Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Blog Stew, Second Helpings
I have a few things to share on this cold (it snowed!) October morning, but no way in which to tie them together, so prepare yourself for a little incoherencies in today's entry. Enjoy, nonetheless.
1.) October 17, 2005: Just the day after my parents' anniversary eight years ago, Adam Walden took a leap of faith. (Considering our history it was as gutsy as it was not. As if that makes any sense at all.) Before we get to the anniversary, however, I must preface it with this: The week before the 17th, I closed my eyes in the shower and prayed. It wasn't a general prayer, it was a specific one. I prayed that I would have another chance to make good with Adam. I also promised that I would do everything in my power to make it work and to not screw it up.
(At this point, Adam and I barely spoke, as if we had nothing to say to each other.)
Fast forward four days or so, and Adam called me out of the blue and asked that we talk. He was very vague, but we agreed to meet at his house that Monday. It was to be October 17, 2005. The Colts were playing. I had Mr. Freckles, my English Setter, with me. And we sat on the back porch together, and he said this:
I don't know your favorite color anymore. I don't know what kind of music you listen to, or what you do for fun, and I probably don't even know a lot of your friends. But I do know the girl you used to be, and that's the girl I want to marry.
That's one hell of a way to ask for a date, right? Well, it worked. And even after he dropped the L bomb on our first date a few days later, I stuck around...because he was Adam...my Adam and, even at our worst, we're soul mates. And the rest is history.
Eight short years ago, I was just a single girl who was painfully in love with my brother's best friend. And now he's my best friend...and husband...and father to our four kids. Amazing. God listened. I actually think we're kind of a miracle. (And, so far, I haven't screwed it up.)
2.) And, speaking of our four kids, Annemarie is almost two months old! She's an awesome baby, growing much faster than our William did. I think she looks the most like Leo, though her complexion and hair are more like Hatch. Her brothers are still crazy about her, and though the nicknames are starting to wane, we still call her Carla. And by "we," I don't mean just Hatch. All of us do. Baby Carla.
She's such a happy baby, patient and content. When she falls asleep, it's all I can do not to squeeze her for hours. She is so cozy and loving. Check her out:
Love.
1.) October 17, 2005: Just the day after my parents' anniversary eight years ago, Adam Walden took a leap of faith. (Considering our history it was as gutsy as it was not. As if that makes any sense at all.) Before we get to the anniversary, however, I must preface it with this: The week before the 17th, I closed my eyes in the shower and prayed. It wasn't a general prayer, it was a specific one. I prayed that I would have another chance to make good with Adam. I also promised that I would do everything in my power to make it work and to not screw it up.
(At this point, Adam and I barely spoke, as if we had nothing to say to each other.)
Fast forward four days or so, and Adam called me out of the blue and asked that we talk. He was very vague, but we agreed to meet at his house that Monday. It was to be October 17, 2005. The Colts were playing. I had Mr. Freckles, my English Setter, with me. And we sat on the back porch together, and he said this:
I don't know your favorite color anymore. I don't know what kind of music you listen to, or what you do for fun, and I probably don't even know a lot of your friends. But I do know the girl you used to be, and that's the girl I want to marry.
That's one hell of a way to ask for a date, right? Well, it worked. And even after he dropped the L bomb on our first date a few days later, I stuck around...because he was Adam...my Adam and, even at our worst, we're soul mates. And the rest is history.
2.) And, speaking of our four kids, Annemarie is almost two months old! She's an awesome baby, growing much faster than our William did. I think she looks the most like Leo, though her complexion and hair are more like Hatch. Her brothers are still crazy about her, and though the nicknames are starting to wane, we still call her Carla. And by "we," I don't mean just Hatch. All of us do. Baby Carla.
She's such a happy baby, patient and content. When she falls asleep, it's all I can do not to squeeze her for hours. She is so cozy and loving. Check her out:
I went back to work recently and, though I was a little worried about leaving Annie with Adam, along with the other three (who have proven to be kind of a handful), things are going really well! She finally took to a bottle, and so long as someone is loving her, I hear she does fine without me. I miss her when I'm gone, though. Physically, I mean. My arms get used to holding a baby or having one close by constantly, and 12 hours without her is kind of a long time. It's a ridiculous obsession going on here. (And, boys, if you are reading this when you are older, rest assured that I felt the same about each of you. Leo, before your middle child syndrome kicks in, know that I held you for four months straight. You're being ridiculous. Stop it.)
3.) Leo and Hatch have become the best of friends. I mean, the best. Patrick is still the boss of the boys. But he has his own agenda. He likes rules and he likes for people to follow them. And Leo and Hatch think that is just asinine. They don't like rules. Things like "Don't color on the walls," "don't jump on the furniture," "don't play ring toss with the chandelier;" these are ridiculous to them. These boys are tough and wild and invincible. And, while they are trashing our new home, Patrick is coloring quietly at the kitchen table, drawing amazing little pictures of monsters or boys playing football and completely oblivious that the house is crumbling around him. God love that kid. (And the others, fine. I'm sure God loves Leo and Hatch, too. Though I'm sure He shakes His head and says "what were you THINKING?" probably as much as I do.)
4.) What else...? What else...? Oh! I started a new workout program, but I'm not ready to talk about it yet. I really like it, but I want to be committed to it before I give a review. I feel good, so that's a bonus. I'm trying not to be hung up on the scale because a.) it's unhealthy and b.) I'm proud of what this body has done. I have four amazing kiddos. So, I don't look how I want to? Fine. I have what I always wanted, so it's a fair trade.
