Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Friday, November 16, 2012
Finally...
(...a change from these fake rap artists; me and Nas bringing it to your hardest...) No, I'm kidding. But tell me you didn't think of it, too. Or perhaps I am the only 30+ year-old with a secret hip-hop love affair?
Seriously, I am sitting down to finally write an actual blog post and not one that will just suffice for a while. The truth is, I wasn't sure about what to write as of lately. I'm fine; the kids are fine; Adam is fine; our jobs are fine. So what, then? I should have plenty to tell you about. But I didn't. Because, as a whole, I have spent the last couple of weeks in a state of disappointment.
We spend a lot of time with people. We are a social family. Adam and I deal with the public all day every day. The kids have learned how to be outgoing and socially acceptable. And yet...
I am disappointed in people; disappointed in social norms. I am disappointed in the lack of manners in the general population. I am disappointed in how niceties are considered something extraordinary and not something expected. I am disappointed that it is considered more acceptable to deny any wrong-doings than it is to own them and apologize. I amdisappointed infuriated with the new-found sense of social entitlement. I am disappointed that holding others accountable is worse than any actual crime. I am disappointed in how we treat one another...all of us (including me.) I am disappointed that this is just how things are. I deal with a lot of people every single day. Mostly, I am disappointed that my kids run the risk of growing up to be like this (insert cringe.)
More than anything, I want my kids to be nice people. I don't want my family to teach how to be mean, to be entitled, to be unjust, to be exclusive of others. I don't want my kids to learn these things, but they will. Sigh. They will, because, if they walk out the door, it is there. (And if I continue to take my frustrations out at the occassional bank rep who calls from our old financial institution, they will learn it before they walk out the door. Shoot.)
So, I'm stuck with worrying about how to fix it. (And, again, I do.) Since they are so little, I supposed it starts with us. And, like the rest of us, we have some learning to do.
I make mistakes all the time. Every single day. But I know right from wrong. I am generally very nice to people. And I apologize. (What is so wrong with saying I'm sorry? Seriously, I don't get it.) I think half of the population needs to go back to preschool.
At Patrick's school, they learn very early (day 1) the difference between a loving choice and an unloving choice. If 3 and 4 year-olds can understand this (and say sorry), then why can't adults? What's worse is what this behavior is learned from generation to generation, and suddenly we're stuck with a society of liars and cover-uppers and deniers and...well...fill-in-the-blank. And though I am far from a perfect parent, I do try my damndest my to raise good kids. I should have been looking for resources from the get-go, but since I just recently started to worry about what the future holds for my (now) good boys, I am now looking with a purpose. Here are a few good pointers:
As it turns out, children have an inborn capacity for compassion. Small in stature themselves, they naturally identify with stuffed animals, other kids, pets, and underdogs. The tricky part is that their empathy must compete with other developmental forces, including limited impulse control -- which makes them pull the cat's tail -- and their belief that their needs absolutely must come first -- which makes it hard for them to let their cousin push the cool fire truck.
But with so much hatred and turmoil in the world today, it seems more important than ever to raise kids who can understand and be kind to other people. Teaching this doesn't mean lectures or visits to soup kitchens. It's part of day-to-day life: how you answer your child's questions, how you solve conflict at the park, how you nudge his or her growing capacity to understand and think about other people. Temperament of course plays a role -- some kids are naturally more tuned in to other people's feelings and difficulties, while others are a bit oblivious. Either way, you have influence in fostering your child's ability to empathize. Age by age, here's how to do so in small, daily doses:
Show how to be gentle. Your child wants to be friendly but ends up grabbing the baby roughly? Demonstrate another way. "I say, 'We use our hands to give love,'" says Kimberly Mazone of Dresden, Maine, mother of 4-year-old Sienna and 3-month-old Lucca. "'You're being a little bit rough. Let's be gentle. Let's show our love with our hands.'" You can actually take his hand and show him physically what a gentle touch is.
Speak softly. Your kindness will be a role model for how to treat others. When your child's in pain, be warm and caring. Young toddlers don't have a very consistent long-term memory, so you'll have to repeat your lessons more times than you thought possible.
