Original Draft Date 5/13

I found this in my drafts and have no idea why it wasn't posted back in May. It's sweet to read while I'm snuggling the little person this was written to, though I didn't know who she was then. (Note: She's even better than I imagined.)

Dear Tiny Baby:

You're still so little and nestled (hopefully) comfortably in my belly, but you should know how often we think of you; how much you are loved already.  With your brothers, I felt like I had a good feeling of what they would be like before they arrived, but I can't really get a good read on you yet.  I have a feeling you will be our wildcard.  Maybe you are a lot like your brothers; rough and curious and wild and loving.  Maybe you are quiet and insightful, more of a watcher than a do-er.  Maybe you are boisterous and loud and full of grand ideas.  Maybe you are a lot of things, but for sure you are the missing piece to our little family puzzle. 

You don't move too much, which sometimes worries me, but I've grown used to it now.  Perhaps you are just listening to the very active world going on outside.  (You will love it; I promise.)  Sometimes, first thing in the morning, I lay really still with my hand on my belly, waiting to feel you move.  Eventually, you do, and I find myself wishing that you knew I was wanting to feel you.  Fifteen weeks to go and we're nowhere close to ready for your arrival, but we will be.  After all, what more do you need than a few basics and a family of people who love you?  In our hearts, you're already here.  I find myself referring to my four kids or buying four "treats" for your brothers, when I really just need three.  I feel like you've just been in waiting this whole time.  Waiting to join us, waiting to be a part of things, waiting for us to realize you were coming and to be loved.  Oh, you are, sweet baby. 

I have to run now. Your brothers are up and duty calls. We'll chat soon, honey. I love you. 

Mom

Mothers' Day

Mothers' Day was yesterday, and here is what I have to say about it:

It was Sunday.
It was chilly outside (from what I hear.)
It was a lavish pity party for at least a few hours.
It made me want to stay off Facebook...forever.
I had to work.
And, now that it's over, life can go on.

What did I want from Mothers' Day?  Oh, I don't know.  I would have loved breakfast or flowers; a "thanks for all you do" or a spa day or a homemade gift from the kids.  I would have loved to have spent the day with the four people I love more than anyone in the entire universe, but I didn't.  And my heart was sad about that.  And, as I saw all of your lovely photos on Facebook and Instagram, my heart grew sadder.  I wanted what you had, and that's not fair.

Because, as the day went on, I realized something:  I don't need anything for Mothers' Day.  Nothing (though, let's be fair, I still would have loved the spa day and the breakfast.)  I have the three greatest kids I could ever imagine and a husband who, though terrible at things like Mothers' Day, I know adores me and loves these kids with the same fervor that I do.  I literally have everything. 

I was 27 when Patrick was born.  Twenty-seven and I wanted a baby terribly.  I wanted a sweet, soft bundle that was fun to dress and hold and take places.  And he was all of those things...most of the time.  Then about 10% of the time.  But, still, I wanted another baby.  And yet another.  And one more.  And somewhere along the way, my concentration grew less on what I wanted and almost entirely on what the kids needed.  I stopped doing things I once loved because they didn't make sense anymore.  I started staying home almost always and even forgot some friends that I once had.  My wardrobe grew smaller and my makeup bag lighter.  My collection of hoodies and yoga pants grew larger. In a sense, I forgot who I once was.  Because somewhere between the second and third baby, I became someone else.  My purpose had nothing to do with me anymore.  Nothing.  (And, for reasons of full disclosure, that's not terribly healthy, because it should a little bit about me, but I've got the worst case of the Catholic-mom-guilt and I'm not there yet.)  But that purpose, the mother of these great kids, is who I am.  And isn't that enough?  Actually, yes, it is. 

My kids are crazy and funny and sometimes out of control.  They break things in stores (Leo) and throw tantrums (also Leo) and have no filters on their tiny little mouths (Patrick.)  But they love people and love each other and love their parents.  They use their manners and pick up their toys and listen very well.  They are handsome and loyal and more affectionate than I could have ever imagined.  And when, at the end of the day, they say, "Can you hold me, Mom?" I can almost never say no.  Because they are my everything.  So I don't really need much more. 

