...And then one day, the sweetest baby girl we have officially began to crawl. 

H.B.T.M.

Today was my 34th birthday.  It's also the last year that I will be younger than my mom.  (Not really, of course, but the first time I remember knowing how old my mom was, she was 35. In my young, impressionable, 9 year-old mind, she was forever immortalized as a 35 year-old woman.)

For the 6th year in a row, I didn't get to spend my actual birthday with my husband, but that's not so bad anymore.  It's bummer, yes, but we work around it.  What's more important to note is what I did do today...because it really couldn't have been a better one.

Today, I did absolutely everything I wanted.  

I woke up an hour early, showered, did my face and hair, and drank piping hot coffee all by myself.

I made pancakes!

I wore sparkly jewelry because...why not?

I cleaned this house from top to bottom.  I mean, all the laundry is done and the walls are clean. (As clean as they are going to be, at least.  Some tiny boy at some point found a highlighter, which, to be positive, is better than a Sharpie.)

I got a manicure.  Well, I gave myself a manicure.  Same thing.

I ate a gourmet meal (provided by my mother).  Lobster roll and key lime pie? I mean, come on.  That ranks pretty high on the Perfect Meals for the First Day of Spring list.

I got flowers (x3)!

I made a protein shake in my new blender! (Omg, I really am old.  Because this is a birthday highlight.  And I'm not at all embarrassed.)

I am, at this very moment, enjoying a lovely glass of wine.  It won't be my last.

In a few moments, I'm going to take a hot, steamy, Epsom salt bath.

So, yes, my birthday was simple.  But it was also simply awesome.  I mean that.  I don't mind getting  older one single bit because 1.) I don't actually feel old and 2.) my life just gets better each year.  Eh, I have some tendonitis now and those fine lines around my eyes aren't quite "fine" anymore.  My circle of friends is a bit smaller.  My bright freckles have faded.  I worry a lot.  But I like where I'm heading. I have tendonitis from picking up my beautiful children. The lines around my eyes are from good times that I have had.  The friends I have are ones who know the good, bad, and ugly of me.  Nobody needs freckles.  I worry because I have a lot of people to worry about.  I love where I am in life.  I love the anticipation of where I'm going.  I love the ordinary, not-terribly-exciting business of being a mother, a wife.  I love my life, all thirty-four years of it.  

Shortly after Adam and I got engaged, I turned 26. I remember telling my sister on my birthday that year that it just didn't feel like a regular birthday.  She said, "That's probably because you already have everything you ever wanted."  Yes.  That's where I am at...again...at 34. Job, kids, marriage, family, social life, etc.  I'm where I should be. I couldn't ask for more.  And to those of you who play a big or a small role in the happiness of our lives, thank you. If you're thinking, "Does she mean me?" I assure you that I do.

Cheers to the next 34! 

Happy birthday to me.  Happy, happy indeed. 

Tonight, I go to bed a thirty-three year-old. Not only will I wake up a whole year older tomorrow, but one of my best friends will have welcomed her third baby. And it's the first day of Spring. I bet it's going to be one pretty wonderful day. 

Goodnight. Sweet dreams. 

Irish...Teeth?

May the luck o' the Irish bless this beautiful baby, as it did today with the sprouting of her very first tooth. (This has to be a good omen, right?)

My Boys--A Tale of Appreciation

If you're not feeling especially warm-and-fuzzy today, proceed with caution. 

Today, I was watching my kids play outside. Sweet Annie was in the warm living room squealing about the doll that her Aunt Katie gave her for Christmas, but the boys...the boys...they were hamming it up in the snow.  And they were incredible.

I watched them...really watched them, and I saw that great big vein in Patrick's forehead pop out when he laughed so hard, I thought he would stroke.  I saw the intensity in Hatch's face when he was determined to ride his bike in the snow.  I saw the flash of Leo's eyes when he saw that snowball coming and ducked.  I saw the tears form when he wasn't fast enough.  I saw the tears on Patrick's face when he realized what he did.  I saw the boys.  I saw them as boys. And it was amazing.

These boys aren't just little guys I manage.  They feel things I don't control.  They do things I don't want them to do.  They are creative and intuitive  and clever  and sensitive.  They are all these things I never thought they would be.  Because I never taught them that.  But they are because they are, which is even more impressive.