Reject rudeness. "I see fifteen-month-olds who do things like spit into their parents' faces, and the parents laugh," says Susan Jensen, a mom of two and director of Children's Nook preschool, in North Charleston, South Carolina. This will not do. Compassion requires that your child respect others, including you. Gently but firmly, say "No, you may not spit!" In the same loving but no-nonsense manner, remove his little feet from the table and unlock his fist from your hair.
Say "I'm sorry." If you've been short-tempered with your child, apologize to him. All parents make mistakes. It's how you address them afterward that makes the difference. He'll learn that everyone, even Mom, admits it when she's wrong.
Provide structure. It might seem that if you want to raise a compassionate, caring child, you just have to be a compassionate, caring parent. But that's not enough. Even the most nurturing, loving parenting requires firm limits on behavior, or you'll get very self-centered children. Make unacceptable behavior, like hitting, always unacceptable -- even if it's her birthday. If something is wrong it has to be wrong all the time.
Expect her to help. It's all about teaching the Golden Rule. "You need to love your neighbor as yourself, even if you don't particularly feel like it."
Use manners to connect. With the exciting (and noisy!) arrival of the garbage truck, talk about how we're all connected: The farmer grows the food, we throw out the peels or waste, and the trash collector picks it up. If your child's out watching the trash collector, she can say "thank you." Good manners, which keep us coexisting harmoniously, are one way to show compassion.
"There's another person at the other end of the relationship who has feelings and deserves respect."
Outlaw name-calling. Compassion starts with what's acceptable and what's not.
Give consequences. If the be-nice rule is broken, stick with simple, concrete consequences such as a brief time-out or losing a special toy for a day. A 3-year-old's abstract thinking is weak, so she's too young to understand that being nice is morally the right thing to do; your efforts, therefore, should be directed at helping her resist impulses so she won't get in trouble.
Label kindness. When you catch your child offering a shovel to a friend in the sandbox, label her actions by saying "What a good friend you are," or "You're very thoughtful." Over time, she'll understand that being a helpful friend, sister, neighbor, and human being is something you value.
Be considerate yourself. While it's tempting to hand out birthday-party invitations at the park instead of going to the trouble of mailing them, explain to your child that kids who see other children getting invitations but don't receive one themselves may feel hurt. And all through the year, get her in the habit of sending cards to friends and relatives who could use a kind word: thank-you notes, sympathy cards, get-well wishes. For a child not yet up to writing a message, even a drawing is great.
Don't trash talk. Kids, as we know, are always listening. How we talk on a daily basis about our own siblings, parents, and relatives tells them a lot. If children hear us saying something really negative about Grandma, they learn that it's OK to talk that way. So keep meanness in check: "Show them you have a spirit of kindness and generosity."
Explore feelings. With an increasing vocabulary, a 6-year-old is able to communicate more about emotions. Talking about book characters is a good way to help. "We'd read Snow White and I'd ask, 'Why do you think the witch was jealous of Snow White?'" says Rev. Gatta, who's also a mom of a 12-year-old. "Later, maybe in the car, we'd talk about characters' motives and feelings."
Monitor media. If the characters on television are hitting each other or calling each other names, shut off the TV or, at least, talk about what's going on. Children don't just watch TV, they internalize it, and they don't get irony, so be careful of what they're memorizing.
Point out heroes. The siren of a fire truck, not to mention a newspaper photograph of a bomb attack, can make a 4-year-old worry. Shield him from disturbing images as much as possible, but when he hears or sees something frightening, focus the conversation on the firefighters, rescue workers, doctors, or volunteers who are there to help us.
Expect more. When it comes to your child's responsibility to be caring and compassionate, set your standards high. Don't let teasing or bullying go unaddressed. At 7 and 8, kids are starting to be able to see the world from another person's perspective. In a complicated and troubled world, it's easy to feel that nothing we do will make a difference. This can lead to compassion burnout -- for us and for our kids. The key is to start small.
Contributing editor Jane Meredith Adams writes for the Chicago Tribune, San Francisco magazine and Health.
Seriously, I am sitting down to finally write an actual blog post and not one that will just suffice for a while. The truth is, I wasn't sure about what to write as of lately. I'm fine; the kids are fine; Adam is fine; our jobs are fine. So what, then? I should have plenty to tell you about. But I didn't. Because, as a whole, I have spent the last couple of weeks in a state of disappointment.