And, though I missed my family so very much yesterday (my own mother included), I came home to them last night and woke up to them this morning.  And I bought myself flowers.  And, when I can find the time, I get a fancy date with Adam, preceded by a little make-over at my favorite make-up store and an overnight in a hotel (my favorite...I love white linens.)  And, though it would have been nice to have spent the day with my family, I don't need someone to tell me what a good job I'm doing.  I'm not perfect.  I don't need to pretend that I am.  But I give these kids all I have to give, and in return, they give me that plus all that they are, and that's plenty.  Happy Mothers' Day to all of my friends, bra-less and shoe-less, cleaning kitchens and making lunches and doing the best thankless job in the world.  You know as well as I do that there is no other place you would rather be. 

We're blessed and we know it.

If I Knew How To Meditate...

...today would have been a great day to start.  A GREAT day to start.  For one, I had the shittiest night at work last night (I need to watch my mouth, I know, but that's the least of my concerns today.  Bear with me.)  Where was I?  Oh, yes...

The shittiest night at work.  For real.  And then I got home late.  Getting home late, I was still worked up over the day, so I went to bed late (think wee hours of morning late), but someone had to take Patrick to school today, so after only a couple of hours of sleep, one unnamed husband starts barking at me that I need to get up because he had a really busy day today and Patrick needed to get to school and I needed to pack up the other kids and had I made his lunch (?) and...need I go on?  It wasn't exactly how I wanted to start the day.  So, after my shittiest night of work, I was kind of pissed.

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me
speaking words of wisdom; let it be.

So, I packed up my kids.  All of them.  And, thankful for the insight last night to pack Patrick's lunch before going to bed, we were out the door (most of us in our jammies) in less than 30 minutes.  Happily, I should add.  Though I was in a foul mood, I was determined not to ruin their day, so I put on a good face and sang along to songs I didn't really want to sing along with.  We were late (go figure), but we made it.  Safely.  And happily (again.)

But I was still feeling foul.

And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me,
speaking words of wisdom: let it be.

And then my sister called, and not wanting to go home, I had the grand idea for breakfast.  Out.  At a diner we both love.  And though my half of the party was still in jammies with unbrushed teeth, we made plans to meet in 25 minutes.  And then there was that overturned semi.  And several detours through the guts of Westfield.  And I was further pissed.  And approximately 25 minutes late.  But still smiling.  Trying, anyway.  The best one can do on very limited sleep.
 

 

And when the broken-hearted people, living in the world agree
there will be an answer: let it be.

But the coffee was good, the oatmeal was better, the jalepeno jelly was absolutely divine, and the kids were well-behaved.  And I suddenly thought, "Things are not so bad.  It's time to chin up, cherub."  And we finished breakfast and found the cutest little shop, where the owners were courteous and gracious and didn't even seem to mind our jammies.  And we sauntered over to the town square (we have one of those!), where we got free trees (dogwoods!) and bid our parting ways.  It was almost noon.  Definitely time to change clothes and brush teeth.  And I thought maybe Adam was worried.  (But he wasn't.  He knows me.  He knows I was keeping my distance.)

 

For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see
there will be an answer: let it be.

And I didn't mean for my mood to return once I got home.  I didn't.  But it did.  Because, I hadn't noticed the state of the house when I left.  And I came home to something like this:
 

 

And this:

 

"Mother trucker," I said out loud.  (No, really, I did.  See?  I do watch my mouth, even sometimes when the kids weren't around.)

I would have taken pictures of my own stacks of dishes and laundry, but I couldn't stand the sight long enough to actually capture the image.  I had to do something about it.  And, as I did, I grumbled.  With both little boys napping (sweet boys), I made a list of all the things that I was pissed about.  My own shortcomings at work the night before, Adam for any number of reasons (mostly for being so absorbed in work that he had forgotten about us...or so it seemed in my head), a few other things that I care to not mention publicly.  And, though I had tried to turn my day around, I still fell prey to the mood.  And the lack of sleep.  

 

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me.
Shine until tomorrow, let it be.

