The Art of Being Quiet

I title this post, as if I have some insight into this.  Here is the truth: 


I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO DO THIS.


So, I'm working on it.  This year, especially, I feel a calling to be quiet and to listen.  As I sit and watch helplessly as my loved ones are hurting and faltering, as I wait impatiently for the members of my own house to see me, I just want to scream and tell everyone how to feel and what to do.  That's, in fact, what I am good at.  Rather, that's what I would typically do. Because I don't think anyone is really "good" at those things.  Nobody wins by oversharing.  I'm sure not. I don't know if I ever have.


So, this year, I'm practicing the art of being quiet.  And, I shit you not, this is HARD.  It's hard.  I type and erase text messages and emails.  I compose many arguments in the shower (obviously, I win them all).  I bite my tongue when my instinct is to just. say. something.  Anything.  Make a poignant point.  Point them in the right direction.  Because I'm good at being right, don't they know that?  Don't they know?


Nope, they don't.  Because I'm not.  And this wretched self-awareness is really a buzz-kill, but I'm going to keep trying.  And I'm going to keep this mouth shut, if it takes everything I've got. 

2019

Here it is, 2019.  And here I sit, writing something for my long-ago forgotten blog, one I used to keep up with vigor, and now is a ghost of my past.  And there is almost certainty that nobody reads this anymore, so here, I will type.


As the New Year is upon us, I am so looking forward to a fresh start and a proverbial clean slate.  I can almost feel it, and if wet, white paint and its accompanying fumes had a feeling, that would be it.  New beginnings and habits (haha), new focus, purging of things we don't need, rebuilding things broken long ago, and looking forward to all the good that is coming.  Because it is.


2018 was not our year.  It could have been, I suppose, if we would have made different choices, parented better, communicated better, made any sort of effort to understand each other, and tried our hardest not to just live parallel to one another.  But Adam and I?  We didn't do that.  We spent our twelfth anniversary in a blow-out fight, which is actually perfect because it sums up who we were last year.  Stubborn, arrogant, full of solutions ONLY if those solutions left one of us the victor and the other the wrong-doer.  Oh, hindsight.


And though we weren't heading toward the D-word, for the first time in our marriage, it was easy to imagine us there.  That idea would keep me up choking on my thoughts at night.  And there were reasons we were in the shape we were.  My focus wasn't on us, but on helping family members who needed me more.  I lent out our home and my time and gave away our money the better part of the year, and Adam didn't understand how anyone else could have slid into my #1 priority slot.  I couldn't understand what he couldn't see.  I was giving every ounce I had of myself away, and how could he not see that I needed more from him?  But he was annoyed, angry, unhappy at my distance.  I was hurt, even more angry, and resentful that he couldn't do what I was doing, and slowly, we just quit talking. 


And if you know Adam and me, that isn't like us.  We're loving and affectionate, we talk several times a day.  We send ridiculous texts to each other just to get a laugh. We LOVE each other, in the verb-iest sense of that word.  And I don't know when things changed, probably gradually, definitely peaking and plateauing sometime around July 4th, and finally settled down now.  Now, at the end of the year.  Now, with new beginnings ahead of us. 


It took nothing at all from us.  Mostly a tearful, "I don't want to be mad at you all the time," and something in Adam changed.  It wasn't dramatic.  Not some big talk or resolution.  Just a simple, "I need you to show up."  And so, he did.  Because if there is anything I know about Adam, it's that he loves us.  He does.  Sometimes, he forgets to remember and sometimes he forgets to show it, but I know he does.  And he's shown up every single day.  Sometimes, he'll fold a load of laundry.  Other times, come lay next to me on the couch when he knows I'm already half asleep.  "This year is our year," he said on New Year's Day.  Maybe it is.  "Maybe we should renew our vows," he said. 


And I laughed.  "Maybe we should see how this year goes." 


Happy New Year, to those who will probably never read this.  May your fresh, wet, white-painted beginnings be as beautiful as you imagine. 


