Archive for the ‘Favorites’ Category
April 23 2010
When I was pregnant with Buzz, I heard a constant question from countless people. “Are you hoping for a girl?” I honestly wasn’t. Either way would have been fine, but I thought there would be something truly special about my son having a brother. That’s what I envisioned. Two boys, friends, brothers.
And when that became our reality, I was overjoyed. I couldn’t have imagined anything different. They were perfect, my boys. My sons. I was soon to be in a house full of action figures and Light Sabers and burping contests. There were times when I felt outnumbered, but it was exactly as it should have been.
Still, people would ask, “Are you going to try for a girl?”. As if we had somehow failed. Third time’s a charm. The answer to that was no, I don’t think so. We thought our family was complete, already a handful. Bony knees and dirty fingernails and all things blue. Perfect. To imply that something was missing would have been wrong. At least I thought it was.
Then, along came a surprise. And we weren’t sure how we felt about it at first. I was in denial for longer than I should have been, actually. But we gathered our wits and our courage and we prepared once again. Whatever it may be. Three boys, three brothers, would have been just as well. Easier even, maybe.
When I met her for the first time, though, they said “It’s a girl! You have a daughter.”, and I cried. This girl that took me by surprise. Who I didn’t know I was missing until she was here. We are still outnumbered, but at least I have someone on my side. And she will always have me on hers. My beautiful girl. It’s so much better than I could have ever imagined.
March 26 2010
It was raining as we left the shelter of home for Buzz’s speech therapy appointment yesterday afternoon. Not to the point of lightning flashing thunderstorms, but windy and cold nonetheless. The kind of dreary day that my adult stodgy self feels would be better spent sleeping away, instead of sauntering out into. Jumping in puddles just isn’t my thing.
The drops beat sideways against my back as I struggled to lock Buzz in his carseat. By the time we were on our way, I was drenched and cursing mother nature.
When we emerged from the 45 minute session, the steady downpour had formed large puddles in the parking lot. The biggest of which just so happened to encase our car. It looked like a small lake had swallowed it whole. I maneuvered my way up a curb, over the embankment, hop this way, put your left foot in that way, trying not to lose a shoe in the mud, and holding on to my son’s hand at the same time. All in a futile effort to keep dry. Buzz, however, viewed it as an opportunity. Where I saw an uncomfortable mess, he saw a scene straight from a dream.
Landing with both feet, he splashed and shuffled. His parched pant legs drinking up the water, like drops of bliss. I felt him tug on my hand, reaching for an inch more. Just one more, as the rain began to blend between us.
Sometimes, I forget how remarkable and jubilant that kid is. He deals me such a monumental fit the majority of most days, it’s easy to get lost in. Yesterday, though, the rain brought with it that reminder. He truly is a bright light of a little boy. Jumping in puddles may not be my thing, but he is. And whatever makes him happy, as long as it doesn’t involve sharp metal objects and electrical outlets, makes me happy as well. Even if it means my socks get soaking wet in the process.
February 25 2010
What matters is how you spin it.
All of us wake up in the morning wishing for just 10 more minutes. We take whatever means necessary to pry our eyes open before we dive into work. Whether that’s outside of the home or in. Whether it’s pushing papers or pushing strollers. We care for our kids, our pets, our husbands, our business, ourselves. There are errands to run and appointments to set and deadlines to meet. We throw a dinner together and clean up and watch TV and tap away on our computers. We yearn for connections. A home too messy and tensions too tight. With the weight of the world on our shoulders, we unwind however we can. Then we put it all to bed before we start again in the morning.
Of course, there are the exceptions and curveballs. There are tragedies as there are triumphs. Life has its twists and turns, but it doesn’t bend. With luck and time, it tends to revert back to an altered state of the same.
It’s all in the way we feel. It’s how we see the mundane minutiae of the everyday. When presented with the choice, would you recall the morning laughter or the spousal argument that afternoon? Would you rather strive for the extraordinary or be content in settling for normalcy? No one way is right or wrong.
It’s how we take away what we are given.
There are kids and parents. Families and friends. Laughter and cries. Embraces and fights. Many different descriptions, but they all equal the same. What matters is how you spin it. What do you see that no one else has? What do you choose to remember? The hour to hour, day to day. The structure stays familiar, it’s who we are that renders it unique.
No matter how you spin it.
January 06 2010
My oldest boy, he’s tall and lanky. He outgrows most of his clothes in the blink of an eye. His soft-scented newborn days seem so distant, ancient, yet just like yesterday. He likes video games and playing with toy guns and he pretends he’s a soldier battling zombies. Even though I’ve been in denial, it’s safe to say that he’s not a baby anymore. To further cement that fact, he has his first loose tooth.
It was noticed during his bath last night. A very slight wiggle. The few times we discussed it wasn’t enough preparation apparently. “My baby teeth will fall out and then I’ll get big boy teeth!”, he’d say excitedly. When the time came, however, he had a mini-meltdown. He wouldn’t let us see it. He didn’t want to talk about it. He even cried. Big, fat rolling tears down his cheeks.
“He doesn’t want you to know he’s growing up”, J confided.
I remember feeling incredibly nervous bringing him home from the hospital. I didn’t know what to do with a baby. There’s a lot of things I regret about those first few months: I set him in his swing too often, I gave up breastfeeding too soon, my moods wouldn’t settle, my head was unsure, I doubted more than I believed. Through it all, he made me a mother. We fought through the trenches and came out hand in hand. And now my once fragile little boy, with a mess of curly hair and sea of blue eyes, is on the verge of a giant leap into growing up.
After he finally calmed down later that night, he urged optimistically, “Maybe it’ll fall out tomorrow!” It’s not going to be that soon, but it seems to be time I craft together some Tooth Fairy wings.
What is the going rate for a tooth these days?
December 03 2009
This morning, I had an appointment for my annual exam. I found myself sitting in a room that I hadn’t been in since Abby was a newborn, looking around at all the pregnancy paraphernalia. Along with signs and brochures, there was a poster on the wall illustrating the 9 month transformation from embryo to baby. Even though I had seen it all before, been witness to it’s power first hand, I was transfixed.
I did that. I had that. 3 successful times. 4 others that were not. The embryo illustrated at 8 weeks, which is when all of my miscarriages occurred, was so small, looking nothing like a baby. But it’s eyes, it read, would have been completely formed.
I felt a slight ping of envy. Suddenly, I missed being pregnant. I would almost say that for a brief second, I contemplated doing it all over again. Do I want another baby?
That’s when my doctor walked in, clearly expecting herself.
We made pleasantries, like always. She asked how I was, problems I may have been having. All while I’m dressed in a rather revealing robe. Then, she wondered how I was getting along with my IUD. No complaints, I replied.
“Do you want any more kids?”, she asked in her line of questions.
“No”, I immediately answered, without even thinking.
“Well, that was quick,” she jumped, slightly taken aback.
“That’s how done I am”, I realized. And it was. It is. I guess that’s my answer right there. I am done. I am a mother to 7; 3 here with us, 4 someplace else. But 7 nonetheless. I’ve made peace with that. I am full. Done. Complete.
