My Ripped Genes

A couple of weeks ago, my doctor called me and told me I’m going to die.  Well, maybe.  I might die.  I could die.  It’s possible. No, actually, it’s certain.  I’m going to die.

So are you, by the way.  If no one’s told you yet, I’m sorry to be the one, but knowledge is power, so they say.  So, now that you know, you’re in control.  But, you can’t change the fact that you’re going to die.  That is an absolute.  There are ways though, I’m learning for you to decrease your likelihood of dying young.  Like don’t pick up a heroin addiction, when given the choice, opt for the turkey burger, and don’t text and drive.

There are a slew of other things that increase your chances of living a longer life.  I cannot possibly list them all, but here are a few things to get you started:

Drink one cup of coffee every day, but no more than three.
Drink one glass of red wine every day, but no more than two, three if you’re a man (of course, men!)
Wear nothing less than SPF 30 and reapply midday.
Wear your seatbelt.
Drink water.
Get married.
Avoid stress.
If your marriage is stressful, get divorced.
If your divorce is stressful, drink, but not too much!  Refer to point 2.
Take an Epsom salts bath on occasion.
A multivitamin is good too.
Sleep.  Soundly.  For eight hours every night.
Meditate.
Exercise.
Eat a Mediterranean diet.  Omega-3’s.  Omega-3’s.  Omega-3’s.
Oh, and antioxidants.  Find some of those.  Those are good too.

Another good thing to do is to have someone examine your family history of cancer and then take a close look at your genetic code.

I did this recently, on a whim, and was surprised to discover that my code is broken.  I mean we’re all broken, right?  Really we are.  Everybody has some kind of damage to their DNA.  It’s part of life.  My DNA is broken in a very specific spot on the BRCA 1 gene.  They call this a mutation and my mutant gene happens to put me at a fairly scary risk of getting breast or ovarian cancer.  The lifetime risk for those of us with this gene mutation is as high as 87% for breast cancer and 50% for ovarian cancer.  I’m not great with numbers, but I got a little sweaty when I heard those. I prefer the single digits personally.  Anything much higher than ten and I have to reach for my calculator.  So, 87% basically sounded to me like I had cancer now or that if I didn’t have it today, I would likely have it tomorrow when I woke up.  87% sounded to me like I needed to start writing letters to my children.

But then, it didn’t.  Then, and I guess a psychologist might call this the “denial phase,” it started to sound like fear propaganda.  My neighbors have signs in their yard that say, “Science is real,” but is it really real?  I mean for real, real?  And even if it is, what about that 13%?  That lucky 13%?  That could be me!  Knowledge is power they say, but they also say ignorance is bliss and I prefer to hike in the woods rather than stay back just in case there happens to be a bear.  That’s just no way to live.  I wish I’d never taken that stupid test.  I could be blissfully watching Season 2 of Shameless right now, rather than scanning the internet for cancer sites.

But alas, I do scan for cancer sites.  It’s become a new hobby of mine and I’m getting quite an education.  It turns out the chances of me happening upon a cancer bear in the woods ARE in fact 87%, and not just like a cute little cub, but a big, hungry bear that will eat me fast—a triple negative bear to be exact.  And that 50% for ovarian cancer?  Well, that’s a bear that I likely won’t see until my neck is in his jaw.

So, these are things I think about a lot lately, and truth be told, they’ve got me a little worked up.  Try avoiding stress and sleeping that sound eight hours of sleep at night after someone tells you you have a time bomb strapped to your chest AND your pelvis and it’s any man’s guess when they’re going to go off.

And the more people I talk to, the more I begin to understand that cancer is a very real thing.  And those who have not died from it, have suffered greatly from it, including another woman named Jill whom I met last weekend at a support group for people who have this gene mutation.

Jill has three boys (sound familiar?).  She got breast cancer when her youngest was a baby.  It was so hard.  I could see it in her face and hear it in her voice.  She wished she had had the knowledge I have now.  Another woman had had breast cancer three times.  She was so hurt and angry.  She sat next to me and her pain was hot.  It filled the room.  Yet another, older woman shared her grief.  Breast cancer is even harder when you’re older, she said, and you already have trouble doing so many things due to age.  She showed me her scars without shame, and then she smiled at me.  The smile of a woman who’s still alive to tell her story.

My Aunt Kathy was not so lucky.  My Aunt Kathy, my dad’s little sister, was just 36 when she died.  Her breast cancer was rare and aggressive.  By the time she found the lump and they went in for the mastectomy, the cancer was already stage 4.  My cousins, her children, were four and seven.  I can still see my cousin Andrew kneeling over her at the wake, not wanting to leave her side.  I was ten.  I don’t remember much more than that.  I just remember that she was beautiful and young and so, so beloved.

So, the thing is it is absolutely 100% certain that I’m going to die.  Eventually.  But, maybe, if this science stuff really is real and I continue to wear my seatbelt, eat salmon regularly and have my breasts and ovaries removed, maybe I can put off death for a few more decades.  There’s no guarantee.  I could get bit by the wrong mosquito or get on the wrong plane or even walk under the wrong icy tree branch at the exact moment that the weight just gets too heavy for it to bare.

But what are the odds of those things happening?  It’s just not realistic for me to try and prevent everything that could cause my untimely death, but maybe it is realistic for me to remove my high risk of developing breast and/or ovarian cancer.  Maybe I’ve been given a lifeline that so many others wish they had had before it’s breathing down my neck, before my neck is in its jaw, before I feel the pain that comes from something that’s over way too soon.

And so I’m worried, yes, and still pretty shocked and thrown and adjusting to this new stuff I know, but I’m also grateful, grateful for the chance to consider cancer before it considers me.
And grateful for all the cancer survivors and previvors who share their stories.  I may not be great with numbers, but their stories resonate with me and every story I hear or read is gradually woven into me in a way that may shape or change my own storyline, perhaps even extend it by a few extra chapters, which could be the best chapters, written with an extra careful hand that realizes now just how delicate the thin pages really are.

The Play-By-Play

I always get a full description of the daily events from Charlie when I go into wipe him...still...at six years old.

Here's what today's report was:

"So, Momma, first I pooped the Himalayas and then I had diarrhea and then I had a bunch of little poopies.  I did a courtesy flush because the Himalayas were really stinky and I did not like the smell of that.  First, it was like one big poop and those were the Himalayas and then I had like a bunch of small poopies.  Now my legs are asleep."

Your welcome, Reading Audience.

Sleep Training Gideon...still

Gideon is still, at 2.5, a terrible sleeper.  We can come up with all sorts of reasons why.  We can blame him, we can blame ourselves, we can blame it on his tummy troubles, his ear infections, the move, the rain.  Whatever the cause, I have needed a recent reminder that I am in charge.  It is hard to say no to my children, to disappoint them, to listen to them whine and complain and kick and scream when they can't get what they want, but I am their mom and that is my job.  To draw the hard line and stand firmly behind it.

It is not cruel to draw the hard line.  It is necessary and loving.  And I am the one who needs to do it. So I pray for strength.  "Be tough, Jill," my dad would tell me when I was little.  "Be tough, Jill," I whisper to myself to this day.  Or as my sister-in-law Charlotte would say, "Sometimes, you gotta put on your big girl pants."  I tell myself that quite often too and I always whisper it in Charlotte's Kentucky accent for emphasis.  It works.

So, we've let the sleep issue slide for a long time, through a year of David working out of town, through an adjustment to a major move to Chicago, through travel and sickness and everything else that makes it hard to add one more fight to our plate.  But now, the dust is settling and I can see with clear eyes what's going on.  Gideon is old enough to sleep on his own.  It's a life skill he needs to have.  We are in charge of teaching him that.  And it's time.

But there's another element at play that complicates things--he is my last baby.  So, when I lay with him and he grabs both of my hands in his, when I lay with him and he insists that I wrap one arm around him, when I lay with him and he occasionally climbs over to my pillow to press his face onto mine--well, why on earth would I want to put a stop to all that?