Love.

Date of Origin: September 12, 2017.

The last two weeks have been devastatingly sad and encouragingly optimistic and overwhelmingly humbling all-in-one-go. And though I don't know that anyone reads this any longer, I felt it was worth documenting, at the very least, where we Waldens are at right now.

My friend's baby died two weeks ago.  Almost three weeks, I guess.  I don't know...time has kind of moved like sludge since then.  This beautiful girl was a month or so younger than Eve and her mama and I spent many an overnight working together during our pregnancies.  It was her first and my fifth, but we still compared symptoms and woes.  We talked about all the exciting things and looked through beautiful ruffled outfits and registries together.  We would ultrasound ourselves and each other to peek at our sweet ones' faces.  She was due March 21st, I was due February 1st.  Eve was born January 27th and Ziyah was born March 1st.  And, one night, both of our babies laid down to sleep and only one woke up.  Just typing that made me fall apart on the inside.  If it affects me that deeply, I simply cannot imagine how my friend must feel.  And yet, I think about her and her baby every. single. day.  More than once.  I can't seem to put my littlest girl down.  I can't stop watching her breathe or smelling her skin.  I can't stop trying to imagine how my friend must feel and then crying with hurt. I can't stop my brain from working like that and I can't stop wondering when life will go back to how it was.

Except, I know that it won't.  Because I've been in a similar position before, and I remember thinking the same thing.  And life doesn't ever return to how it was because the feelings don't go away.  The what-ifs and the beautiful memories and the painful thoughts, they linger.  You don't ever really forget the way that life hands out unfairities and expects us to move along.  You just learn to accept it, I guess.  But it doesn't stop hurting just because you want it to.

Beyond that, school (did I tell you I was back in it?) is getting me down.  And the constant cleaning and running errands and wishing I had time to paint and redecorate and reorganize.  Wishing for something more than I have, which is ridiculous.  It's shameful.  But...it's me.

And, so, here I am, wallowing in hurt that doesn't even really belong to me, except that I can relate to some degree, and I'm surrounded (literally, on all sides) by the very best things that life has to offer.  The very best.

Adam and I went to a concert together last week.  And, though that's not really out-of-the-ordinary, we had the most wonderful time.  Like, the MOST wonderful time.  And, that night, I resigned myself to the fact that our family really was done growing (at least that we plan for) because I had forgotten what we were like alone.  And, honestly, I really like Adam.  I love him, of course.  But, beyond that, I really like him.  I like what he has to say and how he says it.  I like the way he laughs and how he's SO laid back about everything.  (I mean, really, it would be annoying if he wasn't so damn cute.)  Adam is the best husband.  He's the best friend.  And the best dad.  He's the best.  I'm glad he's mine.  My first blessing.

And Patrick, halfway-to-grown with a charming little giggle and an otherwise-serious demeanor - he's my second.

Leo, the pretty one, with the most sensitive heart (oh, but the tears...ugh), and the most loving acts, he's my third.

William, his wild eyes dancing and his particular and peculiar ways-of-living, my fourth.

Annemarie, with her passion for fashion and her sharp-witted-tongue, fifth.

And, Eve, she's my sixth.  My sixth perfectly-timed blessing.  And, since you do not know much about her, let me fill you in:

Eve is seven months old and so very soft.  She's so happy, so quietly happy with her giant smile and silent laugh.  She does speak a little, "mama" and "dada" and "hi" and "baba."  She claps her hands and kicks like crazy when something makes her happy, and that's almost always.  She's physical, climbing and crawling and cruising around furniture.  (She started to crawl just before she turned six months.  Later that month, she pulled herself up.) She likes to rest her forehead against my lips and sit motionless.  She'll sleep just like that all night long.  She makes my heart so very happy, and I still hold hers over mine just to feel them beating together.  She really is "mine," in that nobody can make her as happy as I do.  And nobody in the entire world loves me the way that girl does, I cannot begin to tell you what that feels like.  Happiness.  It feels like happiness.