I love being the mother of boys.  Even now, having a daughter, I really appreciate the difference between the two (although her uniquity and beauty is also in a class of its own.) Boys are pretty straight-forward and their needs are fairly basic, but they aren't always as simple and easy-to-raise as one might lead you to believe.  Sometimes, they really are complex.  (Now, they give love and affection without stipulation or reservation, and, for that, I am grateful.) 

Being the mother of boys: it means knowing they will get hurt and finding peace with that.  It means giving them the freedom to explore and to learn and not pushing your own limits on them.  It means understanding that the penis is probably going to be their favorite toy...from toddlers to adults.  (And it means being comfortable saying the word "penis" at least five times a day.)  It means appreciating the beauty that they are.  They aren't pearls and tutus, but raw, loving, explorative beauty and that is kind of wonderful.  They. Are. Magical. Seriously. If you think about the amount of self-control we require from our boys, you have to agree with me on that. 

Boys...my boys...all boys.  They are incredible little people.  They are smelly  and gross  and way too concerned with who will be tackled next, but there aren't better people I want to raise. Or, to be fair, better people I sometimes want to tackle myself.  

If I could freeze you right now, just this way, I would. Stay good, sweet boys. Stay good.

The Smell of Boys

Oh, the smell of boys when the ground thaws--it's almost ethereal. It's the smell of sweat and dirt and cool air, traces of syrup and shampoo and soap, hints of earthworms and snow, baby wipes and spit. It's the cleaning of faces and hands in a futile attempt to keep the sheets clean when they finally crash. It's the tears of exhaustion when they know it's time to come in. It's them when they are winded, running, cheeks flushed and eyes wild. 

It's one of the most magical scents in the world. Come on and show your face, Spring. The Waldens are ready.

(I'm breathing it all in today. The boys have been playing for hours. It's sixty-one degrees and sunny. The windows are open and I'm scrubbing walls and windows and floors.  It's an excellent day.)

Ash Wednesday

Today, I woke up early with the kids and we all went to Mass together.  (All of us.  I was outnumbered by three very small people. Surprisingly, however, we did ok.  One hymnal may have lost a page or two, but otherwise, it was a success.)

Disregard my digression.  My point here is this:

This morning, I went to Mass with the kids.  And I am so glad I did.  You see, there is something about Lent that I love, that I have always loved.  I could never say exactly why I loved Lent so much; perhaps because it's when the snow melts and Spring creeps in, or because I really love seafood, or maybe because my birthday almost always falls within Lent, but those reasons were never quite good enough.  I remember telling someone recently that it was because there was something very clean about Lent.  As hard as I tried, I couldn't describe it any further.

Today, Fr. Kevin did it for me. It clicked.  I love Lent because it's when I re-evaluate my life, specifically my interaction with God and with my family and peers.  It's when I take a much-needed break from the very public and very deceiving world of social media.  It's when I clean out the cobwebs of my soul and scrub it clean.  (As clean as I can get it, at least.) He compared it to nurturing a hobby or collection, always cleaning and reorganizing and trying to get it "just right." I can relate to that.  (Might I say how much I adore Fr. Kevin? When we got up to him in line--ALL of us, once for ashes, once for Communion, he was so patient and so kind, and even mouthed "good job," as I herded them back to our seats for the second time. He's truly wonderful.)

And I'm no saint.  The ashes on my forehead today signified that.  They aren't a proclamation of my religion, they are an attestment to my faults. I have judged others, fallen prey to speculation, been short with my family, and not followed through with promises. I have failed 100 times over...and probably just this week, but I know my own heart and I know I try to do good.  I really do.  These next 47 days, I get to try harder.  Not for you, not for me, but for the act of giving alms.  And there is something humbling and refreshing and truly amazing about that.

So, rather than give up anything specifically, this Lent I will focus on the three pillars, the building blocks of this favorite season of mine:

1.) Prayer

2.) Fasting

3.) Almsgiving

(There is something amazing about a good Lenten Fish Fry, too. Prayer and Almsgiving aside, let's not lose sight of the tradition of fried fishy goodness. And cobbler.  Oh, and beer.)

"What I want is so simple, I almost can't say it; elementary kindness." -Barbara Kingsolver