Parsimonious

When fall comes around, the California foothills behind my parents’ house become a deep golden hue, saturated with all of summer’s heat and fervor. The streets where I used to pedal my bike are littered with dropped foliage in crimson and rust. And my parents’ persimmon tree will start to bow with the growing weight of its orange orbs. That’s when my mother takes up her watch to ward off the squirrels who also take interest in her fruit.

Though the air is crisp, she is still sweating from her 5-mile hike along the foothills, so she’s in an old t-shirt two sizes too big that reads “Franklin High School A.V.I.D. Program,” a gem she unearthed from our donation pile. (“Why is, uh… your mom wearing my old clothes?” inquired my very weirded-out husband the first time she debuted her new threads.) On her feet are thick, white tube socks that crop out conspicuously from her chunky Reeboks, both clearance finds, the former an extra boon because “your father and I can share.” Her short hair is permed into tight ringlets that are more worth her money—“same money, more curl!”—and home-dyed a drugstore-auburn that will soon fade to an unexpected magenta. Her face is in a perpetual scowl—in either disapproval or from myopia because she can’t be bothered to find her glasses.

She is at once formidable and farcical. With broom handle in one hand, the other akimbo, she stands guard under her tree, lunging at and batting away the greedy, fiendish squirrels who have become her nemeses. But she’s also unflagging, and she stands sentinel until the persimmons ripen to a mellow sweetness, their waxy skin glinting in the sun.

When it’s harvest time, my parents reap the mother lode, ascending the ladder to reach the fruit up high, carefully twisting each persimmon off the tree to preserve their green leafy caps, filling buckets and boxes and bins. Bags of fresh persimmons are given to friends and family. The remainder—about half—gets turned into my mother’s famed dried persimmons. And that’s actually when the real work begins.

My mother painstakingly peels each persimmon and then cuts them into thick ring slices—no more than three, maybe four slices per fruit. She lines her Ronco food dehydrator and then every few hours, she must rotate the trays. One zip-top bag of dried persimmons takes at least two weeks to make. Her dried persimmons are arguably the best—thick and chewy, I have never tasted another dried persimmon like it.

I enjoy them so, that a few years ago, I shared them with a friend, who also liked them so much, I gave her the whole bag. When I called to tell my mom, I expected her to be flattered and pleased by the reception, but instead, she was perplexed.

“You gave a whole bag away?” she sputtered. “Do you know how much work that was to make?”

“I know, Mom, but my friend really liked your dried persimmons.”

“Is this a good friend? I think maybe only good friends can have persimmons. Maybe an okay friend not so much. If she’s a very good friend, then maybe you can give some, but not a whole bag!”

I couldn’t believe how miserly she was over dried fruit.

I have long relied on mnemonics to help me remember new words. Ebullient—overflowing with fervor and enthusiasm—is a bull rider with the biggest grin on his face. Strident—having a shrill or harsh sound—is like Trident gum, what you might offer someone who stridently screams in your face. And parsimonious—exceedingly frugal or stingy—was my mother’s attitude towards her prized persimmons. And she was parsimonious to a T.

We switched to another topic and then said goodbye. In the months afterwards, we debated over the persimmons periodically, until we just didn’t any more… though I carried a hard chip on my shoulder towards my mother’s ungenerosity.

The next year, when the air cooled, my mom stood sentinel again. Same t-shirt and tube socks—a pink poodle in our old gym clothes—fending off the same rascally squirrels. When harvest time came, my parents climbed up and down the ladder again. My mother peeled and sliced hundreds more persimmons and stood watch over her trays of puckering jewels. It was the same laborious process of making her bags of dried fruit, but this time her posture was different.

She came to me that year with seven bags of her dried persimmons, a veritable bounty.

“These are for you—and your friends if you like. You’re right; we should share.”

I took a deep breath and narrowed my eyes, feeling the resentment rise in me, and then did the thing a Chinese child must never do.

“No, thanks” I said, coolly. “I don’t want it.” Knowing my mother’s soft spot, I dug in my dagger as deep as I could: I turned down her offering of food.

That night and for many nights after, I laid in bed awake with a gnawing feeling. I had wanted her to know how heinous her previous actions had been. And I had succeeded, hadn’t I? But instead of satisfaction, I was left with an emptiness that only grows from the hoarding of resentment. And then I realized that as parsimonious as she had been about her persimmons, I was now even more parsimonious with my forgiveness, which is arguably way worse.

The next day, I called my mom.

“Okay, Mom, I’ll take a few bags of persimmons.”

I could hear the delight—and relief—in her voice.

“Oh, good! And please share them with your friends.”