We spend a lot of time with people. We are a social family. Adam and I deal with the public all day every day. The kids have learned how to be outgoing and socially acceptable. And yet...
I am disappointed in people; disappointed in social norms. I am disappointed in the lack of manners in the general population. I am disappointed in how niceties are considered something extraordinary and not something expected. I am disappointed that it is considered more acceptable to deny any wrong-doings than it is to own them and apologize. I am
More than anything, I want my kids to be nice people. I don't want my family to teach how to be mean, to be entitled, to be unjust, to be exclusive of others. I don't want my kids to learn these things, but they will. Sigh. They will, because, if they walk out the door, it is there. (And if I continue to take my frustrations out at the occassional bank rep who calls from our old financial institution, they will learn it before they walk out the door. Shoot.)
So, I'm stuck with worrying about how to fix it. (And, again, I do.) Since they are so little, I supposed it starts with us. And, like the rest of us, we have some learning to do.
I make mistakes all the time. Every single day. But I know right from wrong. I am generally very nice to people. And I apologize. (What is so wrong with saying I'm sorry? Seriously, I don't get it.) I think half of the population needs to go back to preschool.
At Patrick's school, they learn very early (day 1) the difference between a loving choice and an unloving choice. If 3 and 4 year-olds can understand this (and say sorry), then why can't adults? What's worse is what this behavior is learned from generation to generation, and suddenly we're stuck with a society of liars and cover-uppers and deniers and...well...fill-in-the-blank. And though I am far from a perfect parent, I do try my damndest my to raise good kids. I should have been looking for resources from the get-go, but since I just recently started to worry about what the future holds for my (now) good boys, I am now looking with a purpose. Here are a few good pointers:
As it turns out, children have an inborn capacity for compassion. Small in stature themselves, they naturally identify with stuffed animals, other kids, pets, and underdogs. The tricky part is that their empathy must compete with other developmental forces, including limited impulse control -- which makes them pull the cat's tail -- and their belief that their needs absolutely must come first -- which makes it hard for them to let their cousin push the cool fire truck.
But with so much hatred and turmoil in the world today, it seems more important than ever to raise kids who can understand and be kind to other people. Teaching this doesn't mean lectures or visits to soup kitchens. It's part of day-to-day life: how you answer your child's questions, how you solve conflict at the park, how you nudge his or her growing capacity to understand and think about other people. Temperament of course plays a role -- some kids are naturally more tuned in to other people's feelings and difficulties, while others are a bit oblivious. Either way, you have influence in fostering your child's ability to empathize. Age by age, here's how to do so in small, daily doses:
Promote sweetness
Teaching your child ways to treat things with care helps him develop the understanding that actions have consequences.Show how to be gentle. Your child wants to be friendly but ends up grabbing the baby roughly? Demonstrate another way. "I say, 'We use our hands to give love,'" says Kimberly Mazone of Dresden, Maine, mother of 4-year-old Sienna and 3-month-old Lucca. "'You're being a little bit rough. Let's be gentle. Let's show our love with our hands.'" You can actually take his hand and show him physically what a gentle touch is.
Speak softly. Your kindness will be a role model for how to treat others. When your child's in pain, be warm and caring. Young toddlers don't have a very consistent long-term memory, so you'll have to repeat your lessons more times than you thought possible.
Reject rudeness. "I see fifteen-month-olds who do things like spit into their parents' faces, and the parents laugh," says Susan Jensen, a mom of two and director of Children's Nook preschool, in North Charleston, South Carolina. This will not do. Compassion requires that your child respect others, including you. Gently but firmly, say "No, you may not spit!" In the same loving but no-nonsense manner, remove his little feet from the table and unlock his fist from your hair.
Say "I'm sorry." If you've been short-tempered with your child, apologize to him. All parents make mistakes. It's how you address them afterward that makes the difference. He'll learn that everyone, even Mom, admits it when she's wrong.
Enforce rules
Consistent limits help your toddler see that her behavior (and misbehavior!) affects others.Provide structure. It might seem that if you want to raise a compassionate, caring child, you just have to be a compassionate, caring parent. But that's not enough. Even the most nurturing, loving parenting requires firm limits on behavior, or you'll get very self-centered children. Make unacceptable behavior, like hitting, always unacceptable -- even if it's her birthday. If something is wrong it has to be wrong all the time.
