To My Littlest Little One

To My Littlest Little One, Who Finally Has a Name,

Last week, we were a family of four--two boys and two girls (three girls and three boys if you count the cats, but most of the time I don't). Last week, we hadn't fully installed a car seat, put batteries in the bouncy seat, or picked out a name.

Last week, we didn't know you. I knew your patterns; your kicks; your 3 a.m. parties that hadn't included an invitation for me to join yet. I hadn't smelled that new baby smell in over five years. I hadn't changed a diaper in three years. And, if we're being honest, I had forgotten exactly what it's like to fall in love.

"Dad," I overheard RJ, "I just feel like I want to look at her all the time, and hug her, and hold her all the time." "That's love," came the response. "You're in love with your new sister."

Today, the car seat is locked in; the bouncy seat bounces merrily, and you have a name:

Betsy Grace

A week ago, I cautioned that it's a whole new world out here. Indeed it is, and you entered with gusto. So much gusto in fact that I heard one of the doctors tell me, or your dad, or both of us (there were a lot of medications flowing), "Good luck with that at home." You came into this world early in the morning, and I have no doubt you sounded the alarm for so many new moms that day. 

But, being born is hard work, and with the exception of diaper changes, you were and remain the calmest of my three. The first night home, you slept six hours! Of course, this was after I RSVP'd and accepted your invitation to the 3 a.m. party, but these days we can sleep in a little in the mornings. 

You won't remember this moment; but I will forever. 

They'll remember this one forever too. 

If your brother's eyes look a little swollen, it's because he burst into tears when he first saw you. When I asked him what was the matter, he tearfully blinked, "Mom, these are happy tears; kids can have happy tears too." 

They're pretty proud of you. 

Three days in the hospital is a long time. There's no real time of day there; nurses come and go at all hours and every hour. Every so often, they poke you, prod you, and ask you to do things that aren't fun at all. I'll spare you the details--even someday when you have your own. Let's pretend all birthdays are fun ones with party hats instead of surgical caps and fruit punch instead of jello for lunch, shall we?

And, in the family tradition, it took a few minutes to find a name. The name card on your hospital crib read "B.G.," as in Baby Girl, as in girl-with-no-name. 

But discussions were had; and decisions were made. 

And soon, 

It was time 

to take off your hospital onsie (because they wouldn't let me dress you in anything cute until then), and 

take you home. 

"Mom," Gigi shouted as she dropped your hand from hers, "is her tummy cord electric?! Will I get shocked?!" 

 "What is that smell? It smells amazing!" 

(If I could bottle the scent of a newborn's head, I'd be a millionaire.)

You have a sweet big brother. 

I do appreciate the 3 a.m. party invitations, but girl, let's work on the kick-off time. Your mother is old. And tired. 

It turns out Maternity Mom is similar to Vacation Mom. We both love selfies (and margaritas but not until the pain meds wear off).  

Less than a week old, and already happy dreams. Welcome home, Bets; 

we can't wait to get to know you. 

A Letter Not Quite for Your Birthday

To My Baby Girl (because you don't have a name yet) who hasn't had a birthday quite yet:

I promised myself that I would enjoy this pregnancy. I would document every kick, hiccup, tickle, and bump. I would embrace the sleepless nights and always remember that mint tea made you wiggle, and if you'd been too quiet during the afternoon, a solid Justin Timberlake jam would get you hopping on the drive home.

In reality? I documented nothing. The past 39-ish weeks have passed in a flurry of your siblings' soccer games, piano lessons, swim practices, and endless evenings of homework. You've simply been along for the ride. It's a good thing we bought that fancy jogging stroller this time around; I have a feeling you'll spend many days just rolling along for the ride.

