Merry Christmas

'Twas the day before Christmas and all through the house,

Four babies were sleeping, one dad on the couch.

The stockings still lost but there are lights on the tree,

The gifts are all wrapped, one for you one for me.

The suits are all pressed, dresses hanging to wear

For a party with the fam and we all will be there. 

For food and for wine and for lots of good cheer,

And to recap the Bible, like we do every year.

May your days bring you warmth and all that is right,

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Today

If my mother were to read this (and she will; she'll likely be the first--she's dedicated), she'd give me the what-for for still being awake.  It's Saturday morning, 0008, and I should be sleeping.  I should be sleeping because in the last 48 hours, I have worked 14 and slept a total of 5.  I have a house full of sickies (more about that later), and I have at one point, felt as though we were suffocating in viral diseases and vomit.  But not today.

Today was amazing.  It really shouldn't have been.  It should have been good.  Fine.  No big deal.  Patrick had his Christmas party at school, which Adam attended because I had just gone to bed as he was leaving.  I didn't wake up until 9 and, by 1, I had completely lost track of time.  I was delusionally tired.  I found cottage cheese with our glassware and dry cereal in the fridge...among other things.  I barely knew my own name.  I was am exhausted. 

But my (truly amazing and humbling and sort of perfect) sister took the kids and, along with her equally-awesome husband, gave us a free night.  (Note: We have Annie, but I'm still nursing on demand, so we don't really stray far from each other.)

So, tonight.  Tonight, we had fun.  We visited my sister-in-law and her husband, who we adore.  We got to see our sweet and awesomely-named nephew.  We got to be us. 

We went shopping.

We went to dinner.

We discovered a new favorite restaurant.  (One that trumped the last one, and for 1/2 the cost.)

We talked over dinner.  Annie slept.

We planned our 10th anniversary.

We held hands. 

We laughed.

We talked about the kids. 

We talked about all of the reasons why we love our family.

We split three desserts. 

We said "I love you."  And it wasn't before bed or getting off the phone or because we knew the other was mad.

We came home to a clean house.  (I must have done some work in my delusional exhaustion.)

We had fun.  We had lots of fun, which is encouraging, because our life is so hurried and hectic and loud and busied that, aside from focusing on everyone's basic and daily needs, we don't have much time for anything else.  But today we did.  And it was awesome.  And, though I am still exhausted, my soul is renewed, and that makes things good again.  I'm tired, but I'm whole. 

Thank you, God, for this.  Right now.  All of this.  It's...more than enough.  It's my kind of perfect.  

You Have FOUR Kids?

It's the beginning of the holiday season, and I must admit, I'm in heaven.  The tree is up, as is the Christmas village, the garland and bulbs down the staircase, the trees and bows on the front porch, and two giant candy canes hanging on the front door.  (No outdoor lights yet, but we haven't a clue how to get started on that.)

If you would come over right now, here is what you would see:  two boys in jammies watching Christmas Vacation (they think the part with the squirrel in the tree is hilarious), me with my Santa mug and peppermint coffee, a sleeping baby girl in snuggly polka dots and freshly vacuumed floors.  You'd be impressed.  I'm impressed.  (I would not invite you to use the bathroom.  I can't even get started with the toothpaste on the mirror.)  If you were to come over right now, you may think that I have this parenting gig down.  And you would be right.  Just for this second.

Let me tell you the truth.  Putting up the tree was a test of my patience.  As I desperately tried to remain calm and cheerful and let the boys have great fun with it, my anxiety was on overdrive as bulb after bulb was shattered on the hardwood floor.  Every sticky hand that touched a "good" ornament was enough to make me gasp and nearly panic.  Putting up the Christmas village was worse (if you look closely, you'd notice quite a few are missing chimneys.  As it turns out, those snap off pretty easily.)  The start of the Christmas season has turned three wild boys--well, two wild ones and a sensitive one--into crazy people.  They want inside then outside and inside and then outside again, and each trip in and out takes approximately ten minutes to dress and undress.  They are brought to tears over the thought of Santa being disappointed in them and Otto, our beloved Elf, has gone missing.  They have deduced that he is still packed up in a box somewhere (probably true) and has been suffocating for a year.  According to Patrick, he's probably dead and though I didn't kill him on purpose, I should feel really badly about it.  Christmas is magical.  It's wonderful.  And it's brought to my attention the number of people in our house.