Despite all this, I'm still wrapped in an itchy anxiety blanket, wishing I could will myself to feel the way I want to - grateful, that is.  And it's not that I don't see how lucky I am, but that I can't shake this unsettled feeling long enough to actually see the big picture.

And that is where I am. 

Bless.

Leo Walden is Seven and Spectacular

Leo is seven.  Seven years old.

He's magic and courage and bravery and humor and selflessness and beauty in a perfect little seven-year-old package.

Here is how he is now, as my (still) little Leo.

Leo Walden's Seventh Birthday Interview

1.) How old are you going to be? Six. What? Six? No, seven.

2.) Do you know when you're going to be seven? Four more days.

3.) When is your birthday? April 30th...I don't know the year.

4.) How does it feel to be almost seven? Good. Fine.

5.) How will your birthday be? Awesome. Because I'll have cake.

6.) How do you think the weather will be on your birthday? Sunny! Sunny and warm.

7.) What is the most important thing you have learned in life so far? Being smart.

8.) How do think you're different than you were a year ago? Small?  I mean, I'm not small now. Short.  But not now.

9.) What is your favorite thing about yourself? I'm really smart. And I have a good teacher.

10.) That's it? Yeah.

11.) You are in kindergarten this year. How do you like it? It's good.  No awesome. Because I learn stuff and I play with my friends.

12.) Who is your best friend? Tyler B.

13.) What is one thing you like to learn about? I like to learn about animals. My favorite animal is a lion,

14.) Is there anything you would do to make school better? Oh, man. We'd have a pool.

15.) Tell me about our family. What? That I have a mom and dad and brothers? Oh, and I have sisters. They are all really nice. We go to the pool and the zoo and we do a lot of cool stuff.

16.) What do you like about being a big brother? Umm...I like taking care of my little twins.
       Your twins? No, I mean my little brother and sister.  Well, my two little sisters...and little my brother.

17.) If you had a whole day to do anything you wanted, what would you do? I would go to the park and eat cheeseburgers.

18.) What is your favorite song? Shut Up and Dance.

19.) What is your favorite movie? Moana.

20.) What is your favorite book? Diary of a Wimpy Kid

21.) What is your favorite toy? Tiny remote-controlled cars

22.) What do you want to be when you grow up? A mascot. Probably a lion.  A guy who cheers for sports in a lion costume.

23.) Do you think you will ever get married? Oh, yes.

24.) How old do you think you'll be when you get married? Probably 39.

25.) What have you learned about girls this year? They are so pretty.

26.) What is your favorite food? Cheeseburgers.

27.) What is your favorite candy? Ice cream.  Pretty sure that is a candy.

28.) Are you scared of anything? I'm scared of bats. They fly past you in the dark.

29.) Is there anything else you'd like to say? Bats are black. Also, we're having a pool party.  I actually do want a pool party. Can we have a pool party?

All By Myyyseeelllfff - Nope. That's a Lie.

Eve Cahill is two months old today.  Two months of glorious living, and, I have to say, I adore her.  I adore her in that way where I hold her little body just so that her heart is directly over mine just to feel them both beat and I breathe in her neck at least 50 times a day and I miss her when she's sleeping or when I leave the room.  I adore her when she's crying and she reacts to the sound of my voice and in the wee hours of the morning when she nudges me and smacks her lips to tell me that she is hungry.  We're in that kind of obsession mode.  And, I'm happy to report that our little Ebba (did you know that was a nickname for Eve? Me, either) feels the same about me.  And Leo.  She feels the same about me and Leo.  The rest of the family (Adam included) are kind of like pleasant extras and not really necessities in her little world. And this works out okay for now, because here is how life has changed in the last two months:

I am never alone.  Not ever.  Not for ten minutes.  I'm never alone.  I think, when someone asks, "what's it like having five kids?" that would be my go-to answer.   Last night, there were six people and one dog in my bed.  And I have a big bed.  But it's not that big with seven mammals in it.  And this weekend, Adam I went out for my birthday (and, note: if there is anything Adam does really well, it's date night) and our littlest one came along.  She came to a brewery tap room and out to a fancy dinner.  I nursed her with a bucket of champagne and two flutes on the table.  There is a bouncy-seat in my bathroom where Eve sits while I shower and get ready (because her well-meaning sister is rough).  There is a swing in the kitchen, where she sits while I prepare meals.  Inevitably, Hatch or Annie are on my heels during every waking hour and Eve, well, she's usually in my arms, save the two times mentioned above.  And I think I could be alone, for, say five minutes, if I really tried, but I don't care much.  I like to have the kids close.  And, since I'm raising a crew of intensely affectionate children, this works out well for all of us.

But, aside from that, things here are pretty much the same.  I'm ridiculously happy.  The kids are adjusting well.  I'm trying to cope with the post-baby body; the soft parts that shouldn't be so soft and the other parts that are just...so...big.  (My boobs.  There were big before.  They are enormous now.)  But that's the trade-off, right?  I get this perfect little girl instead of a reasonably-proportioned midsection.  I'll say that's fair.

For record keeping, here are the memorable bits of Eve at two months:
10lbs, 7oz, 22in
Has new hair, a beautiful auburn (but a little scant on the top and full in the back)
Has a fierce stork-bite over the back of her neck, over her right eye, under her nose, and between her eyebrows.  
Has short little fingers (like me!)
Has two toes that never quite separated all the way (also like me)
Loves to be talked to
Loves to be sung to even more
Nurses on demand...and demands a lot.  
Is, at this moment, sound asleep in my arms.  She's been like this since we came home from the doctor's today.  She'll probably be like this all night long.  And that's okay...I didn't have any plans anyway.  This is a good way to spend a Monday.

Let Me Introduce Myself

Hello.

My name is Catherine.  Catie, for short.  I'm 36 years old, married to the best man I've ever known and the mother of his five children.  I'm a nurse, a Catholic-school mom, a chauffeur at least seven times a week, and an avid browser on Amazon.  And, once upon a time, I had a blog.

For months and months, I've mentally prepared posts I wanted to write.  I've wanted to document major life events, chronicle the little ones that are sure to be forgotten, and keep up what was once a great past-time for me.  And then, I didn't.  I got really busy.  And that is sad and unfair because a lot of good stuff happened this year, and now nobody will ever know.

Ok, that's not true.  But it's not written and that sucks.  Especially for Eve, who is now the second of our kids (second only to Patrick, who was born before this blog existed) to not have her entire existence documented, even in utero.  But I'll get back to her.

When this blog first started, I had a lot to write.  I was 28 years old and I knew a lot.  Or I thought I did.  Rather, I had opinions and beautified memories to share and, as time has gone on, I've second-guessed those instincts.  I know less now than I did then.  I've made more mistakes.  I've learned a lot about myself.  And, though good, that set me back a bit.  My confidence has wavered.  I'm not who I was.

I took a new job in leadership last year.  I didn't want to, and I turned it down twice before I eventually said yes.  (That doesn't seem like enough to change a person, does it?  Maybe I'll look back on it and think the same thing one day.  I hope.)  At first, it was terrifying.  And then too good to be true.  And then terrifying again, too much stress and time.  But I loved it.  I felt good about myself, like I was finally figuring things out.  I was learning a lot about potential and passion and strengths and growth and I felt like a million dollars.  But I worked like crazy and I missed my kids.  And then, it seemed my world came crashing down.

I stepped down from that job.  It wasn't meant to be, I told myself.  I wanted to be with my kids.  I didn't want to stress about who was watching them or how I was missing another sick-kid pick-up.  It probably was the best opportunity I've been given (career-wise), and I turned it down.  I told myself it would be better for everyone if I passed on that job and let someone who was ready for that commitment go for it.  I wanted to be true to the self that I knew, not the one that I was just meeting.  And, so that's what I did.