Because it's not about me.  I will have to take my snuggles where I can get them during the day.  Gideon needs to learn to sleep on his own.

So, last night, we talked about it--man to man.  I told him I would lay with him for a few minutes and then I was going to sit in his rocking chair.  The last time I tried this, a few months ago, he would just hop out of bed and come over to the rocking chair.  I had to keep putting him back in bed.  Eventually I had to leave the room and put a baby gate up at his door.  He cried for three hours.  I pulled him into bed with me, exhausted.

But, last night, he stayed in bed.  I read multiple chapters of my book by flashlight while he chatted quietly to himself.  I continued to remind him to lay his head down, close his eyes, and get quiet--and eventually he did.  He fell asleep without me beside him in less than thirty minutes.  8:30 and I could watch a show on the couch with David!  Until I realized David was snoring beside Finny in his bed while both Finny and Charlie were wide awake and reading to themselves.  You can't win em all.

The next miracle came at 11 p.m.  Gideon got up and came up to our room.  I didn't grab him and put him in bed with us in a tired stupor.  I got up.  Told him he has to sleep in his room.  I brought him downstairs, tucked him back in and left.  I didn't lay down next to him and he didn't cry.  He went back to sleep.  On.  His.  Own.  Again!

And then, he slept through the night.  It's 6:30 a.m. while I type this and he's still asleep.  Miracle.

And I realize, if Gideon sleeps by himself, we all win.  Gideon learns a valuable life skill, David and I get uninterrupted sleep, and this morning we all get the big, happy snuggles that come from missing each other, that come from a little time spent apart.

He is my last baby, but just like the others, I will still need to raise him up and gradually let him go.  Without sadness, but with pride instead at the independent individual he will become.

A Letter to My Boys About Our Values

Dear Boys,

Last night your dad and I fell asleep on the couch trying to stay up to see the results of our 2016 presidential election.  This is the first election where you've been so aware of what is going on.  You've seen the faces both real and cartoon of Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton plastered all over the TV and magazine covers for months.  You've listened carefully and watched us carefully to try and understand where we stand, why we stand there, and where that leaves you.  There is so much you don't understand and won't understand for years and years.  And there is a lot we were unable to explain to you, so unfortunately, due to my own inadequacies, I often reduced it to "Donald Trump is a bad guy.  We don't like him."

But now he's your president.  And that position carries with it high esteem.  He is someone you should respect and look up to.  He is the leader of our country and the keeper of our country's values.

But I told you he was a bad guy, and so that must seem a little scary to you.  I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have scared you like that, and I wouldn't have scared you like that had I thought for one moment that it was possible that he would be elected president.  To you, a bad guy should be taken out with nerf bullets, captured, arrested, locked up, not standing before you in a position of power and esteem.  How confusing this all must be to you at eight and five!

But you will move on.  Your day will fill with kickball games and farts, running and playing and climbing and laughing.  Your cartoon watching won't be interrupted by political commercials anymore and you will move on.  So will we.

But there is something I want you to know about our values because our values are what we put on the line here during this election.  And these are values that we share as a family, Mommy and Daddy, Grandmas and Grandpas, regardless of how we voted or how it all turned out.

Love one another.  Not-- Love those who are just like you.  Love one another.  Regardless of skin color, nationality, gender, race, sexual preference, ability level or political standing--love one another.  It is not loving to stereotype entire groups of people based on their religious backgrounds or their skin color.  It is not loving to treat women as sexual objects to be taken and groped.  It is not loving to pick on anyone or leave anyone out.  And if you hear someone who is doing that, reject IT.  But not THEM.

And that is the mistake I made with you during this election.  Do not reject President Trump, but if he espouses hateful speech and discrimination, reject THAT.

It is hard for me to accept the results of this election because I have not seen a man who represents me and my values.  I have not seen a man who respects me or values me.  I have not seen a man of wisdom, kindness and humility--three of the characteristics I value most in a leader.  I have seen only a narcissist.  But now he stands before me as president-elect, chosen without a doubt by a majority of my countrymen as the man they want to lead us, represent us, fight for us.  It makes me feel incredibly disconnected from my own people.  It makes me feel like I missed something.

And maybe I did.

So, I go back to that core value.  Love one another, which also means, love Donald Trump.  Love him.  Don't love his speech if it's filled with intolerance and misogyny.  But always Love him.

This morning when I didn't know what to say, I told you to pray for him.  And Charlie when you came down for breakfast and you told us,"While I was going to the bathroom, I prayed that Donald Trump would say nice things,"--that was perfect.

And that will be my prayer now too:

Lord, please help President Trump to say nice things.  My children are listening.  Let them hear love. And Lord, please help me to say nice things.  My children are listening.  Let them hear love. And Lord, please help my children to say nice things.  Let them respect their elders and show kindness to all.  But Lord, if they hear racism, sexism, and discrimination, help them to put down their nerf guns and fight with their words and their voices.

Grant them the serenity to accept the things they cannot change,
The strength to change the things they can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Amen.

Love,
Mommy

276 Feet High

I rarely blog anymore.  Moving back to Cincinnati coincided with having Gideon, and a year later losing David to a weekly commute to Chicago.  In the past two years, life happened big and fast and moments where uninterrupted time and mental energy occurred simultaneously have been merely fleeting thought bubbles in my head as my arms sit elbow deep in dishwater, moments before someone needs to be wiped or sent to his room or held again, just because.

The days often loom before me busy and scattered and full of picking up and putting away.  They end before I know it in a heap of exhaustion which has become--"Read to yourselves tonight, boys" as I collapse in Gideon's bed.  Whatever remains to be done will be faced with a sigh in the morning, the dishes or the laundry exactly where I left them--unfinished.

It's been a full and hard two years, filled with wonderful, joyous, amazing things--new baby, new kitchen, new job, new friends, new life taking place in the exact same space where the old one left off.  A good, full, wonderful life where mothering has become the fullest of the full-time jobs and writing has become something I once did.  Sometimes I fall asleep drafting a page in my head, but rarely do I find the time and energy to actually type it out.  So, now I find myself at 4:30 a.m., days away from leaving, trying to capture two years in two pages before everyone wakes up and the day rockets into chaos.

I doubt most people think of their lives in two-year chapters, but that has come to be a norm for me.  Two years here, two years there, two years back again, and now how many years gone again?  That's the question.  Is Chicago a brief stop, another chapter which will turn into another city, another life?  Or is Chicago a lasting destination?  A place, a community, a neighborhood where our family tree will grow roots that spread and drink deep?

People ask me, "Will you be back?  Is this forever?"

I wonder if anyone can see my smile inside when my shoulders shrug, "I don't know."

I recognized the very same smile last night when I sat beside Finny in the dark, 276 feet high.  We were strapped into the Kings Island Drop Tower at the end of a full day, his first day standing just barely 48 inches tall with shoes on riding roller coasters.

I couldn't see him behind the shoulder harness.  I didn't know his eyes were closed.  Mine were open and I drank it in--the view, the lights, the unknown.  I knew we would drop far and fast, but I didn't know when and I think that was strangely my favorite part.  The not knowing.  When we did finally drop, it was terrifying and thrilling and so fast and over so soon.  But as we walked away holding hands, we were so proud of ourselves, of each other, for being so brave, for taking a leap and trusting that we would land safely at the end.

People also ask me if I'm excited.  I tell them that's not the word I would use to describe it.  But maybe it sort of is.  I'm at the top of the Drop Tower, looking out at my life, my home, my Cincinnati, and I can see so many things sparkling around me. The memories that I thought would continue to grow and stretch and evolve right here on this piece of earth.  My children live in a neighborhood where no less than a gazillion kids are out playing baseball, catching fireflies, riding scooters, running through sprinklers, eating Popsicles, and swinging high on the swingset we built just two short years ago in our backyard.  They gather all of their basement instruments and start a band on the back patio.  They sell lemonade and show off their missing teeth and they fight with and love each other all at the same time.