Granted, four kids isn't a ton.  Nobody is super impressed with that--five and over shows who the true parenting superstars are, but it's enough to feel like you are drowning in children, in the best way possible.  At least, it is when they are five and under.  Hatch, now two, can tear this house apart in seconds.  While you are fixing one mess, he'll be busy making another.  An entire roll of toilet paper won't flush?  He'll get a toy gun and shove that $%&@ as far down the pipe as he can, then flush on repeat. (You'll have to get kitchen utensils to pry it out from the toilet, piece by piece.)  While you're mopping up that flood, he's found a Sharpie and decorated his bed.  Leave your jewelry out? Check the washing machine.  And, while you are in there, look to make sure the detergent is still high on the shelf because he's been known to steal it.  Meanwhile, Leo is screaming bloody murder because Hatch beat him to all of the good ideas and can't he just play with your phone??  PLEASE?!!!  Why are you so MEAN????  YOU NEVER LET HIM PLAY WITH ANYTHING!!!! YOU HAVE NEVER LOVED HIM!!!  NEVER!!!!!

Patrick arrives home from school and cries for a bit because he's convinced the little boys have touched all of his things.  The ruckus causes Annie to start to wimper, which means all three of the boys rush to her aide, one falls over, bonks her head and now everyone is screaming.

Welcome to the Waldens.  And, as I type this, I'm laughing because it really does play out just.  Like.  This.  And if I make it sound miserable, then let me correct myself.  It's actually quite awesome once you get used to it.  It's not bad at all.  It's great fun once you come to terms with never having nice things again.  That includes clothes because it's inevitable that, as soon as you are dressed, someone will vomit, pee, or spill something on that new sweater.  And you'll wear it anyway because it's just how things go.

You have four kids! You want to spend adult time with your husband in your own room?  Good luck with that.  Two kids are already in your bed and a third is on his way.  Your husband ends up on the floor with a throw pillow and someone's discarded hoodie as a blanket.

You have four kids.  And people are horrified that you take them all to the grocery and stare in disbelief as you have one on each hip, one hanging on your back, and one crying at your side because why can't you just hold him, too?  Why does Leo get EVERYTHING?!  Can you at least get him a sucker?????

If you are me, you're probably laughing and crying at the same time and wondering how you could do things differently so that the kids were always impeccably behaved and quiet and kept their clothes neat and clean and would not chew on the sleeves of every shirt.

But they are not.  Because you're not the von Trapps.  You are the Waldens.  And not a one of you can sing.

The truth is that as nutso as this house is, it's super-awesome, especially this time of year.  We're buzzing with excitement with just a touch of neuroticism.  When we laugh, it's loud.  When we snuggle it's all day long.  We bake and eat cookies and brownies with abandon.  We use Santa and his bag of presents as leverage.  We try not to yell.  We try.  We pick our battles.  And I often think to myself, "Will this matter in a year?"  Most of it doesn't.  And I love the chaos, even if I have to convince myself of it sometimes (honestly, that is what these chronicles are good for.)  Adam is learning to love it.  The kids just think it's normal--because they outnumber us by 100%.  Because their pack is stronger than ours.  But they don't know that yet, and since we still enforce bedtime, we win...every time.

You have four kids?  Correction:  you have [insert your number here] kids?  You have it good.  You have no money and no time, but you have it good.  You do.  Even you, with the jeans that have been peed on.  Go get yourself some egg nog.  You rocked those pee jeans.

Merry Christmas!