I thought of a million things I'd say to you if only you could understand. Yesterday, I drove your brother and sister to school, a rarity. Most days your daddy gets them across town before the bell rings. They're excited. Well, your brother is excited. He squeals and giggles and hugs my belly whenever he gets a chance. In fact, he's probably felt your kicks more than anyone but me; he believes you're communicating with him when you kick at his cheeks resting on my tummy. Maybe you are. Your sister is a little more worried. She doesn't want to change poopy diapers, but I think she's more worried that you'll take her spot in mommy's  heart. You won't. You'll have your own special spot. On the drive, they talked about how they'd snuggle you and make you giggle and pet your head. "Remember," I reminded, "Even though she's little, she's still a person."

"Oh!" shouted your sister. (Her voice is kind of unique, but you probably already know that.). "So like sometimes, she might cry because she doesn't have words but she's annoyed." Exactly. In about 36 hours, sounds will be much louder for you; rooms will be brighter; textures will change on your skin. It's a whole new world out here, little one.

And here's the thing: sometimes this world isn't kind, or pretty, or pleasant. Sometimes, you'll look for your place in it, and your place will seem to disappear.  Some days, your stockings will creep down around your knees; the waistband of your skirt will dig into your side just enough to remind you that cupcakes aren't always a good idea; and you'll just have a bad hair day.

And someday, you'll find yourself in a place in the world that you'd never thought you'd be. I'm almost 40; 39 weeks pregnant; and well into a career. I never imagined I'd be walking out of another office for another maternity leave. I never imagined I'd be shopping for nursing bras at the same time I'm shopping for anti-wrinkle eye creams. And, I never imagined I'd be a mother of three.

But there's such good news in this strange place in the world. You'll find unexpected friends. You'll learn that girl power is a real thing. Your friends will hold you up; they'll make you feel beautiful even when your stockings sag around your knees, and you've eaten one too many cupcakes. The really good friends will eat the cupcakes with you.

And girl, you've got the best big brother. He's a lover, not a fighter--unless he's fighting your fights. He'll be your biggest cheerleader, snuggler, and supporter. And, talk about girl power! Your big sister is a force. She'll eat the cupcakes with you and show you how to bake them to perfection. She'll teach you your numbers and letters before you're potty trained, I have no doubt. Those two are fantastic:

I made a promise to myself that I'd remember every minute of this pregnancy because I know you'll be my last. I planned weekly photos and updates. Sometimes it's hard to find a place in your world to make it all happen. What did happen? I carried you to work every day; my coworkers' voices are more familiar to you than most of your family. I felt the little bubbles of your tiniest kicks and kept those in my mind through so many uncomfortable and worrisome tests. You're fine and will be fine. Your sister loves secrets, so here's one for you: your mommy is older than most. Your friends' mommies will be at different life stages, career stages, and family stages. I hope I can show them some of the girl power that I've seen.  I bought all the creams and potions in the hopes that just one more time my tummy will return to some form of swimsuit-ready presentation. I've watched the scale creep up week by week until I can't bear to watch it anymore. And somehow, I've still managed to find a good hair day (thanks to a fantastic stylist), a dress that doesn't dig into my waistline, and eat the cupcakes. You've made me feel pretty and worthy; and you've helped me find a new place in this world. 

I barely remember how to change a diaper; and a good night's sleep is fresh in my mind. We'll muddle through the next few months as some strange hybrid breed of new parent with almost nine years of experience.   I'm finding a new place in this world; and very soon, you will too. 

(ultrasounds can be creepy, but gosh darn it, look at those cheeks!)

Act Your Age, Not Your Shoe Size

Gigi’s feet have finally grown. She has worn the same size sneakers for nearly a year, now that I think about it. I did think about it the other day, and I brought home a new pair—a half size bigger. “Oh!” she exclaimed, strapping the Velcro across her foot, “These feel so great!” Oops. It’s hard to keep up sometimes, particularly with her and with her brother.