And that's not how I wanted my day to go.  I promise you, it isn't.  Even though I was tired, I really wanted a good day.  I really tried.  And, despite my mood, I sort of did have a good day.  Productive.  Social.  Really great for the kids.  (We had frozen yogurt with two toppings each on the way home from school.  That's a really good day around here.)  When I got home from picking up Patrick, I found a typed letter to me on the kitchen island.  A letter from my husband--apologizing for all of the reasons I had listed to myself why I was upset with him, because even though I like to think he's clueless, he's not completely.  He gets it.  Better than that, he gets me.  And rather than try to battle it out with me, he let me stew and deal with it my own way (which is, of course, stewing.)  And then he hung stuff on the walls for me, because that really does make me happy.

And I'm still tired and still a little grumbly, but I'm more at peace on the inside than I was this morning.  And without meditation (though still not a bad idea).  Why do I let myself get so worked up over nonsense?  Why do I let stacks of dishes and piles of laundry eat at me until I almost cannot stand it?  I do it because I can.  And that sucks.  But, at the end of the day, everything is good again.  Life is put back together.  And all that fuss was truly about nothing, because I had to do very little to get things back to how I like them.  I just had to (wait for it....)

Let it be.

Namaste, my friends.

Twenty-Two-Ish Weeks

I'm past the half-way mark in this pregnancy, though I feel as though I still have quite the way to go to the figurative finish line.  While I am starting to feel much better than I had initially (um...the entire first 20 weeks, even the ones in which I was unaware there was a baby on board), I'm still incredibly tired and periodically nauseated.  All for a good cause, though, right?  Of course.  And I'll look back on it fondly, as we all do, and sometime down the line, I will miss it and long for another one.

For now, however, I will just state that...eesh.  I am tired.  So tired.  Painfully tired.  (Please come and clean my house.  Yes, you.  As long as I know you.  No strangers allowed.  Nothing personal.)  My truly bad attitude has passed, much to Adam's relief.  Though, in general, I can still get super-pissed and mouthy, I'm not really a tantrum-thrower (pouting is more my thing).  Unfortunately, that changed in the first trimester of this pregnancy.  One closet door, two plates, and a wall can attest to that.  (Though, to be fair, the wall was dented by one of the plates, so that really was only one incident.)  I'm returning to normal, though I still like to slam doors sometimes.  Much safer, less clean-up, fewer repairs. 

Here is the big question as of late:  What is it?!  Well, it's a baby, of course!  A real one, who kicks (though lightly still), has hiccups, likes to attempt backflips (as I have been fortunate enough to witness), has skinny little legs like its big brother, Patrick, and very nicely formed shoulders, more like Leo.  It has a tiny, tiny butt (Patrick again) and face with petite features (Hatch.)  It's a good mix of all his/her brothers, it seems, from a kind of blurry, black-and-white, ultrasound-based view.  He or she is neither too big nor too small.  It's measuring in the 50th percentile across the board for my due date. Only time will tell if it's right.  But, back to the original question.  What is it?

And do you want to know something?  I don't know what it is.  I promise you, I don't.  I do ultrasound myself at least once a week, but I try to steer clear of the nether regions if I can help it.  But I know you are not stupid and neither am I.  You may assume that I know more than I'm telling.  And do I?  Eh.  I don't know what it is, but I could probably give you a guess, even an educated one (if you consider me "educated").  Alas, I still don't actually know anything.  I have not seen any clear genitalia images, and even my coworkers can vouch for me on this.  Things have a way of making an appearance without me trying, sometimes, and I assure you, I quickly move the ultrasound wand and try to find the face or the heart instead.  (I would watch that little heart beat for hours.) 

It would be so easy for me to find out.  It would!  But finding out would change everything, and that makes me nervous.  Do you want to hear something ludicrous? When I was pregnant with Hatch, I had this fear that, if we had another boy, nobody but us would love him.  (That's partly hormones, too.)  While I love having boys and was thrilled to have another one, I worried that other people would feel differently and quickly forget about him.  And I cried about that for him.  It's crazy, I know.  Because, when he was born, he wasn't "just another Walden boy."  He was a Walden boy, yes, but like the others, he was so special and so perfectly ours that it suddenly didn't matter what anyone else thought.  He was what I wanted.  He was exactly who I had prayed for.  (Still is.  That kid is remarkably sweet.)  I feel the same about this one.  I know that, whoever I'm housing at the moment, will be the baby that we need in our family.  God has a way of making sure that's what happens. 