5.) And, finally... I have adopted a new life mantra. That is:
And, though it's my lifelong goal to find absolute Zen, you and I both know that probably won't happen. The story is in the journey, though. I'm trying to make peace. I'm trying to be a good person. That would be a good legacy, right? My home life is good. I've got that part down (Ha! Ok, no. I don't. But I try.) But I'm working on the outside...the bigger circle, if you will, and, if it kills me, I'm going to nail it. And if I don't, I'll at least show my kids an example of how to be happy and open and forgiving and loving. Loving. That part is the most important.
Life is good. It always is. Crazy, chaotic, an absolute mess, but it's good.
Love.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
To My Son on His Second Birthday
Dear William-
A few days ago, you turned two years old. Though it was a quiet day spent at home with the family, you were not at all forgotten. We ate pumpkin cake, we sang to you so many times that you started singing to yourself (and now, days later, still are), you watched as your dad put together your new train set and held your new train cars so tightly in your chubby little hands that I wasn't sure we would ever pry them loose. Your aunts and uncles FaceTimed you throughout the day. You got a lot of lovely messages and phone calls from your family. Your Aunt Leeney brought you ice cream and cookies. You spent the day being loved on, something with which you are quite familiar.
Two years ago, you entered our lives and we were so filled with love. I was still on a high of graduating from school, I was weeks away from starting what I had imagined to be by dream job, and your birth quite literally made me feel like I was going to explode from happiness. You were the proverbial cherry on top. However, the high from your birth has yet to cease. You are still our "baby." Despite the fact that you have a younger sister now, you're still the baby. Despite your newly-acquired, two-year-old attitute and sense of entitlement, you are still the baby. Despite the fact that you do everything in your power to be a big kid, you are still the baby. Our baby.
You may wonder what you were like at two. Let me tell you:
At two, you are quite small, smaller than the vast majority of boys your age: 33 inches tall and 23.6 pounds. You have light/medium auburn hair, shiny and very straight. You have clear, gray eyes and a lovely symmetrical face. You are adorable. You talk a lot...and loudly. You like to do everything by yourself. You want to be just like Leo. You refuse a sippy cup (Baby Milk, you say) and refuse to sit in a high chair (Baby Seat.) You wrestle and jump and bite and kick. You're a little fighter.
But you carry with you an amazing disposition, a life-loving, funny, goofy, charming little boy who just wants things his way and refuses to take "no" for an answer. One of my favorite parts of you is your perseverence and bravery. You are stronger than you realize. When you are charged (and you are a lot, let's be fair) you never show fear. Rather, you puff out your little chest, tuck your chin in, plant your feet, and brace yourself for the hit. You don't go down without a fight. This, my boy, will take you places. Don't change this part of you for anyone.
I could listen to you laugh for days. I could breathe the smell of your hair in forever. I could hug you for hours, hold you for a lifetime. I could handle you staying this small forever. But you won't, and that's the lovely part of being a kid. I'm so excited about who you are growing up to be. Your dad and I both are. You have a way of making everyone around you smile. People love you, sweet boy, and that makes my heart happier than I can tell you. People can see you how I see you. And you see yourself as a larger-than-life force to be reckoned with. And you are right.
I love you, Hatchie. Always have, always will. Thanks for letting me be your Mom. It's the best job in the world.
Happy birthday, Son.
Mom
A few days ago, you turned two years old. Though it was a quiet day spent at home with the family, you were not at all forgotten. We ate pumpkin cake, we sang to you so many times that you started singing to yourself (and now, days later, still are), you watched as your dad put together your new train set and held your new train cars so tightly in your chubby little hands that I wasn't sure we would ever pry them loose. Your aunts and uncles FaceTimed you throughout the day. You got a lot of lovely messages and phone calls from your family. Your Aunt Leeney brought you ice cream and cookies. You spent the day being loved on, something with which you are quite familiar.
Two years ago, you entered our lives and we were so filled with love. I was still on a high of graduating from school, I was weeks away from starting what I had imagined to be by dream job, and your birth quite literally made me feel like I was going to explode from happiness. You were the proverbial cherry on top. However, the high from your birth has yet to cease. You are still our "baby." Despite the fact that you have a younger sister now, you're still the baby. Despite your newly-acquired, two-year-old attitute and sense of entitlement, you are still the baby. Despite the fact that you do everything in your power to be a big kid, you are still the baby. Our baby.
You may wonder what you were like at two. Let me tell you:
At two, you are quite small, smaller than the vast majority of boys your age: 33 inches tall and 23.6 pounds. You have light/medium auburn hair, shiny and very straight. You have clear, gray eyes and a lovely symmetrical face. You are adorable. You talk a lot...and loudly. You like to do everything by yourself. You want to be just like Leo. You refuse a sippy cup (Baby Milk, you say) and refuse to sit in a high chair (Baby Seat.) You wrestle and jump and bite and kick. You're a little fighter.
But you carry with you an amazing disposition, a life-loving, funny, goofy, charming little boy who just wants things his way and refuses to take "no" for an answer. One of my favorite parts of you is your perseverence and bravery. You are stronger than you realize. When you are charged (and you are a lot, let's be fair) you never show fear. Rather, you puff out your little chest, tuck your chin in, plant your feet, and brace yourself for the hit. You don't go down without a fight. This, my boy, will take you places. Don't change this part of you for anyone.
I could listen to you laugh for days. I could breathe the smell of your hair in forever. I could hug you for hours, hold you for a lifetime. I could handle you staying this small forever. But you won't, and that's the lovely part of being a kid. I'm so excited about who you are growing up to be. Your dad and I both are. You have a way of making everyone around you smile. People love you, sweet boy, and that makes my heart happier than I can tell you. People can see you how I see you. And you see yourself as a larger-than-life force to be reckoned with. And you are right.
I love you, Hatchie. Always have, always will. Thanks for letting me be your Mom. It's the best job in the world.
Happy birthday, Son.
Mom
Monday, October 7, 2013
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