And it's not just the children being raised here, it's their very grown-up looking parents too.  The parents who drink beer beside their baby monitors in the street.  The parents who light fireworks, who giggle all day over poop in the road, the parents who are trying so hard to be responsible adults when very often they just want to dress up and drink too much whiskey and maybe even smoke a cigarette here and there.

Sparkling brightly around me is the bus stop, the driveway, the red plastic cars zooming up and down the sidewalk.  Sparkling brightly around me is that initially suffocating cul-de-sac that became the biggest home we've ever lived in--no walls, no ceilings, just one big yard filled with abandoned bike helmets and mole trails.

Everything looks shiny when you're 276 feet high, in the dark, and preparing to drop.  From that vantage point, you can no longer see what's in the dark spots--any conflict, sadness, boredom, or grief sits in shadows.  You can only see the beauty of the lights.  You can only feel air fill your lungs as your feet dangle below you, wondering what, what, what will the ground feel like when you fall and land in Western Springs, Illinois?  And could it ever possibly be as brilliant as the earth that held you up, that pulled you in, that landed you right here?

So, am I excited?  Yes.  The way you are when you know that very soon, very, very soon you're going to fall far and fast and finally touch the earth again.  But instead of nodding my head, I gulp and sigh because the thrill of the fall means a terrible goodbye to this very moment when everything around me seems so shiny, bright and beautiful, and there's part of me that will just always want to stay, just stay right where I am just a little bit longer before I unstrap my harness and follow my feet to the next ride.

My Day Off

The two of us sat on a hospital bed for three hours watching Monsters University, snuggling up while he played Monkey Lunchbox on my iPhone, talking about how brave he was.

It was my day off.  I was supposed to be a lady of leisure, a girl about the town, a free agent.  Instead I had a quick shop at HomeGoods, a bite to eat and then a long visit to the Children's Hospital ER with Charlie, my five-year-old bundle of joy and cuteness and all that is right and good in this world.

Of course, as we do, I grumbled about my missed opportunity for a day off.  I had so many unimportant things to be doing that I wasn't getting a chance to do, like make a return to Gap, wander aimlessly across the vast expanse of the World Wide Web, check out the shoes at Nordstrom Rack.

Instead I got to lay down next to Charlie and watch him spell words on Monkey Lunchbox. The thing is, I could do this everyday if I wanted to, lay down with him on the couch and watch him play games on the iPad, but that sounds incredibly boring and somewhat irresponsible considering all the business I have to tend to--the laundry, the dishes, the organizing, the email responding, the calendar planning.  

But sometimes God has different plans for us.  You think you need a day off, He seemed to be saying this past Sunday, but what you really need is a day to be present.

Your important business, your me-time, there will plenty of time for that later but right now, in this moment, all you need to do is stroke his hair, assure him that he's safe, care for his broken wound, and watch as his big teeth grin up at you beneath the freckles dancing around on his nose.

New Year's Eve Sleep training follow-up

He did it!  He fell asleep!  He just stopped crying.  Just like that!

After I went in after 2 hours (3 would be cruel) and sat in his rocking chair.

See you again at 12:45, buddy and 1:45 and 2:45...

Sleep Training Gideon--Take 10

I'm writing this as I listen to him cry next door.  It's torture, so why am I doing it? Because waking every hour of the night is a worse kind of torture. I don't really expect it to work.  My mom told me once about the power of positive thinking--"Imagine yourself passing the test and you will."  I've always struggled with that concept.  I'd rather be pleasantly surprised. I'd rather think there's not a chance in hell and then cross the finish line in a heap of glory.  

I've talked to a thousand people about Gideon's sleep problems.  I've read lots of web pages and at least three books.  I even called a so-called Sleep Expert to have a consulation.  Today I took Gideon to the doctor even though I knew full-well he didn't have an ear infection.  I needed a pat on the back, a "Go ahead, you can do this!"

I told her we had let him cry for three hours before.  She said that was too long.  I felt like shit.  

Two hours she said was the max she'd let him cry.  I'm 99% positive he'll cry for the full two hours tonight.  I'm 99% sure we'll be right back where we started from.  I'm not sure why I'm doing this when  I know it's in vain.  Maybe because of that 1% of me that really, really hopes it's not.  Maybe that 1% is bold and beautiful as it shouts to my soul, "Ferber is right!  He makes perfect sense! Break the sleep association.  You're not just doing it for you; you're doing it for him.  Sleep is a gift.  You're teaching him to sleep."

But I know this is what will happen:  After two hours, I'll go in there.  I'll sit in his rocking chair and he'll lay down and go to sleep.  It'll feel like relief until 12:45 when he's up again and notices I'm no longer in the rocking chair.  Then he'll be standing there again, "Na, Na, Na, Na, Na!!!"

Then, he'll be up again at 1:45, 2:45, 3:45, 4:45.  The Ferber people will call me a coward and a failure.  The Co-sleep camp will call me a heartless bitch.

The timer just went off.  I just went in again to say, "I love you.  Good night."  Ferber says to keep doing that until he settles down.  I don't get it.  I think it just fires him up more.  He.  Is.  Pissed.  

On the other hand, if I just let him cry for three hours, I'm a monster...and a quitter, depending on who you talk to.

You'd think by this point, child three, I would've realized that everyone has their own strong opinions about parenting and really, I just need to follow my own instincts.  But you'd also think by child three that I'd know how to put a child to bed without a complete shit show.  I've learned nothing from this whole parenting venture except that it's hard to retain anything you learn when you're running on five broken hours of sleep.

I remember wondering with Finny how he would ever get potty trained.  How would a child who has been pooping in his pants his whole life, suddenly decide he'd rather do it on the potty? And bike riding...how would they suddenly just take off and go?

Now Gideon, Gideon who's never been a great sleeper, but who used to sleep a whole lot better than this, how will he ever learn to put himself to sleep again? Maybe I should read the book to him.  Get him on board with Ferber's logic.  It makes a lot of sense, Gideon.  I just need to train you to put yourself to sleep.  You just need to learn to sleep without me there.  If you are simultaneously developing trust issues and a general sense of abandonment, I hope you'll just forget all that by the time you're eight.

So, it's a different kind of countdown this year.  It's not a 5-4-3-2-1 at midnight.  It's more of a 5-4-3-2-1 every ten minutes on my phone timer.  Then I go in, tell him I love him and he screams bloody murder at me.  I'm pretty sure if he was a gorilla, he'd throw a ball of feces at my head. Thank God he's in a onesie.

A Letter to Gideon at One Year Old

Dear Gideon,

Your letters will be shorter and your blog posts and pictures will be fewer, but that doesn't mean you are any less loved.

All it means, is that instead of getting the camera out, I'm just adoring you longer.  Instead of writing everything down, I'm snuggling up tighter.  The moments of the day are full right now and so often you play contentedly on the floor by yourself or wander from room to room exploring your world on your own.  You are shuffled from car seat to stroller to car seat to shopping cart countless times a day because you were born into this busy family with busy brothers and life is moving too fast to sit down and play pat-a-cake.

Or is it?

A few nights ago, I was giving you a bath, one of the items on the get everyone ready for bed to-do list.  You were washed and clean and I reached over to drain the water so that we could move on to the pjs, the bottle, the bedtime stories, and then repeat the same for your brothers before I could finally collapse in a heap on the couch with whatever treat I felt I deserved that night--ice cream? chips? wine?

But I stopped short.  You were having so much fun and I didn't want you to have to get out and I didn't want to have to stop watching you.  So I sat back on the toilet beside the tub and I watched you.  You love the way the plastic yellow cup sounds when banged against the side of the tub.  You love the splash of your little hands in the water--the feeling, the sound, the way little drops of water fly up into your face.  You love to occasionally dunk your whole head forward and take a little face dip, a little sip of the water.  You get up on your knees because you can now and you crawl around in there and sometimes that's all you do, just crawl and flip, sit and laugh and splash and smile at me.

