On The Radio

This is how it works:

You're young until you're not.

You love until you don't.

You try until you can't.

You laugh until you cry.

You cry until you laugh.

And everyone must breathe until their dying breath.

No, this is how it works: 

You peer inside yourself.

You take the things you like,

And try to love the things you took.

And then you take that love you made

And stick it into some,

someone else's heart,

pumping someone else's blood.

And walking arm in arm,

You hope it don't get harmed.

But even if it does,

you'll just do it all again.

Annie's Day

It's the light that I think of most when I look back on that day.  The sun was so bright and our room, the delivery room, was positioned in such away that the sun shined directly in the windows.  The room was so cheerful, jovial, relaxed.  I was very concerned about having forgotten my mascara.  Adam was sound asleep on the bench below the window. Colleen dropped by just to say hello and the doctor arrived just about the same time. He asked if I could give him a practice push, stopped me about halfway through, took his glasses off, put his gloves on, and there was Annie.  

That was it.  Easy, happy, bright, relaxed, matter-of-fact.  And so is she. Dr. Payne announced what she was, Adam cried, I laughed (and said something like, "You did it!" to Adam) and, just like that, we changed forever.  The following days were ethereal. I can't think of another way to describe them. I was so happy. She made everyone step it up a notch. She made us feel so complete. I couldn't wait for the world to meet her.  One of my favorite photos from the day she was born is of Adam's family standing around her isolet, looking at her with glee.  Because that's how we looked at her, too. She was one of our greatest blessings. 

Now, as a one-year-old, Annie continues to bring us so much joy.  She adores her dad, asking for him several times a day. She thinks it's funny to shake her head 'no,' claps whenever anyone says "yaaaayyyyy!," waves hello and goodbye. She needs her "ruffles" to sleep (a little ruffled blanket gifted to her by my mom), gives hugs, and doesn't really care to share our attention.  She is as fancy as we thought she'd be, though she doesn't yet have much of a say in that. She's a pearl-wearing, loud- giggling, sparkles-loving, open-mouth-kiss-giving, tiny-footed little girl.  She's magic.

Today isn't as painful as I thought it would be, now that it's here. Last night was a little sad.  I put Annie down as my only baby.  She grabbed her ruffles, laid her head down, stuck her little butt up in the air, and closed her eyes.  Then she sat upright, put one hand up on her crib rail and watched me as I walked out of the room. I closed the door and closed my eyes, too, trying to freeze time right then--trying to burn that image into my memory. But time didn't freeze and, now, I realize that that's okay.

What this year brings and the next and the next, it will all be exciting.  I know that for certain. My baby woke up still a baby.  (She doesn't walk.  She's still a baby.) I put her in a cute peach outfit with gray chevron leg warmers and a knotted headband.  She giggled and clapped all through breakfast.  She nursed with vigor.  She ate a bagel, played with her brothers, examined her new toys with great curiosity.  For her, today is a great day.  It is for me, too.  It's her day.  Annie's day.

Happy birthday, sweet girl.  Thank you for one of the best years of my life.  

We loved you then, love you still, always have, always will.

❤️

This week, we're prepping for the birthday party. That is, amid the pre-school orientation, the meet-the-teacher day, the new cleaning lady starting, my sweet niece spending most of the week with us, this stupid incontinent dog, and our first week of homework, we're doing the best we can. 

And, by we, I mean me. Adam is in California. Of course. (Which isn't to say he wouldn't rather be here, just that he isn't, which is a whole other post. Maybe later.)

But, here I sit, sweating bullets after cleaning the toy pit we call a basement and painting two walls (after trying to clean up some spots turned out a little disastrous.) The favors are done, menu compete, inside decorations done, final arrangements made with a helpful caterer. (The cake was cancelled. Womp, Womp. We'll make do.) And for naught, because Annie bounces around without a care in the world, the least of which her birthday. I do it because I love it and I love her and because that girl deserves a party. And, to be perfectly honest, so do I. 

With every speck of glitter (and there are lots of those) and every pshhh of the spray adhesive can, every brush stroke of paint, every revision of shoes, of dress, of absolutely anything, I tell myself it's worth it. And it is. We all do it. 

To be honest, the party isn't really for her. It's for us...for another first year complete, for first milestones, captured and not, for the passing of the seasons and the integration of our daughter into the family. And those reasons alone are enough to celebrate, and although she hasn't a single opinion or worry about her party, it's actually fine because her "day" is actually "our" day. Our day to show our family and friends, "Here she is, our daughter, and we all made it through this year. Isn't she perfect?" And they all say, "Yes, she is." 