There was a teacher at my little Lutheran school who would tell us, “Act your age not your shoe size!”  I always understood it to mean, “act like a big girl, not a little girl.” But, thinking about it these days, it seems the opposite rings true as well, particularly for those still in toddler sizes. Gigi grew into a size nine and an half and very quickly (two weeks to be exact) into a ten. Some days she acts like she’s ten. “Act your age!” I want to scream at her. She’s five, not ten. She’s not old enough to tell me she hates me or that she’s bored or that she can’t sleep because she’s afraid of going to college, but she does. We spent an hour last week discussing how often she’d get to see me when she goes to college and whether or not I’ll still be her mother when she’s a mother. Spoiler alert: she wasn’t happy with the answer because “that means you’ll still be telling me what to do!”

Acting your age is hard. I wear a six and a half in most shoes; and some days, I act my shoe size, not my age. I yell because I’m frustrated. I say mean things. Sometimes I throw stuff. Meanwhile, my five year old acts like she's ten and tells me,"I'm just frustrated because I can't read it!"

RJ is eight; he wears a size three and a half. Right now, we have two recurring arguments. First, he took his special fancy soccer ball (a futsal to be exact) to school and promptly lost it. RJ loses everything. He is a live action version of the Peanuts character Pigpen. His backpack weighs at least fifteen pounds, and fourteen of those are made up of Hot Wheels. Every once in a while, he sneaks his blankie in too. While his contemporaries play video games and watch super hero movies, he covers his ears during Trolls when Princess Poppy is about to be eaten. Meanwhile, the fancy  futsal is still missing on the school playground, despite very specific instructions that it should never leave the house and should never, not ever, in any circumstance, find its way outside. It found its way outside.  RJ is concerned, but not overly. He's at an age where he prefers Hot Wheels to his Kindle, which brings us to the second argument of the week: reading. The boy is a fantastic reader, and he likes it. But, for now, this big eight year old prefers his mother to read his stories aloud, just like we did when he was three. 

Act your age: 

Sometimes, I catch them like this; 

and I remember when he was three, not eight. 

Sometimes, it's okay to act your shoe size. 

Some days, she's my five-going-on-ten-year old. (I'm nearly-40-going-on-too-old-for-this-but-it's-happening-anyway.)

Some days, she's just her age; and she's perfect. (This is a picture of her and her bestie in the flowers; he's a pretty cool kid. "Mom," she tells me, "You can't marry your family, but if I marry him, he'll become my family. I want him to be my family too, so I think I'll marry him!" Slow down, girl; you're five; and even acting your shoe size, you're not quite ready for marriage yet. 

Bedtime is a struggle. Somewhere between 9 and 10 that night, I gave up. She'd snuggled. She'd cried. She'd read in her bed, and she'd sneaked downstairs. Before I knew it, she had settled into an evening project, just like a ten-year-old should. 

The next day, she was five again. Fairy wings and all. 

But sometimes fairies act too big for their wings and wind up in the corner--because no one else can put my baby in a corner, but I sure will. 

She wears a size ten; he wears a size three. She's five; he's eight. Most days, they act their ages; some days they act their shoe sizes. And, most of the time, they're just right. 

'Twas

'Twas the weekend of Christmas, and all through the house,

Was coughing and snotting,

Especially this mouse...

Her cheeks flushed with fever, 

Not a word to be said, 

Except, "Mommy, I'm sick, especially my head!"

Away from my desk, 

I sprang with a clatter, 

Computer in hand, I raced home 

To diagnose the matter...

"On PJ's, on coat, on car seat, on van!"

To Urgent Care we go, 

To the front door we ran!

103.5.

The results were in. 

The flu bug had hit, 

just in time for Christmas weekend to begin. 

And then the puking. 

That's one think I hate.

The retching and splatting, 

The unknowing wait. 

Is it coming again? Or are we all done. 

I know I was, and ready for fun. 

It wasn't that no fun was had. It was. 

Baby Jesus was set by the chimney with care...

And the tree had been decorated...

By one in the bare...