Every time I pick you up, I am reminded that I should do it more often.  You snuggle your dark hair into my shoulder and sometimes you try to bite me.  You are so sweet I want to eat you up too.

I will not be sad as you grow up because every new thing you do is so much fun, but I hope I do have some memory of the way your face feels warm on my neck, the way you climb me with your legs when you don't want me to put you down and the way the feeling of bath water through your fingertips was the absolute highlight of your world...and mine.

I love you.

Love,

Mommy

Zookeepers in Ferraris

"For crying out loud!"

They say it every time they see a Volkswagon, something they picked up from the boys in the neighborhood.

They're constantly on the hunt for Ferraris, Porsches, and Lamborginis.  If it's a bright color, they almost always think they've spotted something magnificent.

A red car in the Panera parking lot..."Mommy, look!  A Ferrari!"

"That's a Kia Forte, Finny."

"Well, it looked like a Ferrari..."

At the bus stop last week..."A Porsche!  A Porsche!"

"Ford Taurus, Finn."

"Oh."

And the one time they actually did see a red Ferrari zooming down Kenwood Road?

"That's it.  Now we're famous!"  Famous just because they saw it.  Next stop:  Jimmy Kimmel.

Often times, the car is a stressful place for a momma with three kids or any kids really.  Finny is shouting at me from the backseat and I can't hear a word he's saying.  Charlie is talking incessantly and expecting validation for every last word he utters.  "Wendy's!  Mommy, Wendy's!  Can we go there?"

I've given up on trying to keep Gideon awake until we get home so he can get a "proper" nap.  And if we have to drive anywhere farther than 20 minutes, I have to have a full mug of coffee on hand, so that I don't join him.

I've daydreamed about owning a Limo.  Press a button, voila!  Privacy glass.  Then they could drive themselves crazy while I zone out to my music.  Then we'd certainly be on the fast track to Kimmel.  Limo drivers...soooo famous.

But yesterday morning, as we settled in for a 30 minute commute to West Chester for a doctor's appointment, I found some kind of magic Zen in my coffee mug and I actually found myself thoroughly entertained by the constant chatter.

"Mommy!  Mommy!  Look!  A guy is getting pulled over by a police officer and he's in handcuffs!  I hate police officers.  I never wanna be one when I grow up."

"Police officers?  No, Finn.  Police officers are good guys.  They're here to protect us.  That man was probably doing a very bad thing and that police officer is protecting us from him."

"Oh, I just thought police officers were annoying because they just pull people over all the time."

"No, no honey.  They're trying to protect us.  They're the good guys."

And then Charlie chimes in in his deep Charlie voice, Captain RandomPants:  "All right.  That's it.  I'm just gonna be a zookeeper when I grow up."

"Me too," says Finn.

And I smile and hold back a chuckle because there you have it, Zookeepers.  Of course.  A couple of zookeepers cruising around in Ferraris.  Sooo famous.

An ache in my belly

I put the baby bathtub away yesterday.  My breast pump went in the "donate" pile a few weeks ago.  The playmat, the bumbo seat, the boppy pillow, the swing, the bouncy chair all went in the storage section of the basement.  He's too active, too mobile to sit still, to lay around and play at dangly things hanging above him.  I think I'm supposed to be sad to put these things away, like a last baby mourning thing, but I'm not.  I like getting rid of the "stuff".  The "stuff" stresses me out.  There's more room in the bathroom now without the tub being shifted around.  And breastfeeding, while lovely and valuable in so many ways, is not something I cling to nostalgically.

There are too many things I love about right now to be sad about what we're moving on from.  When I lay him down to change his diaper, he immediately throws his hands over his eyes and shows me his big toothy grin when he pulls them away.  Peek-a-boo--soooo much fun.  He claps at everything--toys, people, the fact that his heels make a fun pounding sound when he kicks the hardwood floor.  And he's not much of a snuggler, but he will press his forehead against my face and close his eyes, he will cry "Na, Na, Na" when he's looking for me, and he will swat my face and laugh when I sing him Baby Beluga before bed.

I do get a little ache in my belly though when I think about lunch time, when I think about the 10 a.m.story hour when we would snuggle up with books and a blanket and read together on the couch.  That is something I will miss this year.  The bathtub can happily find a new home, I still have my Gideon to snuggle and play with, but come lunch time, Charlie and I will no doubt be lonely for our Finny this fall.  He will be chattering away with his friends in the school cafeteria, but we will sit around the kitchen table missing his constant silliness.  "Sit down and eat, Finny!"  I won't miss yelling that every 4 minutes, but I will miss his little face full of mischief and the things he would reveal to me as we sat across the table from each other chomping our grilled ham and cheese.  It's not the more room in the house that gives me pause; it's the more room in the day that makes me ache.  He says he's more excited to start first grade than he is for his birthday, and that delights me to no end, but I will miss wiping the peanut butter off his face.  It's a soft face and I love to hold it in my hands.

The Fifteen Minute Blog

I haven't posted a blog post since January.  Because...I'm too busy, too tired, too distracted by everything/everyone else.  I've written things on occasion but never posted them because they weren't "finished."  I'm sad about it all the time.  Because I have a terrible memory and know that I will forget.  Because I take pictures but don't print them or organize them.  Because we have lost home videos in computer switches and general lack of understanding how the software works, what's compatible and indecision over where we should save them that won't soon be outdated or disappear.

I know one thing for sure:  This time is fleeting and precious.  I know another thing for sure:  I am exhausted--physically, mentally, emotionally.

I need to forgive myself for not getting it all done, for not having everything in its place, for losing my sunglasses, my phone, the overdue library book.  We all do.

Since THIS IS HARD, since this is WONDERFUL, since I can't figure out how to find a quiet, uninterrupted moment to capture it all, I am going to try this--the fifteen minute blog.  Whatever I can capture in fifteen minutes I will write down and record.  It won't be long and it may not end with closure, but I will take the picture, snap if fast and put it here.  And hopefully, God willing, it will remain in a format that my children can still find and read some day.  Done.  Gideon is crying and I want to see his little face and all his big new teeth.

And Suddenly

And suddenly, he grabs for me, reaches out with his arms and his soft hands and wraps them around my arm, my rough hand that is trying to change his diaper and he won’t let me go; he just opens his mouth wide, smiles with his eyes, his tongue, sticks his feet in the air.  Suddenly, he loves me with every part of him and he can’t believe I’m there, again; I came back to him just as he hoped I would-- his mommy.  He will never remember this moment, and it’s likely I won’t either unless I write it down, unless I capture it for us both—this morning we spent together, 5:30 a.m., just the two of us, smiling over the changing table, only the soft glow of the small lamp to light our joyful faces.  

Funny Finny

And suddenly, he’s funny.  Not the kind of funny Charlie is at four, where every ridiculous thing that comes out of his mouth in his tiny man voice makes us giggle.  Finny is funny on purpose, with intention.  And his comedy is not one-dimensional.  He’s experimenting with it all—quick wit, wordplay, deadpan, impersonations, physical comedy, and the good tease.  It’s just what I had hoped for him. 

“Daddy, you have your girl socks on.”  How does he know that a little bit of a polka-dot makes David’s socks a little more feminine?

“Startin’ to choke,” he taunts when David starts missing baskets on Wii three-point challenge.

“You treat me like an inferior!” he exclaimed to me a couple days ago when I was telling him to go upstairs and get dressed.

“Do you know what inferior means?” I asked.

“No.  Daddy said it this morning.” 

“Well, it was perfect.”

He drew a picture this week of God and the devil (who greatly resembled a rabbit hiding in tall grass).  God looked a lot like how he draws me—two one strand pigtails coming out either side of his head to represent long hair.  And then he narrated it for me in a silly God voice, “Oh, Devil, I went to the hairdresser this week and got a horrible haircut.  Just look at it!”  And I can hear David in him and I love it.

