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 in my youth, 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’. 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!

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?

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.)

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.

Addie's Birth Story

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

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mommy, go."

It finally happened last night.

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

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

My heart just about stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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