[Proof:  I needed to raise boys.  I needed to let go of my own insecurities and embrace the messiness, craziness, loudness, sloppy affection of little boys.  I  honestly feel like I'm a better person now than I was before I had the kids.  And I attribute that completely to the kids with which I was blessed.]

This blog post has really gone off track.  Back to the basics:  at 22 weeks, I'm doing ok!  Baby looks great, I'm trying to embrace the necessary weight-gain (sigh) and not be too hard on myself.  This morning, as I pulled myself out of bed, I felt enormous.  Huge.  And I changed clothes by the mirror and though "that's not too bad.  I'm not that big."  My belly is big, bigger than normal, most likely, but my legs aren't too much bigger.  My face is rounder and my boobs...well, they are enormous.  There isn't any other way to say that.  (This has caused Leo to grow an unfortunate and semi-creepy love of breasts and it's taking all I have to be at peace with it.)  I have leg pain and a pooling of blood in my right leg (so sexy), which has deemed me a good candidate for compression stockings...the prescription variety.  Even sexier.  I don't sweat at all when I wear them.  (That's a total lie.  I sweat like a horse.  That "glow" I have?  Perspiration.  For sure.)

But things are good!  Adam and I have come up with solid names for the baby (two for each sex), a plan for the nursery.  I like to think about the way things will be when baby gets here, but there is no plan for that.  We'll wing it.  We always do.

There are few better sounds in all the world than children laughing and squealing outside, while the wind blows and the birds sing. And there are fewer nicer gifts than those from the grips of tiny boys, plucked from their own backyard. These are my perks of motherhood, simple and soul-cleansing.

Patrick, At Five

Patrick John Edward went to the doctor yesterday.  He was so excited.  He was so happy to see her.  He was so cooperative and thorough in answering her questions ("I don't think I'm allergice to any medicine, but I am allergic to grass.")  And then came the shots.  Four shots, two in each leg, and my mild-mannered, sensitive, smart-mouthed little boy turned into a red-faced, sweating, screaming little devil.  Thank God shots don't take long.  I left that office sweating myself.  (Fast-forward several hours, and the poor kid could barely walk upstairs because his legs hurt so badly.  Ouch.)

But as we drove away, his tears had dried, he had thanked the nurse and doctor for taking care of him, and he admitted that they really didn't hurt that bad, but he didn't like people holding him down.  I can understand that.  (Secretly, I'm happy he has such a fight in him.  I didn't even know it was there.) 

Patrick has changed so quickly from a funny little toddler to a very clever and wide-vocabularied little boy.  He's inquisitive and smart, the memory of an elephant.  He so perfectly grew into the little boy we imagined that he would be.  He's a tiny clone of his father, keeping score of everything and everybody, forgiving but not forgetting. 

I wonder when the day will come when I look at him and just accept who he is as normal, not the oh-so-special, my-goodness-how-did-I-get-so-lucky way I see him now.  His whole life is going to be wonderful (maybe a little rocky when he starts high school if he doesn't grow very much; he's kind of tiny for his age), but wonderful nonetheless.  He's a special boy.  He knows it, and that's a good thing.  Nobody that special should be kept in the dark about it. 

 

Monday Blessings

As the mother of three (soon-to-be-four) children, it should be obvious that I feel blessed.  Overwhelmed, of course.  Stressed out?  Occassionally.  Angry?  Sometimes.  But almost always, I do feel blessed, and for obvious reasons.  I have a great husband, great kids, great family, great job.  I did all of the things people plan on doing when they are little and plotting out their lives.  I'm blessed.  But do you know what?  All of those things aside, I'm blessed for other, much smaller, reasons.  (You are, too.)