And then there was my favorite.  [WARNING:  David, I’m about to embarrass you on the world wide web.]

David came home from work at lunchtime. He had gotten some pee on his pants in the bathroom at work; I will not go into details, but it involves an improper tuck; it happens to the best of us.  He went upstairs to change his jeans and came back down singing the Pete the Cat song:  “I got my new pants.  I got my new pants.  I got my new pants.  It’s all good.”

“Look,” I said, “Daddy’s Pete the Cat!”

Without missing a beat, perfectly straight-faced, Finny between bites of sandwich, says, “More like Pee the Cat.”

Biggest laugh I had all week.

All that big emotion, that giant sensitivity, the anger, the tears—he’s figured out how to turn it into a laugh.  And this is what will get him through life, will draw people to him—finding the humor, instead of the embarrassment of getting pee on your pants, the frustration of losing at Sorry, soccer, Rock/Paper/Scissors, the sadness of a lost toy, a ripped Pokemon card, a favorite story character’s death.   Oh, he will cry when he and Daddy discover what happens to Charlotte this week as they finish the last chapters of Charlotte’s Web, but then maybe a joke, a silly voice, a little dead spider humor--something to bring himself out of the dark place.

And that can’t be measured--not by a growth chart, not by a standardized test, not by a quarterly report card, or a scoreboard.

The ability to bring himself out of the dark place, that will be his greatest gift...

...and ours.

Giddy Cat

It's the palm of his hand that I love the most right now.  He pets me, rubs his soft palm across my arm, reaches out to pet my face, feel my nose, my cheeks.  He grabs hold of my thumb, tiny clutches I never want to break even if before that moment I thought I needed my hand to do something else--grab my phone, the remote, my glass of water.  He grabs my thumb and I realize that's all my thumb needs to do right now--sit and be held, feeling soft, feeling wanted.

He's got a wave in what's left of his thinning hair, a giant wave that flips up and over and I imagine a tiny surfer cruising through it, under it, all his soft, dark, fine baby hair.

And the coo.  The coo that comes early morning.  The one that replaces the newborn cry.  I love to stand by the door, just outside and listen to what he has to say.  Little ears discovering a little voice that can rise and fall, be LOUD, be soft.  When he screams, we call him Giddy Cat because he wails it out, gives it all he can, makes sure no one else can be heard above him, makes sure we're all listening to what he has to say.

And a couple nights ago...he laughed.  And I got to share it with David.  That first real laugh is like a celebration--you want the neighbors to come, some wise men, a drummer boy.  You want the world to hear the sound of his tiny happiness.  The sound that comes when you tickle him just right between his chin and his neck.  The sound that reminds you that he's coming alive.  That he's more than just suckle and cry.  That he's starting to know you, and you bring him joy too.

Giddy Cat Video:

http://youtu.be/tpKHYN-I_R8

Envy

A momma sloth carries her baby around for the first year of life.  She hangs from tree branches and climbs from limb to limb gathering leaves with her sloth baby clinging to her fur all the while.  They're never apart.  Baby grabs on with her three-toed paws so Momma never has to let go.

I learned that last night as I found myself captivated by a CET network documentary about pygmy sloths while Gideon stretched out across my lap.   (We are rediscovering the world of public broadcast networks ever since we got rid of cable.)  

I had just tucked Finny and Charlie into bed for the third night in a row while Gideon screamed from his crib. David has been away on a work trip to England this week, so bed time has been totally up to me.  In order to read the older two stories without interruption, I have to put Gideon down and take a deep breath while I listen to him cry, telling myself this is just the way it has to be this week--I am only one person and it's just a few minutes.

"Mommy, will you sing us that song you've been singing about the river?"

I've been singing them Garth Brooks lately, another thing I've rediscovered as of late, but my cortisol is rising as I listen to the crying.

"I can't, Finny.  I'm sorry.  I have to go get Gideon.  It's just me right now and he's upset."

A two-year-old Finny would have protested as I shuffled off to care for baby Charlie, but six-year-old Finny has big boy Charlie to snuggle up with in the bottom bunk, so he lets me go.  He understands.  I feel like he is taking care of me.  My little six-year-old Man of the House.

This time of night after Finny and Charlie are all tucked in, some days this feels like my first real moment to look at Gideon, to sit down and run my fingers through his hair, slide my finger across his soft palms, cajole a smile out of him while I admire him with a happy grin--"Hello, Handsome."

And last night as he drifted off to sleep in my lap, I found myself staring at the TV with envy of the momma sloth all snuggled up with her baby in the canopy of a tree.  She never has to put him in the Boppy chair while she empties the dishwasher, never has to buckle him in the car seat while she drives the carpool, never has to listen to him cry from his crib as he wonders at ten weeks old if he's been abandoned--"Where did she go?  Does she still exist?!"  

And who knows, maybe Momma Sloth would look down at me and think, "Ah, man, that lucky Momma Human, she gets to put her kid down once in a while.  What I wouldn't give--my back is killing me!"

But I can't help but think as I look at those little brown sloth eyes and those long furry sloth arms all bundled up so that you can hardly tell where the baby begins and the momma ends--how much I would love to just have Gideon clinging to my fur all day long, all wrapped up in a constant state of snuggle.

Lovely Charlie

You showed up at my bedside at 3:30 a.m. buck naked and crying, asking if I could help you find your Ninja Turtle mask.

Charlie, where are your clothes?

I was getting dressed.  I can't find my Ninja Turtle mask.  

There was worry and desperation in your voice.  I got out of bed, foggy, confused about your nakedness, puzzled by your alertness at this hour of the night.  You took me downstairs.  I turned on the kitchen light.

There it is!  The mask you had made yesterday at Caleb's birthday party was laying on the table, just where you'd left it.  You scurried back to me, still naked, and I took you back upstairs to find your pajamas and convince you to go back to bed.

I was waiting for the clock to turn seven, but it wasn't turning seven, you said, Mommy, will you lay with me?

Even though Gideon would be up at any moment, even though I am desperate for every moment of sleep I can catch right now, I couldn't refuse.  You ask for so little and when you do ask, it's quiet and sweet, never a demand, always a polite request.

I laid down next to you and your Ninja Turtle mask and brushed your hair away from your forehead.

Mommy, I was dreaming of Gramma.  Mommy, remember when you used to lay with me in Minneapolis?

Yes, I remember.  You're such a good boy, Charlie.

You're welcome, Mommy.  You say "you're welcome" often, even when it's not quite right, as if you understand that every compliment I give you is also a kind of thank you.

Thank you for your softness, your easy nature, your kindness.

You're such a good Mommy.  How do you know to return a compliment with a compliment?  Where did you learn that?

Gideon started to cry.  I have to go feed Gideon, Charlie.  I'll come back to check on you when I'm done.

You didn't cry.  You didn't demand that I stay with you or get angry at me for leaving you for your  baby brother.  You let me go.

Last Monday, I took you to Coffee Please on a rainy afternoon.  Finny was in school and Gideon slept in the stroller while we shared a raspberry scone and played Uno.  You listened patiently as I taught you how to play and you lost graciously when my cards disappeared before yours.  I asked you if you wanted to play again and you simply said, No, thanks.  I want to go home.

Do you know how far your little No, thanks gets you?  You're so reasonable, no pouting, no fight.

Charlie, will you try your lasagna?

No, thanks.

And it's hard to be frustrated with someone so gracious.

There are so many days I wish I could stop and write down all the precious things you say, but our life is full of movement right now with very few moments to pause and capture, so I hold them all in my heart, even if they disappear from my slow, tired brain.

I had no idea how you would be as a big brother, no sense of how you would react to sharing me with a baby, but from the moment Gideon was born, you claimed him as your own.  I've never seen you jealous or angry; only helpful and loving.