And that made me cry.  I hated my job.  Hated it.  I cried some more.  All the work I had done was undone, I felt.  I was black-balled, in a sense, and kept out of things I once had a strong handle on.  And nobody cared but me, it seemed.  Maybe that's true, maybe it isn't, but I couldn't approach the job the same after that. It hurt me to my core.

I thought I knew who I was and what I wanted, but I wasn't sure.  I'm always sure about decisions, but not now.  Now is different.

And then came a reassuring whisper.  God wasn't subtle, but He was quiet.  In a silent breakroom on a sunny day in May, I found out that I was pregnant.  I wasn't supposed to be, we weren't planning on it, and we had relied on reasonable Catholic-approved methods to make sure we weren't going to be growing our family again.  Despite that, God gave us another child.  And that solidified my path.  It was a reminder of what I was really meant to be doing.  Maybe the work I had done made me feel good about myself, but maybe it wasn't about me.  Maybe it never was.  And so, I surrendered to that.

That brings me to Eve.  Eve Cahill Walden was born January 27th at 8:22 in the morning.  Her delivery was beautiful and brisk.  Her arrival was joyful and calm...anticipated for months.  Her existence was a surprise, but her being here...it's magic.  I tell her all day how much I love her, and yet, that doesn't really seem to describe how I feel.  This is what I was meant to do...to be with her.  With all of them, really.  My five children.  My dream team.  They brought me back here - back to my little, simple blog with the outdated layout, made back when we were just three.  When I was just getting started, that is where I want to be again.

This blog brings me a bit of peace, like writing letters that my children will one day read.  I miss keeping up with it.  It may be painful to pick it back up, and maybe I'll struggle with the writing, but I'll stick it out if you will.

Bless.

In my Cocoon

Yesterday, the kids wanted nothing but to lay with me. To cook with me.  To talk to me.  To be my "special helper."  To sit next to me at the dinner table.  And it was like that the day before, and the day before that.  And, to be truthful, I was probably a bit annoyed, at least part of the time.  I desperately wanted to take a bath in peace, to watch a movie not intended for kids, to clean a room uninterrupted.  But I couldn't.

Because, right now, we live in a little cocoon.  A little nest that we built and rarely venture out from.  We stay within feet of each other, all the time.  Our furniture wears out three times as fast as it should, because we live on it.  Together.  The older boys go to school, but once they are home, it's shoes-off-hugs-all-around-speed-talking.  Because they want to be with me.

But those days are fleeing.  I can physically feel them slipping away.  In one year, Annie will start preschool.  In two more years (maybe three), she'll start Kindergarten,  And my cocoon will start to lose its appeal.  Patrick will be in middle school and maybe tolerating me at best.  (Leo isn't going anywhere.  Leo will stay with me forever.)  Hatch will have probably abandoned me early.  And Annie will eventually follow suit. And I won't be as important in my house as I am now.

And, as I work and I stress about needing to work more, as I over-commit myself to plans I may never follow through with, as I sometimes feel badly about how rarely I leave my cocoon, how I never wear real clothes, how I couldn't even tell you what stores sell what, I tell myself again and again...

Be here now.

Enjoy this now.

Smell them now.

Love them now.

Put them first now.

Because it's not going to be like this for long.

Is Anybody Out There?

I almost cannot believe that it has been nearly seven months since I've posted anything.  Anything.  It's like six months of our lives, completed erased. Undocumented.  Did they even happen?!  (I kid.  Of course they did.  And a lot happened in them.)

In short:

1.) Adam got a new job.
2.) I got promoted.
3.) Leo turned five and started kindergarten.
4.) Annie turned two and is (almost) potty trained.
5.) Little Hatch turned four and started pre-school.
6.) We got a new dog.
7.) We got a new car.
8.) And then another new car because the one above was a lemon.
9.) We lost a lot of money. See above.
10.) We went on a few trips.
11.) We still love hard.
12.) And life is still good.
13.) And I've missed you, blog.

