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.