Expect her to help. It's all about teaching the Golden Rule. "You need to love your neighbor as yourself, even if you don't particularly feel like it."
Use manners to connect. With the exciting (and noisy!) arrival of the garbage truck, talk about how we're all connected: The farmer grows the food, we throw out the peels or waste, and the trash collector picks it up. If your child's out watching the trash collector, she can say "thank you." Good manners, which keep us coexisting harmoniously, are one way to show compassion.
"There's another person at the other end of the relationship who has feelings and deserves respect."
Guide friendship
Stay tuned in during playtime so you can help your child figure out how to be a friend.Outlaw name-calling. Compassion starts with what's acceptable and what's not.
Give consequences. If the be-nice rule is broken, stick with simple, concrete consequences such as a brief time-out or losing a special toy for a day. A 3-year-old's abstract thinking is weak, so she's too young to understand that being nice is morally the right thing to do; your efforts, therefore, should be directed at helping her resist impulses so she won't get in trouble.
Label kindness. When you catch your child offering a shovel to a friend in the sandbox, label her actions by saying "What a good friend you are," or "You're very thoughtful." Over time, she'll understand that being a helpful friend, sister, neighbor, and human being is something you value.
Be considerate yourself. While it's tempting to hand out birthday-party invitations at the park instead of going to the trouble of mailing them, explain to your child that kids who see other children getting invitations but don't receive one themselves may feel hurt. And all through the year, get her in the habit of sending cards to friends and relatives who could use a kind word: thank-you notes, sympathy cards, get-well wishes. For a child not yet up to writing a message, even a drawing is great.
Don't trash talk. Kids, as we know, are always listening. How we talk on a daily basis about our own siblings, parents, and relatives tells them a lot. If children hear us saying something really negative about Grandma, they learn that it's OK to talk that way. So keep meanness in check: "Show them you have a spirit of kindness and generosity."
Build on their smarts
Your child's made cognitive and emotional leaps -- help him understand others' feelings.Explore feelings. With an increasing vocabulary, a 6-year-old is able to communicate more about emotions. Talking about book characters is a good way to help. "We'd read Snow White and I'd ask, 'Why do you think the witch was jealous of Snow White?'" says Rev. Gatta, who's also a mom of a 12-year-old. "Later, maybe in the car, we'd talk about characters' motives and feelings."
Monitor media. If the characters on television are hitting each other or calling each other names, shut off the TV or, at least, talk about what's going on. Children don't just watch TV, they internalize it, and they don't get irony, so be careful of what they're memorizing.
Point out heroes. The siren of a fire truck, not to mention a newspaper photograph of a bomb attack, can make a 4-year-old worry. Shield him from disturbing images as much as possible, but when he hears or sees something frightening, focus the conversation on the firefighters, rescue workers, doctors, or volunteers who are there to help us.
Expect more. When it comes to your child's responsibility to be caring and compassionate, set your standards high. Don't let teasing or bullying go unaddressed. At 7 and 8, kids are starting to be able to see the world from another person's perspective. In a complicated and troubled world, it's easy to feel that nothing we do will make a difference. This can lead to compassion burnout -- for us and for our kids. The key is to start small.
Contributing editor Jane Meredith Adams writes for the Chicago Tribune, San Francisco magazine and Health.
Monday, November 12, 2012
I'm Sorry
To My Kids-
I am so sorry every time I raise my voice to you. I am so sorry that I ever assume you know something without ever having taught you. I'm sorry for my sometimes unreasonably high expecations and my failing memory of what it feels like to be so little.
You kids are incredible human beings. You are great, great kids. I'm sorry for yelling at you today. I would go into your rooms right now and tell you myself, but then I would wake you and what you need more than anything is sleep. (In fact, that is what I was trying to tell you today when I got so upset with you.)
Sweet dreams, little boys. Tomorrow will be a brand new day. I promise you.
Love,
Mom
I am so sorry every time I raise my voice to you. I am so sorry that I ever assume you know something without ever having taught you. I'm sorry for my sometimes unreasonably high expecations and my failing memory of what it feels like to be so little.
You kids are incredible human beings. You are great, great kids. I'm sorry for yelling at you today. I would go into your rooms right now and tell you myself, but then I would wake you and what you need more than anything is sleep. (In fact, that is what I was trying to tell you today when I got so upset with you.)
