It's Tuesday night and Adam is out of town. The kids were craaaaaazzzzy tonight, so they ate, bathed, read books, and went to bed. This left a lot of free time for me. So I knitted a little, drank myself some cinnamon tea, decorated gift tags with my new dipped pen, caught up on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, did not drink a drop of wine (because I had my share this weekend...and I still need some distance), and now I'm soaking in a giant, boiling hot bathtub. This should be amazing.

But. I'm. Just. So. Bored. 

Ugh. Boredom. It's the devil's playground. I miss Adam. 

So, let's talk about good things. 

1.) My Christmas shopping is done! I bought Adam's final gift tonight. From Amazon. For which he receives the shipping receipts. $&@?!  Regardless, he'll still have to open it on Christmas morning and put on a good show for the kids. Problem solved. 

2.) Patrick is singing in the choir at Mass on Christmas Eve this year. 100% his decision, which makes it even more special. He refuses to sing in front of either me or Adam, but I got a note home from his music teacher that he sang solo in front of his entire class this week. Amazing! Every single request for a repeat performance for us has been adamantly denied. :-/

3.) Annie is walking! And talking (hi, yes, Mama, Dad, done). She's finally getting some hair...slowly, but it's growing in thick and dark (like her mama! Finally!) She's precious. A little doll. And so tiny, I can barely resist the urge to pick her up and squeeze her, though she's just about had her fill of that nonsense. 

4.) Hatchie is terrible. The worst. (Ok, no, that's not true. He's wonderful...wonderfully bad. Like the mischievous little elves scattering every Facebook and Instagram feed. Just like that. But chubby and squeezable and cute.) 

5.) And Leo. Sweet Leo. We moved him from one school to another a few months ago, which seemed dramatic at the time, but was THE BEST move we could have made for our little guy. Suddenly, he's learning all sorts of things, gaining all sorts of confidence, and his tears, the super-sensitive breakdowns, are almost a thing of the past. Finally...FINALLY, I feel as though he may be ready for Kindergarten in the fall. (Sidenote: the old school is not releasing to me his preschool photos. For which I paid. Certainly, that's not acceptable, right? I didn't think so, either.)

6.) And me. I'm restless. Can you tell? I need a solid blanket of snow, the new year, an adjustment in attitude, and Adam to come home and stay a while. A healthy dose of Christmas cheer. A makeover. Or, I just need to go to sleep a little earlier tonight and pull myself together in the morning. And to get out of this tub because I am sweating bullets and I'm certain there is a good Lifetime movie starting in 20 minutes. (Maybe these solo nights aren't actually the worst.)

Happy December to you!

❤️

It's Our Anniversary

Today, we've been married eight years. Eight. And, though it hasn't been all unicorns and puppy noses, it's been so worth it. Together, we just make sense, even when I wish we wouldn't (which I've done. Really.)

If I was equipped on that altar eight years ago with the knowledge of what our life would be now, here is what I would vow:

I vow to be the person who makes your home a happy place.

I vow to speak well of you to our children so that they know that we're a united force.

I vow to trust you in all things.

I vow to try to not always need the final word. (I said try.)

I vow to love you when I don't feel like it.

I vow to love you when you don't feel like it.

I vow to keep laughing with you.

I vow to shut the bathroom door.

I vow to keep the "for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health."

I vow to keep your pants off the floor and off the living room furniture, even though I hate picking them up. 

I vow to not touch your electronics.

Or the lawn mower.

I vow to grow old together with a sense of humor about our changing appearances.

I vow to always love your chest hair.

I vow to cut you a break when I know you need it. 

I vow to help lighten your load at home and at work.

I vow to proofread all of your work emails and correct your wording and punctuation.

I vow to keep working on us always because there is not another life parter on this planet who can make me feel the way you do. 

To my kids and to my husband, thank you for being my entire world. In this home and with you is my favorite place to be. Always.

Life has been good to us.

Dear Kids:

The One About Adam

Adam has been home with our family for ten days in a row. Ten days. And, maybe that doesn't seem like a lot, but if you are married to a Road Warrior like I am, perhaps you can understand the sense of calm and entirety and family-ness that has settled over this house. It's, more than anything, reassuring.

I made the resolution this year to make it all about Adam. To watch my words and actions and to go out of my way to show him how much I appreciate him (which I do, enormously.) It lasted about six months.  As his business trips started to pile up and our phone conversations grew shorter and shorter while our independent task lists grew longer and longer, and our time together was an hour this week maybe an hour next, I couldn't help but to get angry. Resentful. To feel sorry for myself. I still feel that way sometimes. And, as completely ungrateful and spoiled as that makes me sound, it's life. Just how it is. 

This year was a hard one. (I'd use stronger language than that if it wouldn't offend). The hardest yet, I would argue, but I remember the same feeling settling in last Fall, as Adam started to show his face more (by no fault of his own.) The sense of relief having a second person around sometimes still brings tears to my eyes. It's hard being a single parent to four little kids. They're fantastic kids, but it's still really, really hard. One person to discipline, to kiss boo-boos, to bathe, get dressed, get them out of the house on time. One person to make appointments, keep deadlines, volunteer at school parties, sign permission slips. One person to do homework, read books, make dinner and clean up. One person tucking in, soothing nightmares, doing laundry, picking up toys, and starting all over again in the morning. Every day. And it's terribly lonely. I think that's the worst part--the loneliness. I give people credit who do it more than I do. Seriously, I'm not that strong. 

