Letting Go of the Little Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of my favorite captured moments...

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

Addie having a field day in my closet

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

Garage Sale

This guy. Never ceases to surprise me with delight.

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing, Ry?” 

“Just waiting!”

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

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

Survivor: Ryan's First Birthday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And here Ry goes...

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

And he goes for the bubble bottle!

Caedmon celebrates with a victory dance!

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

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

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

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

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