You kiss him all day long.  It's time for kiss time! you exclaim as you shower him with kisses.  And it's not just Gideon.  Without even asking, you'll come up unexpectedly and kiss me over and over again--my face, my hand, my arms, my nose.  And Finny.  And Daddy.  You fill our buckets.

Where did you get your good nature?  Where did you get your soft, quiet temperament?  So patient, so forgiving, so ready to love, and willing to give.  I marvel at you.  You are three and selfless.  You rarely get ruffled, only want to please.  You are a gift.

With your gruff little voice and your penchant for weapons--swords, light sabers, blasters--someone might mistake you for a tough guy.

But your the best kind of tough guy.  My little boy who snuggles up and watches Daniel Tiger with me on the couch.  My little boy who quietly paints Komodo Dragons on the easel in your smock, filling every inch of the page, not letting me tell you how much I love it until it's all done.  My little boy who kisses as often as he sword fights.  Your curls are gone and you're getting too big for me to carry, but you are still my baby.  My big, tough baby who plays quietly, lives lovingly, and giggles contagiously.

My words can never adequately express how proud and blessed I feel to have you as my son.

Komodo-dragon painter,
tiger-pajama wearer,
two-wheeler bike rider,
bucket filler.

The world is lucky to know you.

Dear Gideon

August 23, 2014

Dear Gideon,

Happy Birthday, little one.  You were born just twelve hours ago and now you are sleeping snugly in your hospital bassinet beside me.  We're in a corner room on the third floor of Mercy Anderson and I have a view of treetops and storm clouds in the distance.  They tell me it's pretty muggy, but I haven't been outside today.  You and I have been here, recovering from all that we've been through together this morning.  We're focused only on the bare essentials:  eating, sleeping, bathing, peeing and pooping.

We're getting to know each other face to face.  You get to see who's been carrying you around for the past nine months and I get to see those little feet that have been kicking and jabbing me, the little bundle who's been begging for glazed donuts all this time.

And you are a little bundle.  At 6 lbs, 3 oz, you hold your donuts well.

Look at that, buddy.  The sun just came pouring down through the storm clouds flashing light into our room, across those trees, doing that thing that makes it look as if the rays are the hands of God descending, reaching down to grab the earth.

And that's what you are, isn't it?  A little piece of heaven in a pink and blue swaddling blanket?  Your fingernails soft and curled, your eyes opaque and dancing, your knees pink and curled up to your chest, trying to learn what it means to have room to stretch out.

I heard you before I saw you this morning.  They laid you on my chest, but my eyes were clenched tight from the shock of it all--I couldn't see you.  I only felt you wet and wiggly, ready for air.  The nurses took you and cleaned you up and cleared you out; they weighed and measured you, and I didn't look, but I listened. When I heard you speak for the first time, I smiled.  You cooed like a lamb, the littlest mew, the sweetest sound.

Daddy held my hand for a long time.  He stood by me, stayed with me the whole time.  Told me how strong I was, showed me how loved I am.  And when they were done with me, wrapping me up, putting me back together, I opened my eyes and there you were--tiny nose, black hair, wrinkled ears.  Soft.

Gideon.

I'd like to say I knew you were coming, but I didn't.  I had a feeling, but there are lots of feelings towards the end.  Lots of feelings with big question marks.  Is this...?  Could it be...?  Predictions, but nothing solid.  It could all just be gas after all.

I had made one request of God, of my belly, of you:  I wanted to be there when Finny got on the bus for his first day of Kindergarten.  I wanted that moment of watching him, little and independent climbing the steps, walking back to his seat.  It was a milestone, important, monumental.  My first baby stepping out.  After that, you could come.  And you did.

I had called Aunt Laurie at midnight.  Something was happening, nothing regular, nothing I could bet the farm on, but something that woke me up, unsettled me, hurt differently than before.  She came right over, went to bed in the guest room, ready to be there for your brothers in case we needed to leave.

Two hours later I felt you again, urgent cramping.  Tightening that lasted.  Three in a row, ten minutes apart.  My body felt hot and tender.  I called the answering service, requested a phone call from a midwife.  Went into the bathroom and saw the blood.  Heavy blood pouring out of me, staining my clothes, puddling on the floor.

"David!  It's time to go.  Something's wrong.  I'm bleeding."  We grabbed a towel, Daddy grabbed the bags.  We stopped for nothing.  Got in the car.  I prayed.  What was this blood?  The blood wasn't right.  There had never been blood.  Something was wrong.

"David, it could be the placenta rupturing."

"It's ok, Jill.  Everything is ok."  He squeezed my leg, driving the winding roads through stoplights, avoiding deer.

"I just want the baby to be okay.  I just want to be okay."

"I know."

We drove on in silence, urgency.  Worried, scared, trying to be calm.

Daddy parked in the ambulance lane.  I waddled in with the towel between my legs.  We waited in triage. Everyone trying to be calm, worried about the blood, trying not to jump to conclusions.

The nurse saw us to our room, helped me into my gown.  Agreed that it was a lot of blood, but assured me that it could be the capillaries of my cervix rupturing.  She checked my progress between contractions, hooked up the monitor.  I heard your heartbeat.  You were fine.  We were fine.  I breathed.  I relaxed.  I labored.  6-7 cm, contractions every ten minutes.  I rocked on the birth ball, back and forth.  Daddy stood there, looking helpless, trying to figure out his place.  It was 3:30 a.m.  Every ten minutes he pressed on my back, trying to relieve the pressure from the contracting, from you working your way out.  This lasted two hours--the longest we'd ever been in the hospital before delivery.  My water still had not broken.  This was new.  I thought it would be quicker.  How long would this take?

And then another contraction came.  Five minutes, not ten.  It lasted longer, 80 seconds.  The nurse had me back in bed, hooked up to the monitor.  She left.  Five minutes again.  And again.  But then three.  Three minutes.  Then one.  I started pulling my hair out, turning hot and pale.

"David, it's time.  Get them.  I have to push.  It's time to push.  I have to get it out!"  I cussed a lot.  It was sudden and urgent and time.

The big lights came down from the ceiling like a spaceship.  The midwife came in.

"Remind me how to do this!  How do I do this?  Hold my hand!  Someone hold my legs!  Shit!  Can I push now?"

Take a deep breath and push, Jill.

I did and there was your head.  There was your body.  There you were.  Out.  Quick, fast, furious.  Relief.

Gideon.

Born on a Saturday morning in August.  Born in a hurry.

Gideon.

Your name came well before you did, early this summer in Minneapolis.  I was doing the dishes while Daddy was giving your brothers a bath and that My Morning Jacket song came up in my playlist shuffle.   Gideeeeoooon, Jim James wailed and I stopped, looked out, let it settle in.  Gideon.  I looked up the meaning behind the words of the song and found multiple interpretations, but nothing solid.  I looked up the meaning of this ancient name--destroyer--not exactly what I wanted for my little boy.  Warrior--that was better, but warrior for what?

I turned to the Bible, the book of Judges, one of the oldest, there was Gideon.  Warrior for God.  Called on to bring a complacent people back to their values, back to their creator, back to God.  Gideon, called on to remind the people to be grateful and humble and faithful.

That would work.  The meaning and the sound of it, coming out of the speakers in the kitchen as a song, passionate and big.  Daddy and I would listen to it all summer long, always with a secret smile on our faces, knowing our little boy would have a big name.

Gideon.  Six pound, three ounce warrior.  Blessing.  We're so glad you're here.

We can't wait to see who you become.

Love,
Mommy

When you only have two years...

I have a rare moment alone on the sleeping porch just before dusk.  The tall, sturdy oak beside our garage hangs over in a canopy of leaves, over old rooftops staggered all around me, and there is Lake Calhoun, just peeking through the branches, still and bustling all at the same time.

