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.

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.)

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. 

"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).

The Heart of Tithing (and How Caedmon is a Pig)

Don't touch my strawberries!

The spring of 2004 was when I first learned about the heart of tithing. I had just graduated from college, and as a young professional recently moved home, this was a timely and powerful message.

The then-head pastor at the church I was attending (The River in San Jose) spent weeks on a sermon series in which he explained not just the necessity of tithing, but the gravity and holiness of the act. He exhorted us to give faithfully, because our monthly tithe is not just a commandment to follow, but it is communion and worship of our loving God. As an experiment, the tithing buckets by the door were whisked away, and instead, our time of tithing became incorporated into the service during the portion of worship through song. Low tables, alit with candles, were set up at various locations around the darkened auditorium, and we were invited to come and kneel before our God, bringing our humble offerings to His feet. (Much as how, perhaps, the ancient Israelites approached God's altar and offered their tithes—their tenths... minus the slaughtering of goats and rendering of fat.) It was intimate. It was so incredibly joyous. It was worship. And I grew so much more fully aware of God's goodness. Even after I moved out of my parents' home and on with my life, this experience has stayed with me.

Recently, I've been reminded of this truth and also given an added perspective on God's desire for our offerings, at the unlikely place of my dining table. 

Caedmon, like all littles, is so completely selfish and greedy. Given a bowl of strawberries, he will eat the entire thing without any awareness of those around him. Sometimes he even shows off, holding up a strawberry like a prized jewel. "Mama!" he chirps, turning his gem side to side as if to catch the light, flaunting his wealth. But if I so much as touch one of his precious morsels, he raises a loud ruckus, shaking his head and reaching for the stolen goods.

And so we've joined the chorus of baby-infested (I mean, -blessed) homes across the world. "Share," we croon and cajole. I give Caedmon his portion of strawberries and intentionally ask him to share with me. I give him as much as I know he can handle. I give to him in hopes that he will learn to give back on his own volition.

Isn't that like God and how He asks us for our first fruits?  God doesn't need my portion any more than I need strawberries from Caedmon, but I ask, because I am asking for Caedmon's good. I ask in order to condition his heart to love, to obey, to keep a loose grip on his things, to put me above his possessions... and I ask because I have another basketful of strawberries I bought just for him in the refrigerator, that I can't wait to give him.  But I must tend to his heart first. And so I keep asking. Afterall, I want him to give with a cheerful heart. 

He squawks. He usually just stuffs the fruit in his mouth before I can do anything about it and gives me a mischievous grin. Sometimes, he even opens wide his mouth to show me its contents, as if to say, "You want some? Here, come and get it!"

Tonight was another round of baby-bartering.

"Share, Caedmon." I asked him brightly. "Please." He stuffed the strawberry in his mouth and grinned.

"Caedmon, Mommy gave these to you. Can you give one to Mommy? It is kind and loving to share." Another strawberry flew into his mouth. 

"Look," I gestured to the bowl of strawberries on the table. "Mom has so many more strawberries to give you. I'm asking that you give just one."

At this, Caedmon picked up his last strawberry, and slowly brought it to my waiting mouth. "Awww," I gushed. My heart filled with warmth, and I swelled with pride. My boy was learning to love.

I brought my mouth closer to his offering, and just as I started to bite down, Caedmon yanked the strawberry back possessively so that what I got was just a sliver of fruit. He cackled and stuffed the rest of the morsel into his mouth. Tithe = 10%, right?

Yeah... we're working on it.

Giving In AND Being a Good Mom

We are on Day 6 (of 9) of our San Diego/LA trip, and while we're having a grand ol' time, Caedmon is surely feeling the strain of constant late nights and early mornings.  On Tuesday, I took him with me to meet with an old friend for lunch, and all of these late nights and early mornings manifested itself into one horribly whiny, restless, screaming toddler who could have been a poster child for birth control.  I think I spotted little horns sprouting from his head. 

It was definitely the worst experience I've had with him at a restaurant yet, and though I took him outside several times to discipline him (which usually works), it did nothing to quell his tantrums.  To rub salt into the wound, next to us were two tables practically brimming with highchair-aged children, all sitting prettily and obediently.  I was mortified. And I was frustrated that I didn't get to catch up with my friend very well at all.  I found myself explaining apologetically, "He's not always like this", which is really what moms with misbehaving children say to make themselves feel better.  There was no question about it, I was paying for her lunch; I felt so bad. 

Afterwards, I kept thinking about what transpired earlier that day. In the back of my mind and diaper bag had sat a guaranteed solution to Caedmon's tantrums—an old disconnected smartphone that we use as a video device. Caedmon loves videos (what toddler does not?), but I try to limit his screen time, because well, that's the Good Mom thing to do. A Good Mom feeds her children healthy, well-balanced meals without too many sugary snacks in between.  A Good Mom teaches obedience with firm yet gentle rebukes.  And a Good Mom most definitely limits screen time. A Good Mom doesn't sedate her child every time she needs him to behave, which isn't obedience at all but a state of comatosis.  And a Good Mom definitely wouldn't give her child the device as a reward for his ill-behavior.  And I want to be a Good Mom.  Still, I couldn't help but think that by sticking to my no-screen-time convictions, I had simply set us all up for failure.