I took the bags of persimmons, and I did give them to my friends. I wish I could say I was open-hearted towards my mother, and she was generous always from that point on, but we all take time to grow. We keep trying, though. Forbearance—ample patience—is another word I hold on to. I remember it because it’s like our parents, who aren’t perfect but continually move towards us even when we aren’t perfect either. And who, if you need it, will give you—and your friends—the very persimmons off their drying racks.

Letting Go of the Little Years

I have been waiting for this for 11 years—the start of the academic year in which all three kids are finally on one schedule, at one school. Up until this point, it has been diapers and snotty noses and up-all-nights and potty accidents and Thomas the Train. But I have made it, I have arrived. And from 8:20 in the morning to 2:40 in the afternoon, I am a FREE WOMAN! I have goals and aspirations and a whole house and 11 years’ worth of clutter to clean out and organize. I joined a new gym. I registered for a writing class at our community college. I’m starting to think about and make plans for my career again. This moment is a big deal.

And yet, on the night before the first day of school, when Wayne asked how I was feeling, I realized that I wasn’t as excited as I thought I’d be. No doubt, this marks a huge milestone. I know I’m gaining the much-longed-for freedom that moms with babies still tethered to their hips are giving me the stink-eye for, but it also means I’ve officially moved on to the next stage of parenting. It means no more babies, no more sticky toddlers—just sticky big kids, who aren’t as endearing. With all my children now school-aged, I’ve been purging baby books and toddler toys, and even gave away Caedmon’s once-beloved train set. (Goodbye, Thomas…)

In fact, I knew I was out of the baby stage of parenting when, visiting a friend, her poopy baby toddled towards me, and I tensed and held my breath. Previously, when we were both in the trenches together and elbow-deep in all kinds of bodily fluids, what was a poopy diaper between us? Now, though, her baby was Godzilla lurching towards me. And I knew definitively that I was no longer in the club. 

For the first time, my children—ages 11, 8, and 6—regularly walk to and from school all on their own. When they wake in the mornings, they simply head downstairs and read their books, and with Caedmon's help, they can even prepare their own simple breakfasts. Rare is the night we find them in our bed now, but when we do, we readily split the sea to enclose them in the protection they still come to us for, and I no longer mind the fist in the face, the starfish body positioning, the narrow strip of mattress that's now more than enough for me. Their growing independence is something I wholly celebrate, but how the heart aches just a little over my newfound freedom. Though I’d been looking forward to this stage for 11 years, 11 years is still a significant amount of time to be caring for and loving on tiny humans, and it’s a jolt to the system to move on.

I realize now that I had probably been anticipating this transition all summer. It explains why I’ve been so uncharacteristically insular, even jealous of our time as a family, with our kids. Normally the social butterfly, I subconsciously kept play dates to a minimum. Our summer calendar remained free of camps and classes, which was really a consequence of poor planning and procrastination on my part (those registration deadlines seem to always sneak up during the busiest times!), but one I later regarded as a blessing.

At the last minute, I even dis-enrolled our kids from their school’s summer program, foregoing the three hours each morning I would have had to myself, and instead, created activities that we could do together: writing projects, swim lessons, language instruction. (Showing them Peppa Pig in Cantonese counts as language instruction, right?) It was our happy little homeschool that I never knew I desired. I felt an overwhelming need to soak in as much concentrated time with my kids as possible, a desperation to hold on to the last dredges of their littleness, especially as the new school year loomed.

One day while on summer vacation in Portugal, while we were relaxing at the apartment and the kids were playing in the next room, a memory popped up on Wayne’s phone, and we settled in to watch this video montage of our children from five to six years ago, of a period that spanned the first couple years of Ry's life, when the kids were between the growing ages of 0 to 6: Caedmon, wedged alongside newborn Ry on his playmat, caught in a moment of curiosity, love, and awe for his new baby brother; Addie and Ry in their favorite dragon suits, beaming at the camera while Ry sports an impressive shiner on his left eye, a souvenir from one of his usual antics; Addie caught emerging from my closet, wearing at least 11 of my shirts that hung down to her feet, all layered colorfully, like a maypole ready for a summer festival. 

And then I started sobbing. “We don’t have any babies anymore…” is all I could eke out. Parenthood is lovely. And it’s devastating. And it makes us feel in ridiculous ways, so that even when you’re in the middle of Lisbon, on the most idyllic of family vacations, surrounded by charming, colorfully tiled buildings and cobbled streets, and your children’s laughter literally fills the flat, you can still be so overcome by an impending loss and nostalgia for what hasn’t even completely passed. I know I need to enjoy the present. But it’s only because I also know the present slips away like quicksilver.