Sweet dreams, little boys. Tomorrow will be a brand new day. I promise you.
Love,
Mom
Friday, November 9, 2012
Insomnia.
Insomnia: the only word I can use to describe why I would wake up at 2am and absolutely not be able to go back to sleep. The high point of this, however, is that the house is clean (at least the parts of it where there are not sleeping people), two loads of laundry done, folded, and put away, and I am just getting ready to settle in with my beloved DVR. My hope is that I don't pay for this lack of sleep later on today. (It is, after all, the day we are celebrating my beloved Adam's 34th birthday.) Turn off, brain! Go to bed!
Monday, November 5, 2012
There is an occurrence that happens every day around here that never loses it's impact. Every day, at around the same time, I get the chance block out the world for a few minutes. Every single day, I think to myself, "I don't ever want to forget this." But I might. And so I'm writing it down.
Nighttime around here is hectic. Between Leo's hungry whines and Patrick's question after question and Hatch getting into absolutely anything he can (usually the dog food), it's not uncommon that we're a little overwhelmed by the time dinner gets on the table. Frequently, Hatch gets overlooked as he sits quietly and eats his meal. Come six-thirty, that quiet little boy starts to get the signature tired sweats. He may start to fall down. He rubs his eyes. A few swings from his sippy and a fresh diaper later, and he's ready for bed.
He'll wave night-night to Adam and he's down the hall to his room. With the lights out and the fan on, Hatch takes one look at me and, without fail, effortlessly swings one arm around my neck. The other, he pulls in next to his face and he lays his head on my shoulder and closes his eyes. He just stays there, perfectly still aside from the rise and fall of his back, as I sway him for a few minutes before putting him down in his crib. Those few minutes, in (nearly) perfect silence, with the smell of my sweet baby's fine hair and the sweat beads on his nose...they are precious. And fleeting. And, more than any other part of his baby-ness, I will miss these minutes together horribly.
No matter my mood, I always find myself looking forward to putting Hatch to bed. As I lay him down and fluff his blanket over him, sometimes he laughs, closes his eyes, and lays there with a tiny smile on his face. He makes life so simple. All of the boys bring with them such an awesome gift, (each one as necessary to me as the next) and this is his--his easy, simple, happy persona. My greatest wish for him is that he never loses it. (And, Hatch, if you are reading this one day and you feel like you have, find it. It's beautiful.)
It occurred to us this weekend, as we dropped Hatch off for his first overnight, that we don't have a baby in our house any longer. Technically (although not to me), Hatch is a toddler. He requires no special baby equipment. No bouncy seat, no bottles. He can sometimes tell us what he wants, he learns new tricks every day (the newest of which was stealing his brothers toys, which was very quickly followed by learning how to make a run for it). No more baby at the Waldens.
No more baby at the Waldens. Sigh.
Nighttime around here is hectic. Between Leo's hungry whines and Patrick's question after question and Hatch getting into absolutely anything he can (usually the dog food), it's not uncommon that we're a little overwhelmed by the time dinner gets on the table. Frequently, Hatch gets overlooked as he sits quietly and eats his meal. Come six-thirty, that quiet little boy starts to get the signature tired sweats. He may start to fall down. He rubs his eyes. A few swings from his sippy and a fresh diaper later, and he's ready for bed.
He'll wave night-night to Adam and he's down the hall to his room. With the lights out and the fan on, Hatch takes one look at me and, without fail, effortlessly swings one arm around my neck. The other, he pulls in next to his face and he lays his head on my shoulder and closes his eyes. He just stays there, perfectly still aside from the rise and fall of his back, as I sway him for a few minutes before putting him down in his crib. Those few minutes, in (nearly) perfect silence, with the smell of my sweet baby's fine hair and the sweat beads on his nose...they are precious. And fleeting. And, more than any other part of his baby-ness, I will miss these minutes together horribly.
No matter my mood, I always find myself looking forward to putting Hatch to bed. As I lay him down and fluff his blanket over him, sometimes he laughs, closes his eyes, and lays there with a tiny smile on his face. He makes life so simple. All of the boys bring with them such an awesome gift, (each one as necessary to me as the next) and this is his--his easy, simple, happy persona. My greatest wish for him is that he never loses it. (And, Hatch, if you are reading this one day and you feel like you have, find it. It's beautiful.)