Here are a few examples:

1.) I have a great sense of smell.  Inherited from my grandmother, I can smell the dust on the window sill.  While that helps in terms of ridding of said dust, I also have a heightened sense of smell when it comes to the most mundane things:  oranges, grass, grapefruits, the neighbor's laundry, etc.  And it's wonderful.  I have a not-so-secret love affair with smells.

2.) I'm a good faker. When I'm nervous or intimidated, I'm good at faking confidence.  Fake it until you make it?  That's me. 

3.) I'm a good public speaker. See above for a partial explanation.  Also, I owe gratitude to my beloved college advisor, who would give me presentation reviews such as "You were born for a stage!" and "Best I've ever seen!" went to my head.  He was super-energetic and encouraging and definitely over-the-top, but it worked.  I left college thinking I rocked every presentation I ever made (almost certainly not the case), even though I faked my way through half of them.

4.) My husband makes me laugh. Though these are supposed to be less-obvious reasons I have to be thankful, I'm going to count this one.  Adam's great, of course.  But what makes him the most great is that, even when I'm in an absolutely foul mood, he can make me laugh.  Hard.  And break my mood in seconds.  And is there anything better than laughing hysterically, especially with someone you love?  I don't think so, either.

5.) I have a horrible short-term memory.  Doesn't sound so great, does it?  I have a great long-term memory, remembering all kinds of dates and small details of occassions.  But, sometimes, I forget complete conversations and, occassionally, plans that were made a couple of days in advance.  Not infrequently, I have to fake remembering something while desperately searching through my mental files for something to trigger my terrible memory.  However, how quickly I forget that someone has offended me or that I made a complete ass of myself last week.  I forget...and I move on.   I lose the compulsion to dwell.  Much later, I may remember, but it's already well in the past and no longer an issue.  And my perspective on things may be skewed, but perception is reality, right?  And my perception is very selective...in my own favor.

Blessings are funny, popping up a little here and a little there, reminding us in big ways and in small that this life is really quite great, even the little parts.  I'm blessed for having you, too--anyone who reads this and cares about our little family.  (Unless you are reading and judging, in which case, move along.  There is nothing to see here.)

Meet Hermoine

Meet our baby.  If we're friends on Facebook (and there is a good chance we are), you have already seen this.  If you're someone with a medical background or just a general interest in anatomy or fetal development, you may understand that this is more than just a somewhat boring ultrasound video of a sleeping baby with hiccups.  It's our baby's heart!  All four chambers, the foramen ovale, and even the shadow of an aortic arch.  It's beautiful.  Our baby has a beautiful heart.  It's also fortunate enough to have a nice little profile, too.  (I added a still of that for you.  Or for me.  It's super-cute, says its mother.)   

Oh, and his/her name is not really Hermoine...unless you ask Patrick.  "You can call it whatever you want to, but I will always call the baby Hermoine."  Fair enough. 

This is exactly how I felt this morning.  Somehow, after coming home late last night from work, I had the sense to open the now-oversized windows in my bedroom.  Good move.  I woke up to a glorious breeze, chirping birds, and although it was too early for my liking after 12 long hours in the ER, it was ok because my senses were on an it's-a-fresh-day overload and I was happy. 

As we settle in to our new home, new surroundings, new routines, I find that things are...different.  Life is suddenly simpler, less hectic, quieter, nicer, organized, just lovely.  Not that it wasn't before, just that there is something about this house and this move that has helped us find our groove.  And we like that groove.  Me, especially.  (Except, after the absolutely glorious early-morning wake-up and subsequent playing in the yard with the boys, I was so tired that I have barely moved from the couch in...well...about seven hours.  I am beat.  B. E. A. T.)

BUT, it's Spring and I love Spring.  I love the way the breeze feels on my skin, the way new grass feels on wet feet (even though I'm horribly allergic, and so is our oldest son, we realized today with the sudden onset of a full-body rash.)  I love the way the sun looks different and the way the birds sound.  I love the way it smells.  The way it smells...especially applicable tonight, as I sit next to more open windows and breathe in the storm that just passed through.  The grass is greener and the sky is gorgeous.  It's a beautiful life. 

And all is well in my soul.