I'm saying goodbye.  Just like I did weeks before I left Poland, sitting in the grass by the pond overlooking Pszyczna.  I had taken the train there by myself and wandered into the grass to have a sandwich and a nap and a moment to see Poland as the memory it would become.

I'm saying goodbye, not just to Minnesota, but to what it symbolizes, this moment in time, this chapter in my life.  These days that have been both long and fleeting.  In a few short weeks, I will never have this view of the world again.  I will no longer live in a house on a lake, where a short ten-minute walk carries me to fish tacos, sailboats, paddleboards and kayaks, a trolley ride to ice cream at Lake Harriet and a concert at the Bandshell.  From this vantage point, my bike could take me to at least ten parks, a slice of pizza, a beer or a cup of coffee, not to mention the grocery store, a haircut, a movie or yoga in the park.

But as I look at Minnesota dreamily through the canopy of trees and the whisper of Lake Calhoun, I have to remind myself that there is another season here.  A season when the sleeping porch is closed, when the lake is a sheet of ice, when the air bites your fingers off and you don't see your neighbors for months on end because even taking out the trash is a herculean effort.  Dark evenings make the days short and restless, and this old house struggles to keep out the caustic bite of the wind, always searching for a way to get warm.

I have to remind myself of this, so my heart doesn't ache for what we'll leave behind.  Friendships, neighbors, new hobbies, new favorites, new traditions and routines.  This place in our life when our boys are five and three, where our boys were four and two, where they arrived three and one.  Their early childhood was here surrounded by lakes and snow and Minnesota family and friends who have watched them grow, watched Charlie gradually lose his curls, watched Finny learn to ride a bike, swing across the monkey bars, swim across the pool.

We found a church that became a home and a family and a new way of looking at things.  We found a closeness with family that had always been distant, a chance to know what it is to be a niece and a cousin.  And we found friends who knew that we were leaving, and invested in us anyway, brought us into the fold, offered helping hands, extended warm invitations.

Just this afternoon the boys wandered into Linda's kitchen.  Charlie played her ukulele with his Tiger sunglasses on, while Finny typed his name on Mona's brand new typewriter at the kitchen table.  We taught him the last name in pieces--Van-Him-ber-gen.  And then he rattled away a string of x's, q's, r's and z's, wanting to know what nonsense word he had created.  Linda, always available for a talk, never too busy to think us rude for wandering onto her porch, showed us how the cockatiel, Olive Oil, purrs over the smell of coffee on her breath.  She's filled with small gifts for the boys:  lion socks, a sleeping bag, a dollhouse, books, puzzles, a child's guitar.  Mona made Finny a bracelet the other day out of plastic string.  He didn't take it off for days.  Mona too is never hurried, always available to make chalk drawings with Finny, to spray the hose on the slide, to show Finny a shrew or an ant or a trick on the swing.  They are four years apart, but two of a kind.  Both wanting the day to go by slowly enough to gather leaves, ride the glider, watch the ants in the cracks on the driveway.

For Charlie, this is all he knows.  Cincinnati is a fairy tale, a land far, far away that we talk about returning to.  For Charlie, Minnesota is a series of places we go, things that we see, friends that we visit.  He might wonder what happened to the purple house we pass everyday on the way to the Y.  He will ask about Nicholas and Enzo, Jasper, Tess and Easton.  He will wonder where the trolley tracks went and the teddy bear pancakes and the "new" grocery store with the truck cart.  He will miss Kitty Jane.  They both will.  She cast a spell on them in the castle room at the Y.

For me, this is where I learned to ask for help.  I almost drowned last winter on the shore of this frozen lake, overcome by motherhood, loneliness, and an inability to do-it-all.  But I didn't.  Instead, I grew up.  I gained wisdom and compassion and a spiritual life and community.  I learned a great secret about life, parenthood, adulthood in general--this is hard.  I will get sad.  I will feel isolated, exhausted, drained.  I will lose some of myself in the raising of small children.  But I will gain a kind of understanding, a kind of patience, a kind of resilience that I otherwise would not have had the opportunity to grow.  These kids will beat me down.  They will fill my days with spilled milk, wet pants and conflict.  They will mess up everything I try to clean and get out everything I try to put away.  They will always leave something for me to trip on and a plate full of dinner that I spent way too long preparing for me to throw away.  They will tear me down.  They will grow me up.  When you raise your kids in Minnesota, you start to take it easy on yourself for having the TV on, you get creative with laundry baskets and old toys, and you start to appreciate that jumping on the couch is valid, important, and essential when you are four and can't play outside for months on end.

For David and I, this is where we learned to rely on each other.  We learned to be far from our parents and closer to each other.  We found our identity as a couple and a family separate from the opinions and influences of extended family.  We missed them terribly, but we also cherished a time away, a time to figure out who we are, what we believe, what matters to us as parents and as people.  We took care of each other when there was no one else to look after us.  We took bike rides and went on dates.  We talked a lot.  We ran together, skiied together, served communion together, and learned our children together.  We made mistakes and we said sorry.  We got drunk on the couch and grew addicted to Homeland.  We shoveled, we kayaked, we planned and dreamed and wondered...where is this life taking us, who will our children be, and can we handle one more, can we bear the fatigue, the work, the exhaustion of one more child we feel called to love.

Our friends in Minnesota have been astounded by how much we've seen and done and experienced in our two years here.  But that was the gift:  two years.  When you think that you're home, it's easy to spend your Saturday at the grocery store or mowing the lawn.  It's easy to get the same cheeseburger at the same diner every Friday night, and it's easy to meet the same friends at the same park at the same time every week.  But when you only have two years, you have to ski the Luminary Loppet, you have to wander into the garden of the cherry on the spoon, you have to buy tickets to the children's theater and you have to try paddleboard yoga.  When you only have two years, you have to ride your bike to Minnehaha Falls, you have to pick apples, ride the trolley and run the Twin Cities 10 Miler--when else will you be able to walk out your door and run ten miles around three urban lakes?  When you only have two years, you never eat at Apple Bee's.  It's a wasted opportunity to taste the novelty of the moment.

But at the end of two years, it's not the new experiences we will miss the most; it's the familiar, the favorite, the ones that sunk into our daily lives. It's this porch overlooking the rooftops where we do puzzles and read stories, it's the stairway that leads right into the kitchen where tousled heads bobble down barking breakfast orders.  It's the Edina Morningside Preschool playground, the Foss Swim School, the aqua park, the church parking lot where we learned to ride our bikes.  It's the children's room at the library, the free bread at Great Harvest, our table in the corner at the Chatterbox where we race colors to the end of the Candyland board.  It's My Burger and ginger cookies from Rustica.  It's a bottle of wine at Amore Victoria, the fast blue slide at Williston Treehouse, and the hot tub at Aunt Celeste's.  It's Ella, Willow, Katie, Tess, Mason, Devin, Finnegan, and Nicholas.  Jasper, Enzo, Luke, and Easton.  It's the monkey bars at Linden Hills park, the glider at Mona's, and playing water fight with Raymond.

And it's them, the boys; it's who they are right now.  Always gathering sticks, rocks and leaves and bringing them into the house.  Dropping their pants to pee on a tree whenever they have the urge, no sense of modesty, no sense of shame.  It's the time in our lives when the costume box is always pulled out on the rug, when we discovered Charlie's love of Otis Redding and a good techno song, and where Daddy taught his toddlers entire scenes from Monty Python and the Holy Grail--"What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?" in a perfect British accent.

When we first moved here, Finny would scream bloody murder at the sight of an ant.  Today I watched him show Charlie how to cup his hands around one and let it gently crawl up the back of his hand.  When we first moved here Charlie was a head of curls bouncing around in his crib.  Now he's the boy with the big undies, the big bed, the big curiosity, and the big gruff voice always asking--Mommy, is a rocket faster than an airplane? When will the baby come?  And When are we going home?  We are home, Charlie.  What do you mean?  I mean home...to Cincinnati.