We'd performed Christmas carols, 

shoulder to shoulder with friends,

 without a though of the perils 

(of all the preschool germs. Oh the germs.)

Proud mama watched, as her boy said his part, 

"And Mary kept all these things, pondering them in her heart." 

Cookies had been baked,

And packages taped,

In hopes that our Christmas might somehow escape,

the inevitable...

the flu, the colds, the tummy bug, all un-faked. 

But he made the big game, 

A special day with dad,

We made a game too, 

Memories lost and had...

Water for the reindeer,

And cookies for Santa too,

Fortunately for us, 

Santa didn't catch our flu.

We made it.

We survived.

A few healthy moments were found...

A heaping mess of gift-wrap wrapped mound...

Gave way to the happiest of days...

And ultimately, I think, the Christmas spirit was found...

And so, peaceful dreams, and most silent of nights, 

without a snorting or snotting or coughing, for the rest of the year 'round. 

Oh, and some outtakes, because rhyming is hard:

Friends are awesome. Friends with siblings in the preschool program too are even better. 

If you look hard, you can see the common cupboard climber, rarely caught in the act. 

She was sick. It was cold. She wanted to ride.

In hindsight, when cake balls don't make her smile, I should know something is up. 

Shout out to the Beat Bugs for making those sick days more manageable. 

And Happiest of Christmas-y birthdays to my favorite 40 year old!

Ballers

RJ's current sporting love is basketball. Or maybe, it's more accurate to say that his current sporting love is his basketball shoes. They're red. They make him feel fast and seven feet tall. I tried my best to drop him from his basketball team. He's already on swim team and an indoor soccer team, and we're experimenting with a real live competitive soccer league. Every night is scheduled.

I'm the boy's mother. I'll admit he has a good shot at being taller than me, but even a mother has to recognize when her little boy has a long shot of seeing the successful side of a three-point line. Basketball was the easiest to resist. and the most likely sporting casualty Gyms smell of fifty years of sweat-soaked wood, unless of course you play in suburbia. Then, gyms smell of fresh paint, Cheez-It dust, and Gatorade. Regardless, all gym floors squeak, and bleachers rarely have seat backs.

Somehow, we find ourselves at a fifty-year old YMCA gym every Friday night watching RJ run drills, trip over his red shoelaces, and pitch one air ball after the other at a goal that has been lowered by the high school guy manning the front desk. Kudos to the coaches. They've got a practice plan, skills, and patience that far exceeds the height RJ will reach. They know that RJ's strengths lie not in passing, not necessarily in dribbling, and certainly not in shooting. RJ's singular strength in basketball rests firmly in a skill set honed over five years of being a big brother: pure, unadulterated annoyance. This child is in the face and space of any opposing player near the ball. He waves his arms. He uses his booty like a battering ram. A year ago, the opposition laid him out flat mid-game. Even his mother had to admit he totally deserved it.

His enthusiasm on the court is unmatched and is exceeded only by his enthusiasm for his favorite basketball team:

It's rare that I get to treat the boy to something he loves. 

But once a year or so, I get the opportunity to take him on a date night and be a cool mom. 

He's still young enough to believe I'm cool. I'll hang on to that distinction as long as he'll let me. 

We had good seats, but the company was even better. We chatted. I fed him a pretzel and Sprite. He thanked me a thousand times. He told me I'm the best mom ever. For three quarters, it looked like the Thunder was winning. And then they weren't. "But mom," he pleaded, "I just know they can win! I know they'll do it!" I doubted, but his enthusiasm kept us in our seats a few more precious seconds. 

And then? Then the game went into overtime. On a school night. 

He's a baller. I suppose sometimes I can be too. 

After all, only a true baller of a mother would keep an eight year old out until 11 o'clock on a school night and feed him French fries before taking him home. These nights are few. I'm grateful for each one. (And tonight, I'm grateful for an hour to finally start catching up on all of the little moments that have made the past month so fantastic.)