My mother and sister, "my people," I call them, are awesome at knowing when I'm hours away from breaking and, without fail, would rush in to help without asking. And, reluctantly, I'd let them because I needed, needed, needed them. True and ugly detail: I'd usually cry in the car at some point while running errands because I would feel so guilty about leaving the kids. Because, as crazy as I would feel sometimes, they're quite literally the best part of every day, and it felt terrible needing to part from them for an hour. Like an addict, I tell you. I mean, really.

One particular trip, one when my Mom came to watch the kids so that I could pick up supplies for A's birthday, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had bought kohl eyeliner and dyed my hair red. I looked like a 30-something who was going through something, which, to be truthful, I was. It made me feel super-shitty. Like I was barely making it, which wasn't true at all. At least, now I can see it because I'm not in the middle of losing my sh*t. I rocked it out this summer. As hard as it was and as lonely as I got, I rocked that sh*t out. No shame, I tell you. (Also, my hair is dark again. We can all breathe a sigh of relief.)

And Adam, the work-until-you-can't-and-then-work-a-little-more type, well, I'm lucky I married him. Given the alternative, someone who can't really find the drive to work, it could be much worse. It always could. But Adam is great...er, the greatest. He is. He always wears cologne, has the best body temperature and the best laugh, and is a terrible gift-giver (it's actually really cute). He even tolerates my need for late-night horror movies and daytime reality TV. I should be nicer to him. And, with our anniversary approaching, I'm trying to find ways to be super-nice to him. After all, his months spent tirelessly traveling aren't really a walk in the park for him. I give him a hard time and I shouldn't. Sigh. I could use a little understanding here.

We're lucky we have each other. And the kids. We're a good family. We're winging it about 85% of the time and are always under-prepared, but the one great gift our kooky schedules give us is the endless appreciation of our time spent together. We're super-close. Figuratively and literally. (The best thing we've ever been called is "Mrs. Walden and her little ducklings." Wherever I go, the kids swarm right around my legs like a skirt. They don't stray far.)  And, right now, Adam and I are curled up on the couches, waiting to get our scary-show fix. Gotta jet. American Horror Story. Even sometimes-scared Adam is hooked.

We're together. So, we're good. Life goes on.

Later, gators.

The One About Hatch.

It's funny, actually, that the three times I have sat down to write words about our third son, our new three-year-old, the most gregarious and word-worthy, I have so few to write. You'd think this post would go on for days, but I just can't find the right words to accurately describe our boy or the ways he enriches our lives.

The words aren't doing him justice. But I will try.

There was something about him when he was born, just like there has been for all of the kids. There was the sudden awareness of a new person, a personality bigger than we were. He was beautiful. The smallest of all of the kids, and the fiercest, most intense (and longest) delivery. All of which came to be very telling, now that we know him well. 

Hatch is small. Tiny, in fact. But he opens his mouth and everyone stops to listen. He's got the vocabulary of a four year old, the voice of a two year old. He's probably as quick-witted as they come with the memory of an elephant and the sting of a bee. When I watch him, I get the feeling he is everything I'm not and I find myself in awe of how his brain works. 

Hatch doesn't give a s$&@ what you think about him, his confident oozes from every single pore. He does what he wants, unapologetically, and may or may not ask for forgiveness later (usually not, let's be honest.)  He pulls pranks all day long, disrupting every second of calm just because he can. He's not fussy, not a cry-er. Never has been. I can count on one hand the number of times that kid fussed at all as an infant.)  He's a do-er, a determined little boy who doesn't care at all that he's smaller than everyone else. He cares that he's more capable, and works all day to prove it. He uses his love as leverage, knows not a single obstacle, and craves a good challenge. He's our guard dog, ready to speak up if he feels wronged or threatened. Try to insult him (his brothers do constantly), and he couldn't care less. He knows. He just knows he's great the way he is. He's such an amazing kid, a blessing in every sense of the word, an integral part of our family puzzle. He's admired and adored. And he's three.

We love him fiercely. Because that's the kind of loving Hatchie understands. 

And, because what I have to say about him isn't enough, I give you his theme song. By Weezer. (No, I'm serious. If you take the time to listen to the song, you'll get it.) 

I love him. We all do. In a million ways, for a million reasons, few days pass by without me thanking God for this incredible kid. We needed him. Still do. 

I pray that God continue to bless William Hatcher Walden, though I have a feeling there is a good plan in place for him. I have an even stronger feeling he knows that, too.

Imma do the things that I want to do.

I ain't got a thing to prove to you.

I'll eat my candy with the pork and beans.

Excuse my manners if I make a scene.

I ain't gonna wear the clothes that you like, 

I'm fine and dandy with the me inside.

One look in the mirror and I'm tickled pink,

I don't give a hoot about what you think. 

-Pork and Beans (Weezer, 2008).

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.