And this idea of home.  As a place.  Is it where you're from or where you are?  We left home to come here, but two years later, we are leaving home to go back.  If we'd left in February our unhealthy dose of seasonal affective disorder might put us in a hurry to grab our scarves and boots and pack our bags.  But we're leaving in June and so we have time to stop and look at the view across the lake, we have time to let the sand gather between our toes, we have time to feel the waves lapping up against our boats on Lake of the Isles.  We have time to realize that we love this cold, North country because it was a growing spot for us, that although we are excited to arrive at the next spot, we are dragging our feet trying to leave this one.

It's a lonely, desolate feeling to look across a sheet of frozen ice in January, but turning the corner to arrive at the lapping of waves through a canopy of trees is not a worldview one is anxious to leave behind in June.  So, I stop on my walk, sit in the grass and gaze out at the sailboats and the buildings and the waves.  I take the long way home around the lake, I let my oar rest across my lap and I sit in the sand and drink up these simple moments when my boys find no greater pleasure than scooping up buckets of lake water and dumping them in the canals they've dug in the sand. 

When you only have two years, you try not to drink too fast.  You try to sip slowly, savor the taste of their smiles, the soft, tininess of their boney knees in your hand, and the sound of brilliant discovery in their voices as they notice the chipmunk climb into the wall, the spider swing down from the branch, the fish swim up close to their ankles. 

And you fill with gratitude for this moment, knowing that eventually, you will turn your head and the path will change, the lake will recede into the distance, and something new will come into sight, leaving only the memory of this view, of your time at the lake house, of your little boys, five and three, gathering treasures they've found in the sand and vague memories of cold winters and brilliant summers spent growing up in Minnesota.

Frogs and Snails

(Image from artfido.com)

I've been giving a lot of thought to my lot in life this week.  My destiny to be surrounded by boys.  I've had fun taking in the reactions from family and friends as we announce that we are having yet another boy.  Taking in the horror, the humor, the trepidation in people's voices or their ellipses in their Facebook comments.

When you announce you're having a baby and it is pretty clear that this baby was planned, "Congratulations!  I'm so happy for you guys!" rolls readily off the tongue.  But when you announce the sex of your baby and it's clear that this is likely your last pregnancy and that this baby will be your third boy and that you will never have a daughter, the "Congratulations" comes with a bit of a question mark, some hesitation, some wonder:

"How are you feeling?"  

"Were you hoping for a girl?" 

"Oh, I was hoping for a girl for you guys."

"Well, it's gonna be busy in your house!"

"It's gonna be fun!"

"Well, at least you're ready for it!"

"Are you ready for it?"

I've received delicate condolences, sympathy, camaraderie, laughter and even something sounding a little like blame from my mom who sometimes says silly things like, "Well, that's what happens when you have sex on the day of ovulation!" 

Does she have a camera in our bedroom?  David wondered, horrified.

Does she have a camera in my body?!  I wondered, mystified.

I've enjoyed the processing of all this, taking it all in, trying to separate how I really feel from how others assume I might feel about having a third boy, or rather about not having a daughter.

I have had moments of grief, no doubt.  Moments where I have to take all my dreams and imaginings of our daughter and lay them out in front of me:

Her big blue eyes.

Her feet scurrying by in little white tights.

Her little girl sass; her little girl charm.

The way her hair would look bouncing around in messy pigtails.

The way she'd look snuggled up to David on the couch.

The way her brothers would tease her/protect her.

The way she'd love me and hate me all in one breath.

The way she'd understand me and challenge me--my biggest critic, my greatest admirer.

And of course, I've imagined how I, unlike any other mom on the planet, would dress her in a style and fashion so adorable, onlookers would swoon at how precious she is.  I would dress her in hippy dresses and ruffly pants and bright, bright colors and everyone would know that she is my daughter.  Little girl Jill.  Little girl David.

I lay these things out and then I wrap them in paper, package them away, and put them up on the shelf.

Then, I get out the other box.  The one that has my imaginings and my dreams for my very real, very lively little boy dancing in my belly.

When we found out Charlie was a boy at the ten-week ultrasound, I was underwhelmed.  Oh, another one.  Fine, another boy.  Been there, done that.  

Little did I know that Charlie would not be just another little boy.  He would not be just a replica of Finny.  Although he would wear the same clothes, lay on the same sheets, and play with the same toys, he would be this totally different and wonderful creature.  He would be Charlie, head of tender, messy blonde curls, voice full of tough and gruff--sweet and shy, daring and careful, obstinate and agreeable, independent and snuggly.  Layered.  Lovely.  Sweet.  Hysterically funny.

So, this time around when we decided at the last minute that we did, in fact, want to know the gender of the baby, my reaction was different when David peeled open the envelope and said, "Baby Boy."

I smiled and thought, another one.  Another boy.  Who will this one be?

What dance moves will he create in our kitchen?  

What jokes will he tell at our table?  

Will his hair be curly or straight?  

Will he be focused and pensive or imaginative and spontaneous?  

Will he adore putting on plays with the couch cushions or swinging the golf club in the backyard?  

Will he wear whatever I put him in as Finny does or pitch a fit when I dress him in anything other than pajamas or orange pants like Charlie does?  

How will he fit in?  How will he shape our family?

And will he be as close to Finny and Charlie as they are to each other or will he be the outlier, the third wheel, the independent one who came along a few years later?

Three boys, oh my! I've heard it again and again.  And what does that mean?

Our house will be messy.

The couch cushions will never be on the couch and when they are, they'll be covered in fingerprints, Sharpie marker, and a little bit of pee-pee.

There will always be a slight yellow ring around the base of our toilet.

Every object, every toy, every piece of pipe cleaner or paper towel roll will become a sword or a blaster.

I will wash a lot of cotton t-shirts and a lot of stinky sandals.

I will say No! Don't touch! and Take your hands out of your pants!  A lot.

I will laugh more than I'd every imagined at poop, toot, and butt jokes.

And I will be asked by one more person on a daily basis where my penis is, as if I've misplaced it, left it on the counter at the grocery store next to my forgotten umbrella.

But anyone who has ever loved a boy knows that frogs and snails and penis curiosity are only part of the big picture, a spill in the corner of the canvas.

Anyone who has ever loved a boy knows that little boys are actually some of our most delicate and fragile creatures.  

And some of our most vulnerable.  Because my little boys have big feelings that I sometimes worry the world doesn't want or expect them to have.  Because my little boys love to make beaded necklaces and bake and play princesses and I sometimes wonder, to my own shame, if that's okay.

Because we encourage girls to break into the "boys' world."  To play sports, be competitive, major in engineering.  But when a boy is nurturing and tender-hearted, when a boy wants a doll or a turn with the princess palace, we hesitate and wonder, "Is this okay?"  

When a girl wants to play soccer, we say, "You Go, Girl!"  But when a boy wants to take ballet, we frown and dissuade him, push him in another direction.  A tougher direction, one that allows him to live comfortably within his stereotypes, without the judgment of the world on his shoulders.

We encourage his love of superheroes while we discourage his interest in violence.  We discourage his interest in caring for dolls, but encourage him to desire fatherhood.

The life of a boy is full of contradictions and unjust expectations.  

Don't get me wrong, a little girl has plenty of unjust stereotype placed upon her as well.  But it is not my destiny in life to raise little girls.  It is my privilege and blessing to raise a troop of boys, and so I make it my mission to raise the best of the best.  Top Guns.  Little boys who are not limited by their gender or by what the world expects them to be.

Little boys who put on the princess dress and then slosh through the mud wielding their paper towel holder swords.  Little boys who tackle each other with deep dinosaur growls and moments later end up in a heap of tears on the couch because Darth Vader is dead, because he turned to the dark side, because in the words of tender Finn, "He turned away from God."

Little boys Jill. Little boys David.  Frogs and snails and puppy dog tails, and sometimes even feet scurrying by in little white tights with batgirl capes flowing behind them.  That is what our little boys are made of.