It occurred to us this weekend, as we dropped Hatch off for his first overnight, that we don't have a baby in our house any longer. Technically (although not to me), Hatch is a toddler. He requires no special baby equipment. No bouncy seat, no bottles. He can sometimes tell us what he wants, he learns new tricks every day (the newest of which was stealing his brothers toys, which was very quickly followed by learning how to make a run for it). No more baby at the Waldens.
No more baby at the Waldens. Sigh.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
It's The Most Wonderful Time...
...of the year! It's Autumn. Fall. The greatest season of all. And do you know who was born in this great season? Our little William. Lucky boy.
A few things to note about Hatch at a year:
1.) He walks!
2.) He has seven teeth.
3.) He has the most infectious little giggle and a mischievous little nature.
4.) His hair is coming in quickly still, brown and maybe (just maybe) a little bit of body to it?
5.) He has transitioned seamlessly from a bottle to a sippy cup.
6.) He is officially weaned. Sad face.
7.) His vocabulary consists of:
- Hi
- Bye-Bye
- Night-Night
- Mama
- Dada
- Didi (Indy)
- Thank you
- No
- What's that?
- This
8.) He really does not like forward-facing car seats. It's back to rear-facing for him.
9.) He gives hugs and giant, wet-mouthed kisses. Sigh.
10.) He really enjoys his dancing. I mean, really. While I wished we had a true video of him dancing, Adam found one that is about as close as it gets. Here is a very, very good representation of Dancing Hatch:
He's about as sweet as pumpkin pie, appropriately.
And, for that reason (not really), we celebrated his birthday with some Fall Fun. I have a feeling this time of year will be his favorite, too:
In keeping with with theme of the season, we took all of our little pumpkins to the Parke County Covered Bridge Festival this past weekend. Just like every year, this one did not disappoint. Aunt Leeney and Uncle Justin came along for the ride, all seven of us packed into the VW minivan and made the 1.5 hour trek to Bridgeton, Indiana. Adam and I snagged some new antique windows and we ate. And ate. And ate lots of fall-themed food (not a single one of them pumpkin-flavored, strangely.) Included in our culinary adventures were Italian beef sandwiches, ham & beans, stromboli, chicken & noodles, apple crisp ala mode (one of the children may have been temporarily placed in danger in this conquest, but that's a moot point now. He's fine.) Ahem...going on: kettle corn, homemade jelly beans, fried cheese curds, friend Walleye, ham & cheese sandwich, and Amish made pretzels (eaten out of the back of the van).
Here are some pics from this fun fall tradition:
A few things to note about Hatch at a year:
1.) He walks!
2.) He has seven teeth.
3.) He has the most infectious little giggle and a mischievous little nature.
4.) His hair is coming in quickly still, brown and maybe (just maybe) a little bit of body to it?
5.) He has transitioned seamlessly from a bottle to a sippy cup.
6.) He is officially weaned. Sad face.
7.) His vocabulary consists of:
- Hi
- Bye-Bye
- Night-Night
- Mama
- Dada
- Didi (Indy)
- Thank you
- No
- What's that?
- This
8.) He really does not like forward-facing car seats. It's back to rear-facing for him.
9.) He gives hugs and giant, wet-mouthed kisses. Sigh.
10.) He really enjoys his dancing. I mean, really. While I wished we had a true video of him dancing, Adam found one that is about as close as it gets. Here is a very, very good representation of Dancing Hatch:
He's about as sweet as pumpkin pie, appropriately.
And, for that reason (not really), we celebrated his birthday with some Fall Fun. I have a feeling this time of year will be his favorite, too:
Here are some pics from this fun fall tradition:
 |
| Our happy (and handsome) drivers. |
 |
| Someone started the trip a little bit grumpy. |
 |
| Always a welcoming sight. |
 |
| The pretzels. So good, you can eat them anywhere. Even out of the back of the van. (Note: It's an Amish man named Ben who makes these pretzels. When Colleen returned to the car with three delighfully warm ones, she informed us, "Guys, I think we've been tricked. I just saw the Amish guy talking on his iPhone.") |
Friday, October 12, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
To My Son On His 1st Birthday
My Dearest William-
How quickly a year passes. A year ago yesterday, at this very moment, I was laying in my hospital bed (wearing my favorite pajamas) and your dad and I were still trying to decide what to name you. You were wrapped in a black gauze swaddling blanket, sound asleep and so peaceful, when the nurse (who knew what names we were wavering between) leaned over your isolet and said, "He looks like he'd make a really good William."
