so poignantly a mother’s bittersweet regret over her growing daughter. And as I mouth the words, I steal a glance in the rearview mirror and spy my own little girl who is slipping through my fingers.

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

Addie is currently three and is such a vibrant ball of sweetness and spunk. Dancing, twirling, singing, massive emotional meltdowns (over minuscule, incommensurate infractions), pink and purple, glitter and fairy wings, dinosaur costumes and rain boots, “Mommy, can I help?” and “Mommy, look at me!”

I have been trying to write about and capture my little girl for over a year now. But how do I fully portray her spirit and energy? Just when I have the words (and the time), she changes into another creature, seemingly before my eyes.

Slipping through my fingers…

What I want to remember is Addie’s big hair, how she sweats a lot and how her hair sticks to her face. How she smells of Johnson and Johnsons and oddly—up until recently—sometimes of cabbage. (I think it was the Miralax she had been on, because after we tapered it out of her diet, she smelled like a little girl should, which is not of cabbage.)

I want to remember, how at this age, she is so fiercely independent, often playing on her own for hours, and yet in an instant, can devolve into the baby that she emphatically says she is not, calling out to me and insisting that I carry her. “I do it! I do it!” is her constant refrain, and yet Heaven forbid if I go downstairs without giving her a lift, as well. Her desperate cries of “MOMMY!!!!” would lead one to assume that she was maimed at the top of the stairs and flames from a house fire were lapping at her heels.

Can I, please, just hold on to the little girl who, with clips askew in her big, puffy hair, brings me a box of Teddy Grahams, and then with hands clasped under her chin, looks up at me, sweetly smiles, and asks, “Please??” (Where did she learn that from anyway?) Though a “no”, no matter how gentle, is quick to reveal her true colors, and all prior sweetness melts along with her composure. Hands still clasped tightly under her chin, her angelic face is now twisted into a ruddy grimace, and we have to peel her off our legs while she demands louder and louder, “PLEASE! PLEASE!!” (So polite, she is.)

Can I hang on the little girl who likes to grab our faces and get up real close, little hands holding both sides of our faces, and whispers, “Hi.” Who, when I return to the car after making a quick porch drop-off at a friend’s house, will greet me with a big smile, “Welcome back, Mommy!” And who, like a bride in a lavish Chinese wedding, goes through at least three outfit changes in a day—I never know what Addie will be wearing when she returns to the room, shouting, “Surprise!”

I don’t know if I necessarily want to remember the afternoon she gleefully ripped up an entire library book during her supposed nap time, and then removed all the evidence, only to be given away by her guilt (or pride?) that compelled her to show me the garbage can, where she had expertly cleaned up after her crime.

I will, though, always hold onto the little girl who loves to run. Last year, when I was adjusting to life with a newborn as well as the demands of having an elementary schooler for the first time (which is a juggling act in itself), when my physical state was especially worn and my emotional well-being was constantly crumbling, my walks with Addie were bright spots in my otherwise frayed existence. Before the weather turned cold, we would walk to and from Caedmon’s school for drop-off and pick-up. Drop-off was always harried and frantic, with me running and pushing the barge that was our stroller, RyRy nestled under a pile of blankets and Addie hanging on tightly as she bounced along on the skateboard attachment on the back. Caedmon barely kept up on his scooter, but goshdarnit, we made it on time for school practically every day, even if I had to flag down the custodian to unlock the Kindergarten gate more times than I’d like to admit. I was “That Poor Mom”, and I lived up to every aspect of the self-imposed moniker. But it was the walks home that were often my favorite parts of the day. If we weren’t rushing off to any errands or hurrying to put Ry down for a nap, I would let Addie walk and run, pick up leaves, check the mailboxes. It is that moment that I want to bottle up, when Addie would ask, “Can I walk?”, and I would pause the stroller, and she would step down from the skateboard and be off—arms pumping, hair bouncing, neon sneakers, knitted poncho from my parents’ last trip to Peru, sometimes her pink footed pajamas peeking out from underneath (a veritable sight in the outfits she picks for herself), and the most contented smile on her face—racing down the sidewalk like the wind… on a completely breezeless day. Last year, at 2 ½, she was still an inefficient little runner, employing the heavy footfall of a toddler and exerting way more energy than should be required for the work actually put out. But those walks—then and now—are such bright gems in this mother’s trove of treasured moments.