And we'll all sing a little song and have a shot of fireball whiskey and eat some cake...er, cupcakes.

Details to come!

It's the Urine

Undoubtedly, shortly after announcing your first pregnancy, someone will try to gross you out by telling you baby poop stories. Exploding diapers. Diaperless exploding babies. "I hope you like to be ankle-deep in poop." You get the picture. Here is the truth: it's all a lie. It's not the poop. 

It's the urine. 

(Help me, God, that I'm writing about this. As I type, my lactose-intolerant son just sh*t his pants for the fourth time today, the fifth in 24 hours, because I thought he'd be fine with a small glass of chocolate milk last night. So, know that dealing with some poop is required. Let us not downplay that.)

But back to the issue at hand. I'm doing the breaststroke in urine, I feel. 

It started with our incontinent dog. Yes, I know that this is about peeing kids, but if you follow the rules of suburban family life, you have a dog, too, and when that dog gets old and grumpy, he stops giving a sh*t. (I'd watch my language if I wasn't so completely disgusted and frustrated.) Indy walks through the house and trickles pee. He prefers the carpet to anything that would require just a simple wipe-up. If you leave him outside too long, he'll squat right next to the baby and (you guessed it) urinate with joy. Herein lies my love-hate relationship with this dog.

Then, the kids. I have potty-trained three of them. Even Hatch, who will be three in two short months, is trained, even through the night. Yet, there are the accidents. My oldest calls them "pee dreams." (My husband says he remembers pee dreams. I have never in my life had a pee dream. But, as one would guess, they make you pee.) So, at least once a week, someone pees. On his mattress. Then, strips out of the pee pants, hides them someplace good, changes into clean pants and crawls in bed with us. Only when the wafting smell of sour and musky urine catches my nose several days later are the hidden pee pants discovered and, by then, the guilty party forgets who did it. It's the perfect plan. 

Recently, while stuck in traffic in a very long road trip, one of the boys had to pee. We couldn't pull over. We had an empty bottle. You know where this is going. It started off well, until we hit the world's smallest bump, sending a powerful and perfectly-arching stream of urine sideways, dousing Annie's car seat...and her face. She was screaming her face off, he was crying, my mother couldn't stop laughing, and my eardrums were bleeding. Stupid pee.

Hatch, the sweet (ok, that's a lie, too, he's the cutest little jerk in town) toddler, has inherited my sleep-walking. It's not terrible. Creepy, but not bad. Except, Hatch's version of sleepwalking includes urinating. On the couch and carpet. While Adam watches helplessly and confused.

Here is where things just fall apart. 

All I smell is pee. I've cleaned the carpets twice. I do laundry with fervor. I'm constantly toileting the kids and the dog and still...I can't stop smelling pee. I think it's absorbed into my mucus membranes. I find myself saying more than I should, "Why does this feel damp?" I will say it again, I am swimming in urine. And, truth be told, I'd rather it be poop. 

So, there is the truth. When people jokingly refer to the unappealing voiding habits of infants and children, what they mean to tell you is: that adorable little creature is going to cover everything you own in urine. And there is nothing you can do about it. 

And you will love them anyway. Because, urination and all, they are awesome. Event the sleepwalking-while-peeing ones. Even them. Just don't get super-attached to your carpeting, because it's getting ripped out with a vengeance when they hit middle school. I promise.

The Journal

Several weeks ago, I bought Patrick a little journal. He loves to write sweet notes in it and we got in the habit of writing each other short messages back and forth.

I luv you, Mom.

I love you, too, Patrick. You're a good boy. 

Thank you for brekfest.  It was good. 

Thank you for cleaning the basement. You did a great job!

You get the picture. Today, his journal actually had entries; simply adorable entries that I have to savor for a few minutes today, on his first day of first grade. 

I woke up in the morning. I ate in the morning. I did everything. I got scared at nighttime because I want to marry you, marry you, marry you. I love you, love you, love, love, love you. 

I love him, love him, love, love, love him. 

Update: I was informed yesterday afternoon that this is a song he's writing and I wasn't supposed to know about it until he "finds the right voice to sing it." Therefore, pretend for his sake that you never read that, either.

Here's my sweet boy on the first day of school, 2014.