And you know what? You do. You'd probably make a good Gabriel or Adrien or Edison. You'd have made a good anything. You are a good person. Granted, you are still so little. Your whole life is still ahead of you, but this much about you is true:
You have happiness that spills out of your pores. Your laugh is infectious, your voice make all of us smile. You find joy in every minute of every day; in what you see, in what you do, in all of your first...and seconds...and thirds. You are the piece of this family we didn't even know we were missing until you were born.
You are tough. You are tiny (19.5 pounds) and scrappy. You can push even your biggest of brothers out of the way with a single hand-swipe. You can climb up and over almost any obstacle, even said brothers. Even if you can't, you will try. And then you'll try again. You'll grimace, maybe even yell out, and go back for more. You're aren't deterred by much. You're persistent.
You are beautiful. Simply put, you are a pretty little boy. You have tiny almond-shaped eyes, a full little mouth, and the shiniest baby hair I have ever seen. You have soft, milky, skin and the sweetest little feet. You may be small, but you pack some great genes in that tiny body. (Your dad and I cannot even take credit for them. You look like a compilation of your other relatives.)
Hatch, I wish there were the words to tell you how much you mean to this family. Your arrival brought with it a change in our family. You taught us so much about what life is all about; about what makes us the most happy; about what makes families so special. You brought us closer. You make our family a little more complete.
You are one of our three greatest joys. You are a gift, my sweet boy. You always were. You always will be. Thank you for being our gift. Thank you for the honor of raising you.
With love,
Mom
How quickly a year passes. A year ago yesterday, at this very moment, I was laying in my hospital bed (wearing my favorite pajamas) and your dad and I were still trying to decide what to name you. You were wrapped in a black gauze swaddling blanket, sound asleep and so peaceful, when the nurse (who knew what names we were wavering between) leaned over your isolet and said, "He looks like he'd make a really good William."
And you know what? You do. You'd probably make a good Gabriel or Adrien or Edison. You'd have made a good anything. You are a good person. Granted, you are still so little. Your whole life is still ahead of you, but this much about you is true:
You have happiness that spills out of your pores. Your laugh is infectious, your voice make all of us smile. You find joy in every minute of every day; in what you see, in what you do, in all of your first...and seconds...and thirds. You are the piece of this family we didn't even know we were missing until you were born.
You are tough. You are tiny (19.5 pounds) and scrappy. You can push even your biggest of brothers out of the way with a single hand-swipe. You can climb up and over almost any obstacle, even said brothers. Even if you can't, you will try. And then you'll try again. You'll grimace, maybe even yell out, and go back for more. You're aren't deterred by much. You're persistent.
You are beautiful. Simply put, you are a pretty little boy. You have tiny almond-shaped eyes, a full little mouth, and the shiniest baby hair I have ever seen. You have soft, milky, skin and the sweetest little feet. You may be small, but you pack some great genes in that tiny body. (Your dad and I cannot even take credit for them. You look like a compilation of your other relatives.)
Hatch, I wish there were the words to tell you how much you mean to this family. Your arrival brought with it a change in our family. You taught us so much about what life is all about; about what makes us the most happy; about what makes families so special. You brought us closer. You make our family a little more complete.
You are one of our three greatest joys. You are a gift, my sweet boy. You always were. You always will be. Thank you for being our gift. Thank you for the honor of raising you.
With love,
Mom
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Vacation, Day Two
My plan is to update this blog sometime while I am here in Myrtle Beach this week. I will not promise anything, though. Between the many trips to the beach, to the pool, then to the lazy river and back to the beach, when is there time? (I could do it now but, as much as I love my blog, I love my beer and trashy novel a little more right now.) I will just say this; two days in and I can't remember a time when I was this happy or completely carefree. Vacations should be mandated. This is good for the soul. So are occasional beers and trashy novels, as it turns out.
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