And at the end of the day, when we tuck our kids in, it’s part of our bedtime routine that we spend some time in both kids’ beds. Before we installed the bunk bed, if I had been with Caedmon for more than five minutes, Addie would come scampering over, perch at the side of the mattress, and rasp in her smoker’s voice, “Mommy, come lay in Addie’s bed a wibbabit?” Caedmon and I used to engage in a lot more pillowtalk, before Addie moved in as his roommate and usurped my time and presence at bedtime. I’m thankful that he is so understanding… and so tired that he is asleep before Addie and I have finished singing her requested songs. Sometimes, instead of her songs, she simply asks, “Mommy, can we just talk?” And I realize with a small lump in my throat that this stage, my favorite, is already over with Caedmon. And one day—though thank goodness not now, but probably still sooner than I’d like—will be over with Addie, too.

Slipping through my fingers…

One night earlier this summer, when I was having a hard time sleeping, my mind wandered to this past year, as well as Addie’s upcoming third birthday, and all of a sudden, I was hit with the realization that her entire second year (a good chunk of my favorite stage of the little years) had coincided with My Year of Misery. And I panicked. Addie was SO fun at this stage, with her wobbly speech and earnest proclamations that mimicked her older brother’s. Had I been so focused on the baby and on myself that I missed out on this precious time with my baby girl?? I was so bothered that I almost—almost—woke Wayne up to share my reservations and regrets. Thankfully, I had the patience to wait until the (early) morning, and with his eyes barely cracked open, I pounced like the extrovert that I am, starved of an outlet: “Wayne! We should have waited another year to have Ryan! Because Addie! ADDIE!!! She was two! And now will be three! And I wasted this past year! I was too unhappy! Was I too unhappy? Did I fully enjoy her? Please tell me I didn’t miss out!!” (Be thankful that you are not married to me.)

Through slow and slogged speech, Wayne gave me his groggy reassurances, and of course he’s right, I didn’t “miss out”, but there is a legitimacy to those desperate feelings that I think every mother understands. These kids, who take so much out of me, have me simultaneously wishing for them to just hurry and grow up already and to stay exactly the same. Our babies are only babies for so long, and while much of the time, that is the indelible truth that gets me through the day, that is also the curse that has me frantically trying to jot down every milestone and memorable uttering, filling up my phone’s storage yet again with more pictures, and resolving at each new year to dust off my scrapbooking supplies and start creating my family albums again. (And then the reality of caring for these three kids who I’m trying to capture sets in, and my scrapbooking supplies are returned, once again, to the shelf.)

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time

Slipping through my fingers all the time

My little girl is changing before my eyes. I want so fiercely to hang on to her babyness, but of course I can’t. Even as I finish this piece, some of these moments have already become receding memories. But I’ll continue to write and do my best to capture the energy, the essence of my little girl—of all my kids—and temper the desperation that is just the natural side-effect of being a parent and watching our kids grow, develop, and flourish. 

It was so special taking Addie around my alma mater this past summer. 

It doesn't matter that we brought the kids to the Cove in La Jolla to see the seals and sea lions, Addie thought they were stinky and asked to leave almost right away. (insert eye-roll emoji)

Run, Addie, run!

Instead of napping, Addie made little beds for all her dolls and animals. Wayne thought it was adorable; I thought it was creepy, in a Heaven's Gate kind of way...

More nap time shenanigans... how many layers of clothing has she put on?

"Please??"

Helping me choose fabric at Hobby Lobby, though that's not what I would have picked for chair upholstery.

Addie loves our neighbor's Christmas decorations, and every time we play outside, I inevitably find her trespassing on their lawn, singing songs and dancing about. RyRy, though, looks like he's about to commit some serious vandalism on those candy canes. 

Our little bearded lady. How does she manage to eat like that?

Survivor: Ryan's First Birthday

There are certain things you are just not supposed to say. Like, “Ooh, that haircut pretty much turned you into a sheepdog.” Or, “Yes, you do look fat in that.” And, “I don’t like my baby.” The first two, I have never actually felt towards anyone, I promise (so you can stop feeling self-conscious right now), but that last confession… this is me, raising a quiet, sheepish hand.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my baby with the innate reflexive response of a mama bear who will throw her own body in front of a wayward bullet or scratch out the eyes of anyone who even thinks harm on him. But liking him has taken some time. Unlike what seems like most of the moms around me, I did not forge a bond with Ryan right away. Plagued with fatigue, the grief and guilt over ending Lucy’s life, and the loss of the tiny bit of temporarily regained freedom I had experienced just before Ryan was born—when Caedmon was 5 and Addie was at the much more independent age of almost-2—I just didn’t have it in me to appreciate this gift that God had given to us. While others were #soinlove with their babies (and rightly so!), I felt like a monster as I mechanically nursed him, changed his diapers, held him to me when he cried, and then checked my watch to see if he had turned 18 yet. Reading up on postpartum depression now, I recognize that I shared some of the symptoms, including bouts of explosive frustration and thoughts of “Ryan—all of them—are better off with a more competent mom”, though I’m not sure which are legitimate signs of a deeper illness and which are simply a result of a poor attitude. Because Ryan was not a particularly difficult baby; I just had a particularly sour heart. Thankfully, even the worst storms subside, and babies grow (and become easier as a result). It was 8 months before we had what I wrote in my journal as a “budding camaraderie”. 10 months before I could honestly say that I enjoyed him. And now, at 13 months? I no longer feel like I got roped into the worst babysitting gig ever. In fact, you could even say that I like him (most of the time), which considering our journey, is quite a development. But even more significant, I’m learning to be thankful for him.

