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.  

"Spring" 

A poem by Patrick Walden

I am a bunny jumping in the grass.

I am a goat baaing at the sky.

I am a dog scratching at the door.

I Can't Be Your Friend Right Now

That title looks about as bad in writing as it sounded in my head.

Yet, this is where I am.  This is all the truth.  Full disclosure.

I can't be your friend right now.  I want to.  I do.  I want to meet for lunch, have drinks, dinner, go shopping, talk on the phone for hours.  But I can't.  It's not that I don't like you or that I am trying to avoid spending time together.  It's just the time...I don't have it.  And I'm sorry.The time I do have, it's already committed elsewhere.  Sometimes, it's an hour alone in the living room after the kids go to bed, or a late-night bath.  Sometimes, I like to talk to Adam and let him fix all of my supposed problems.  It's just that...I'm needed here.  And I'm already spread pretty thin.  It's not your fault.

I'm on Instagram and on Facebook.  I see all the fun things everyone is doing.  The things they buy.  The places they go.  The people they hang out with.  The things they do.  And that's not me.  Don't get me wrong, I do a lot of fun things.  I have a ton of great stories.  And I have a lot of friends...a select few who have stuck with me despite my polite bow out of my old life.  They know I don't have time for them.  (Most don't have time for me, either.)  Others are new friends, and I'm really good at text relationships.  Sometimes, I do get a couple of hours to get away, and it's more than I can begin to tell you to put on real clothes and properly do my face, shower and shave, and spend a few hours not talking about the kids or work or any number of chores that need to be done.  Sometimes, it works out that I can do that.  Most of the time, it doesn't.  It's not your fault.

When the kids were smaller, life was easy.  Slow.  Casual.  I had time to chat, to meet up, to go for walks and go out for coffee at night.  But all that has changed.  The kids, the four of them, they are all at such different stages.  Everyone needs something.  Everyone needs something all the time, and their needs are drastically different (and exactly the same).  I am always on.  I'm always moving.  I silence my phone, I don't return texts.  If I do, it's much later than it was received.  I know that.  I want to get back to you sooner, but someone just broke the plant and there is honey on the floor and one kid is screaming in the back yard (shit...did he just say he's bleeding??), and one is hungry.  Like now.  Hungry right now.  The doorbell is ringing, someone just climbed over the fence.  Work is calling, I have ten minutes to get out the door.  And there isn't enough of me to go around.

What I have going on here...I'm good at this.  I don't want you to think I'm that exasperated, miserable mom on sitcoms and commercials.  I'm not at all.  We laugh a lot, roll on the ground and play.  We snuggle and read and do homework.   My house is clean.  I do laundry to the point of exhaustion.  My fridge and pantry are always full, I cook hot meals every single night.  I'm usually solo-parenting, so the baths, homework, permission slips, diapers, groceries, appointments, errands...those are all me.  And I get it all done.  I'm always tired, but I get it all done.   And I work every weekend, so I haven't had a day off in, like, months.  But I'm actually really happy.  Just tired. So that time you want to spend, I don't have it.  That time needs to be spent here.  Right now, the five people for whom I am responsible need me.  My husband needs me at my best.  And that means I can't keep stretching myself.  That means, some things have to change. It's not your fault.

I like people.  I'm an introvert, but I like people.  I love to go out.  I love to make plans and keep them, but as I turn down another request for dinner or silence a phone call because I just don't have the time for either, I feel terrible.  Terrible.  My friends, I miss them.  But right now, this is where I need to be.  And, though I could make my life super complicated by really trying to balance EVERYTHING, it's not fair.  My priority is here.  It has to be.  One day, things will be different.  I'll have free afternoons and maybe get a day off here and there.  But for now, I just don't get either.  It's ok.  It's not my fault, either.

It's just where I am.  It's a good place, a temporary place.  A place I wouldn't trade if I could.  So, thanks for understanding, for not judging too harshly.  I appreciate your patience.  One day soon, we'll be friends.  And I can't wait.