I'm back.

Day after day, alone on a hill,

The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still.
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer.
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.

Well on his way, his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking  perfectly loud.
But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make,
And he never seems to notice,
But the fool on the hill...

Nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do.
And he never shows his feelings,
But the fool on the hill...

Indiana Jones

There are worse things than dying. 

At least, that is what my mother told me hours after I lost my first patient and I couldn't shake the feeling of utter loss. And that single sentence made so much sense, I probably say it to myself at least once a week.

This week, I've said it at least once every few hours. This week, or nearly six days ago, we lost our Indy. Our sixteen-year-old, faithful, intensely-loyal, pain-in-the-ass dog, the one I didn't know meant so much to me. I didn't know I loved him like I did. I didn't expect to feel such a loss. 

But I do. And it hurts. 

At the (most wonderful) vet's office, Adam cradled his sweet Indy until he fell asleep in the procedure room. It was heartbreaking. He cried buckets of tears and I tried, tried, tried (unsuccessfully) to keep mine in. Indy wasn't scared. It was so peaceful. I watched Dr. Sprunger gain venous access and the thick, pink medication go into his system. I held my breath as I held his chest and felt his heart start to slow. I felt it skip. I felt its last few beats and then I felt it stop. I stared hard at Adam's face, willing him to know it was over, hoping he felt the same sort of peace I did. But, I felt my own heart break. I swear I heard Adam's shatter.

And, just like that, our loyal companion was gone. I swaddled his small body and carried him to the car. He was still warm. He seemed smaller. He was still our Indy, but he wasn't there. And the ride home was very quiet.

That dog drove me nuts in his last couple of years. He'd lost control of his bladder and bowels. He shook uncontrollably at night and chewed the floor. He fell down the stairs every morning. That was the dog we had to put down, but that wasn't the dog we knew. 

Our Indy was a part of this family. He had a funny bad attitude and loved nobody as much as he loved his Adam. And, when Adam would leave, Indy would pout and torment me with pure shenanigans until his beloved Master came home again. And I loved him anyway. And he tolerated me and the kids, even when we were intolerable. He snuggled the boys, rolled his eyes when they relentlessly bumped into him or took his toys. He cleared our floors of food. He rubbed his butt against my calves every time I was cooking and nearly tripped me at least 1000 times. 

He had beady black eyes that he would stare you down with when you made him mad, but he's forgive you eventually... and peanut butter seemed to expodite his bad mood. He never chewed on our things. He never snapped, growled, or even thought about being aggressive with the kids. He did get a little salty with me when I'd give any affection to his owner, but he loved us in his Indy way. He was one of us and he knew it.

Now, in the morning when we wake up, I lay in bed and wait to hear his shaking. Every night, the same. But it's quiet in our house. And that takes some getting used to. It's a silent reminder of a fresh loss. 

I hope he's happy where he is, chasing all the squirrels there may be in heaven; that he's met up with St. Francis and his old pal and lifelong partner, Teddy, and that he steals all the granola bars there are to steal. I hope that he understands why we did what we did and that he misses us, too. Even if it's in a sour, grumbly, old man way. 

Rest in peace and know we loved you, you little shit-hound. Your family isn't the same without you. We miss you terribly. 

Run free and fast and know we love you still. 

Stop Being An A$$hole

How To Stop Being An Asshole

by Catherine Hatcher Walden

1.) Think to yourself, "am I being an asshole?"

2.) Stop lying. Yes you are.

3.) Own it. Then think for an second how the person on the receiving end feels. 

4.) Hang your head in shame (but know we've all been there. It's going to be okay.) 

5.) Stop doing it. Stop being as asshole. Stop making excuses. Just stop it. Right now. 

There. Don't you feel better? Now, go to something nice to make up for all that ugly you were throwing around. The world thanks you for being a decent human being. 

I do, too.