Though I don't want to be an indulgent parent who creates a virtual monster, I also don't want to be so rigid that in training up my child, I miss the larger perspective that along with striving to be a Good Mom, I am also a wife, a friend, a sister.  Balancing and valuing these different roles is just as important as embracing my role as mother. Caedmon's problem was that he didn't know how to exercise self-control at the table, and he surely wasn't going to learn how in that moment while I was out with my friend, when he was already tired and cranky.  Perhaps I should have been more acute to signs of early meltdown, and considering the priority of meeting with a faraway friend I hadn't seen in years, offered the device as a reward for doing something good, anything good (and then kept a mental note to work extra hard on this obedience thing at home). 

Today, I had another lunch date with an old coworker and dear friend, and with my diaper bag slightly bulgier than usual, I was armed with a smarter and fuller arsenal.  And I wasn't afraid to use it.  BAM!  Out came the freeze-dried fruit chips *gasp* before lunch.  ZAP!  Graham cracker cookie bites are oh-so-yummy instead of the quesadilla ordered for lunch. POW!  Whining? Have some fruit snacks.  I was prepared to pull out the bazooka—the smartphone—when I realized I had accidentally left it behind (blast!), but thankfully, there was a bulldozer shoveling dirt RIGHT OUTSIDE THE WINDOW. I kid you not. It was like God sent me an angel in the form of a Cat construction vehicle.  

And so Caedmon was stuffed with sugary treats (more or less wholegrain and made with all-natural fruit juice, this defensive mommy insists on adding), but he was content, and I was too, because this friend and I were able to talk and reconnect and reminisce, which is salve for any soul.  And when we return from vacation, we'll work on table manners—apart from long-awaited reunions with friends and unassuming diners trying to enjoy their meals. Sugary snacks and Veggie Tales galore will not be a norm, but sometimes, I need to know when to give in a little, for my sake as well as his.  

Because, really, I'd go broke if I kept paying for lunch. 

How to Train Your Dragon

According to the Chinese zodiac, babies born in the year of the dragon are dynamic, powerful born leaders who, on the flip side, are also feisty, aggressive, irritable, stubborn, and insistent upon getting their way.  Such is the yin and yang of life, isn't it?  For every virtue, there is an equivalent vice, which is really just the virtue in its raw, unhoned form.  

True to his birth year, Caedmon is most definitely such a dragon.  And at 26 months, he is right on cue in reaching his terrible twos. This, coupled with three weeks in the care of overindulgent grandparents while I worked an abnormally full schedule, has resulted in Caedmon showing more of his vices than virtues.  He is, indeed, feisty, aggressive, irritable, stubborn, insistent upon getting his way, and may I add, volatile.  He is definitely in his unhoned form.  I think if he could breathe fire, he would.  

I understand that all toddlers test their limits, but Wayne and I are also recognizing that Caedmon seems especially strong-willed.  We recognize the traits—fierce independence, a tenacious spirit, stubborn resolve, and fearless abandon.  To our chagrin, we suspect that Caedmon is simply a reflection of our strongest attributes—Wayne’s stubbornness and my passionate nature.

So then my quest is really how to train my dragon, to discipline my child.

Of course, I've done my research.  I've talked with other moms.  And naturally, me being me, I've read books.  

I am encouraged by author and theologian John Piper who recently wrote a compelling piece on his blog, exhorting parents to teach their children obedience not simply because it's commendable, but because it's imperative to their eternal well-being.  Or Ted Tripp in Shepherding a Child’s Heart or Ginger Plowman in Don’t Make Me Count to Three who teach that we must tend to the hearts of our children, where the root of the undesired action lies... yes, to use the rod, but to do so responsibly and in constant conjunction with loving communication, a solid relational foundation, and regular review of the Word which maintains that our Father desires our obedience for our GOOD.  We are to discipline our children not merely to elicit behavior modification, but to foster true character growth.  I am not just convinced, I am convicted.  There is so much I want to teach Caedmon so that he grows in the way of the Lord. 

And so I'm girded with practical advice, Biblical references, and the best of intentions... I am ready to tame this beast.  Cue heroic music.  

But then Caedmon screams while I'm checking out a book at the library.  And I feel the disdainful looks of the other moms whose children are quietly flipping through The Rainbow Fish and Amelia Bedilia (or maybe these are looks of empathy, but I'm too self-conscious to notice).  He melts into a pool at my feet while I'm trying to get to the bathroom, so that I am now shuffling and dragging a wailing toddler behind me.  He clenches his fists while his face turns red, his tantrum reaching a new decibel—all because we turned off his Veggietales.

In one fiery bellow, Caedmon has set my well-meaning plans aflame, singeing my outward confidence and my baby hairs, but not my inner resolve.  I will press on, because I believe my efforts are significant… even though the “how” in the equation is still (quite) a bit elusive.

I am heartened by the small bit of progress we’ve seen recently.  In the two weeks that summer has begun, and I have been home with Caedmon exclusively, we have made significant headway in obedience-training.  And by “training” I am really referring to myself, because I am learning to set limits for a two-year-old, to be firm with my baby, how to teach what is right and wrong, and how to administer loving discipline when he falters.  (And how to keep a straight face when he, say, draws all over himself with markers or brings me a clump of Lucy’s poo.)  This is no small feat, and just last week, I was able to change Caedmon’s diaper without his throwing a tantrum!  Get this—I said firmly to him, “Caedmon, Mommy is going to change your diaper.  I do not want you to cry or whine.  If you do, you will get a spanking.  Understand?”  To which he nodded, “Yes.”  And… he took my hand and QUIETLY and HAPPILY walked to his room.  Whoa.  I was floored, and honestly, still am a little.

Small steps.  But I’ll take small steps if they’re headed in the right direction.

Training my dragon on the obstacle course.