October 29, 2013

...at approximately 5pm, Patrick Walden lost his very first tooth. 

I just worked a 12-hour shift. My body is sore, I can't stop shivering, my throat is angry and swollen, and my oral temperature is 103.6. I'm so miserable, I cannot sleep. I hate to sound needy, but I'm starting to think someone should put me out of my misery. Womp, womp. 

Blog Stew, Second Helpings

I have a few things to share on this cold (it snowed!) October morning, but no way in which to tie them together, so prepare yourself for a little incoherencies in today's entry.  Enjoy, nonetheless.

1.) October 17, 2005:  Just the day after my parents' anniversary eight years ago, Adam Walden took a leap of faith.  (Considering our history it was as gutsy as it was not.  As if that makes any sense at all.)  Before we get to the anniversary, however, I must preface it with this:  The week before the 17th, I closed my eyes in the shower and prayed.  It wasn't a general prayer, it was a specific one.  I prayed that I would have another chance to make good with Adam.  I also promised that I would do everything in my power to make it work and to not screw it up. 
(At this point, Adam and I barely spoke, as if we had nothing to say to each other.)

Fast forward four days or so, and Adam called me out of the blue and asked that we talk.  He was very vague, but we agreed to meet at his house that Monday.  It was to be October 17, 2005.  The Colts were playing.  I had Mr. Freckles, my English Setter, with me.  And we sat on the back porch together, and he said this:

I don't know your favorite color anymore.  I don't know what kind of music you listen to, or what you do for fun, and I probably don't even know a lot of your friends.  But I do know the girl you used to be, and that's the girl I want to marry.

That's one hell of a way to ask for a date, right?  Well, it worked.  And even after he dropped the L bomb on our first date a few days later, I stuck around...because he was Adam...my Adam and, even at our worst, we're soul mates.  And the rest is history. 

 

Eight short years ago, I was just a single girl who was painfully in love with my brother's best friend.  And now he's my best friend...and husband...and father to our four kids.  Amazing.  God listened.  I actually think we're kind of a miracle.  (And, so far, I haven't screwed it up.)

2.) And, speaking of our four kids, Annemarie is almost two months old!  She's an awesome baby, growing much faster than our William did.  I think she looks the most like Leo, though her complexion and hair are more like Hatch.  Her brothers are still crazy about her, and though the nicknames are starting to wane, we still call her Carla.  And by "we," I don't mean just Hatch.  All of us do.  Baby Carla. 

She's such a happy baby, patient and content.  When she falls asleep, it's all I can do not to squeeze her for hours.  She is so cozy and loving.  Check her out:

 

 

I went back to work recently and, though I was a little worried about leaving Annie with Adam, along with the other three (who have proven to be kind of a handful), things are going really well!  She finally took to a bottle, and so long as someone is loving her, I hear she does fine without me.  I miss her when I'm gone, though.  Physically, I mean.  My arms get used to holding a baby or having one close by constantly, and 12 hours without her is kind of a long time.  It's a ridiculous obsession going on here.  (And, boys, if you are reading this when you are older, rest assured that I felt the same about each of you.  Leo, before your middle child syndrome kicks in, know that I held you for four months straight.  You're being ridiculous.  Stop it.)

 

3.) Leo and Hatch have become the best of friends.  I mean, the best.  Patrick is still the boss of the boys.  But he has his own agenda.  He likes rules and he likes for people to follow them.  And Leo and Hatch think that is just asinine.  They don't like rules.  Things like "Don't color on the walls," "don't jump on the furniture," "don't play ring toss with the chandelier;" these are ridiculous to them.  These boys are tough and wild and invincible.  And, while they are trashing our new home, Patrick is coloring quietly at the kitchen table, drawing amazing little pictures of monsters or boys playing football and completely oblivious that the house is crumbling around him.  God love that kid.  (And the others, fine.  I'm sure God loves Leo and Hatch, too.  Though I'm sure He shakes His head and says "what were you THINKING?" probably as much as I do.)