Our kids right now are still so sweet and relatively little. Each start of the school year, though, I brace myself, wondering if this is the year it all changes. When Caedmon, now 11, will stop talking to us. If Addie, 8, will have any run-ins with Mean Girls. When Ry, 6, loses the last remnants of his sometimes still-present toddler-speech. (“Mommy, I like wake-upping early.”)

Today on this most typical of school days, after drop-off, I went to my workout. And then I made a stop at Target for school supplies, where I met up with a friend who is also a recent free-mom. We perused the aisles at a leisurely pace, even had time and energy to admire the home décor. At one point, we looked at each other and eyes gleaming, cackled, “We don’t have to be anywhere!!!” It was pretty great.

I remember not too long ago, when entering a store with my children was like an audition for Supermarket Sweep. I’d plop the kids into the cart, and once we crossed the threshold into the store, my mental timer would start, and we’d whiz through the aisles, one arm throwing items into our cart and the other reaching into my stocked bag, doling out treats at strategic intervals. One time—and I don’t know why I did this—I stopped to chat with a friend in the very Target aisles I was now leisurely shopping, and I unleashed the animal that was RyRy and let him down from the cart. (WHY??) I remember it must have been near the Fourth of July, because it wasn’t long before he was grabbing red-white-and-blue pinwheels and, scattering them like daisies, proceeded to roll back and forth on the carpet among his bed of posies. Even though I must have been flustered that day, wrangling my toddler and stuffing pinwheels back into their display, I now look back on that memory with only fondness. Those were the days…

And these are the days, too, I know. We’ll have a good year; I’ll love sharing in what they’re learning, discussing the same books I read as a kid, navigating friendships with them, watching them as they continue to recognize and maneuver the intricacies of life. I know it’ll be a good year for me too, as I get to focus more on, well, me again. But it still squeezes my heart to cross this threshold—every threshold. Friends across my circles are waving to their children as they drive off with new licenses, setting up college dorm rooms, attending bridal showers for their soon-to-be daughters-in-law. This letting go seems to only continue on a more towering scale. And I’m sending out a three-finger salute in the way of Katniss Everdeen to signal a shared gratitude and grief, a solidarity, to all the moms and dads who are letting go in all ways big and small.

It donned on me that even as I was going through these same life milestones myself, I never once looked back, never realized that with all the sweetness in my life, that there might have been any ounce of bittersweetness in my parents’ responses. And I suppose that’s the way it’s meant to be. Moving through life now—as a parent—is such a different experience, as we take on more and more of a supporting role, to allow our children to do their thing and shine. I know I’ll love each stage; I’m going to embrace it. And when it’s over and it’s time to move on to the next stage, I’m going to mourn it too. My heart contracts at these beautiful junctures and milestones in our children’s lives. But then it will expand again, as it always does. And continue to beat hard and strong for what is today and for what is to come.

One of my favorite captured moments...

They still love playing dragons together, just not in these suits anymore.

Addie having a field day in my closet

In Lisbon this summer, where I cried over our kids' waning little years, even as I wholly enjoyed what we have right now.

Garage Sale

This guy. Never ceases to surprise me with delight.

“Mommy, what is that thing that you do when you don’t want something anymore? Can we do it??”

I am working hard at my computer to meet a deadline, but he clambers onto my lap anyway and sticks his face in mine, commanding my attention. “Can we do it? You know, when we don’t want old toys. Can we do that thing?” () 

It takes me a bit to realize he’s referring to a GARAGE SALE. And I say, “Sure!” Because that’s what you say when you’re trying to buy some peace and quiet. And, “Uh, huh,” when he starts digging out bagged up toys and emptying boxes. And, “Okay,” when he says he’s going to the garage, and there’s just a lot of dragging and shuffling and commotion, but it’s not in my office so I’m very okay with it… until there is no more commotion at all. 

I decide I need to be somewhat responsible as a mother, so I head to the garage to investigate. And what I find when I open the door is not what I expect at all: my 5-year-old perched in a camping chair at the far end of our driveway, with his wares gathered in front of him and a bucket (to collect his earnings, I assume) to his left. 

“What are you doing, Ry?” 

“Just waiting!”

I can barely see him; that chair envelops him and emphasizes just how small he is. When I get closer, I see that he’s had the foresight to bring his sunglasses because it could be a long wait, even though he’s priced his products competitively at just “5$¢.” 

He gives me a big grin. Man, that kid is a riot! And I'm tickled that, at least for a brief bit, I was drawn out of my world, if reluctantly, to meet him in his, still brimming with wonder, possibility, gumption... so that when you want to "do that thing you do when you don't want something anymore," you do it with total commitment. 😛 How brilliant it is to be five!

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.

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.