Recently, I met up with two old friends who, after I shared (and complained) about my difficult year, related their journeys this past year with their babies—the ones with special needs and the ones they’ve lost due to multiple miscarriages—and all of a sudden, I felt like the biggest jerk in the world. But also the luckiest mama to have three beautiful, healthy babies who could have been dropped in our laps by storks, given the relative ease in their arrivals. Talk about a shift in perspective and gratitude. And so I’m thankful for Ryan, our pleasant, smiley, quiet baby who likes to hug us and his stuffed animals, can get past any obstacle to scurry up the stairs, and loves to wake before 5am to hang out with Mommy.

Ryan turned one earlier last month, and it was a day Wayne and I had looked forward to for a long time. We had joked that we should throw an Independence Day party, celebrating our freedom from the most challenging of the little years, but we thought that might be somewhat offensive to our children. So instead, we went with a Survivor theme, because that is exactly how we felt about RyRy’s first year—that we survived… by God’s grace and the skin of our teeth, we survived. Now for another 17 more years...

With little steam left after a whirlwind May, RyRy almost didn't have a party. The thought of putting together a huge celebration was just not in my bandwidth, but I also didn't want him to be that child who grows up and asks, "Where are the pictures from my first birthday party?"... only to be met with our guilty stares. And so less than a week before his birthday, I scrambled together an intimate and simple get-together of friends and family who know and love Ry and who were so essential in helping us survive this past year.

Truth be told, I have been aching to throw a Survivor-themed first birthday since Caedmon turned one, but for one reason or another, I never got to. Here, though, was my chance!

It was partially because I was tasked to cut out leaves for our upcoming VBS anyway, to make vines just like these, that I decided to go ahead with a party, Survivor-style. I figured I might as well put in the work once and get rewarded twice! And then thanks to my friend, Winnie, who pretty much runs a party supply warehouse disguised as a well-appointed home, I had access to this awesome grass skirt and other Survivor-y decorations, like faux tropical leaves and coconut tumblers (because that's exactly what survivors drink from on deserted islands).

Our menu for the day: kalua pig (that was SO easy to make in the slow cooker), sesame chicken strips from Teriyaki Time, a vinaigrette slaw, white rice, Hawaiian rolls, fruit skewers, and chocolate chip cookies with coconut and macadamia nuts. Ry's birthday cake was the chocolate cake I always make; this time, the toasted coconut not only tasted good, but it fit the theme perfectly! (In actuality, Survivors from the show usually starve or "feast" on plain rice porridge... We were pretty kind to our guests, in my opinion.)

What does one wear to a Survivor party? If we were sticklers to the theme, we would all wear close to nothing, but camo pants with a onesie works pretty well, too!

Our one activity for the day—what I called our "immunity challange"—was the same one we played at Addie's first birthday, in which we instructed guests to bring a non-food, non-toy item that would entice RyRy's attention. They were pitted against one another in heats, shaking their objects and trying to get Ry to crawl towards them and choose their object, thus advancing them to the next round until we had one winner, the "Ultimate Survivor"!

Though Auntie Fay didn't win the title of Ultimate Survivor, she gets points for Most Creative "Item"—Uncle Ed!

Here, Caedmon stands in for Aunt Sam with her item, the empty bubble bottle. 

And here Ry goes...

He questions the bubble bottle. Looks at Uncle Ed...

And he goes for the bubble bottle!

Caedmon celebrates with a victory dance!

Aunt Sam is our Ultimate Survivor! That immunity necklace looks good on her.

(Though, it was brought up to us later—by Steven, Sam's husband—that Sam's item, the bubble bottle, was technically a toy originally, so she should actually have been disqualified from the competition. I suppose she outwitted us...)

RyRy with my side of the family. (You can't fully tell, but Wayne and I are purposely dressed like Jeff Probst, the host of the show Survivor.)

Favors: more chocolate chip cookies, but wrapped in whatever tropical island paraphernalia I could find in my closet. Raffia works!

And because we were so busy (and because he's our third??), I forgot to take his one-year photo until a whole month later! But RyRy, know that you are loved and liked, and we are so, so thankful for you! Happy birthday, little boy!

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.