 

4.)  What else...?  What else...?  Oh!  I started a new workout program, but I'm not ready to talk about it yet.  I really like it, but I want to be committed to it before I give a review.  I feel good, so that's a bonus.  I'm trying not to be hung up on the scale because a.) it's unhealthy and b.) I'm proud of what this body has done.  I have four amazing kiddos.  So, I don't look how I want to?  Fine.  I have what I always wanted, so it's a fair trade. 

5.)  And, finally... I have adopted a new life mantra.  That is:

 

 

And, though it's my lifelong goal to find absolute Zen, you and I both know that probably won't happen.  The story is in the journey, though.  I'm trying to make peace.  I'm trying to be a good person. That would be a good legacy, right? My home life is good.  I've got that part down (Ha!  Ok, no.  I don't.  But I try.)  But I'm working on the outside...the bigger circle, if you will, and, if it kills me, I'm going to nail it.  And if I don't, I'll at least show my kids an example of how to be happy and open and forgiving and loving.  Loving.  That part is the most important. 

 

Life is good.  It always is.  Crazy, chaotic, an absolute mess, but it's good.

Love.

To My Son on His Second Birthday

Dear William-

A few days ago, you turned two years old.  Though it was a quiet day spent at home with the family, you were not at all forgotten.  We ate pumpkin cake, we sang to you so many times that you started singing to yourself (and now, days later, still are), you watched as your dad put together your new train set and held your new train cars so tightly in your chubby little hands that I wasn't sure we would ever pry them loose.  Your aunts and uncles FaceTimed you throughout the day. You got a lot of lovely messages and phone calls from your family.  Your Aunt Leeney brought you ice cream and cookies.  You spent the day being loved on, something with which you are quite familiar.

Two years ago, you entered our lives and we were so filled with love.  I was still on a high of graduating from school, I was weeks away from starting what I had imagined to be by dream job, and your birth quite literally made me feel like I was going to explode from happiness.  You were the proverbial cherry on top.  However, the high from your birth has yet to cease.  You are still our "baby."  Despite the fact that you have a younger sister now, you're still the baby.  Despite your newly-acquired, two-year-old attitute and sense of entitlement, you are still the baby.  Despite the fact that you do everything in your power to be a big kid, you are still the baby.  Our baby.

You may wonder what you were like at two.  Let me tell you:

At two, you are quite small, smaller than the vast majority of boys your age: 33 inches tall and 23.6 pounds.  You have light/medium auburn hair, shiny and very straight.  You have clear, gray eyes and a lovely symmetrical face.  You are adorable.  You talk a lot...and loudly.  You like to do everything by yourself.  You want to be just like Leo.  You refuse a sippy cup (Baby Milk, you say) and refuse to sit in a high chair (Baby Seat.)  You wrestle and jump and bite and kick.  You're a little fighter. 

But you carry with you an amazing disposition, a life-loving, funny, goofy, charming little boy who just wants things his way and refuses to take "no" for an answer.  One of my favorite parts of you is your perseverence and bravery.  You are stronger than you realize.  When you are charged (and you are a lot, let's be fair) you never show fear.  Rather, you puff out your little chest, tuck your chin in, plant your feet, and brace yourself for the hit.  You don't go down without a fight.  This, my boy, will take you places.  Don't change this part of you for anyone. 

I could listen to you laugh for days.  I could breathe the smell of your hair in forever.  I could hug you for hours, hold you for a lifetime.  I could handle you staying this small forever.  But you won't, and that's the lovely part of being a kid.  I'm so excited about who you are growing up to be.  Your dad and I both are.  You have a way of making everyone around you smile.  People love you, sweet boy, and that makes my heart happier than I can tell you.  People can see you how I see you.  And you see yourself as a larger-than-life force to be reckoned with.  And you are right.

I love you, Hatchie.  Always have, always will.  Thanks for letting me be your Mom.  It's the best job in the world.

Happy birthday, Son.

Mom