What Happens in Another Month

• I'muji

To RJ, Who is Nine

 To RJ, Who is Nine:

Last month you had a birthday; it was a big one because it's your last year in single digits. After this year, you'll have to work that pencil just a little harder to write down your age. Your ninth year in this world has been a wild one: new soccer teams, new swim teams, chapter books, and yes, a new baby sister. You've handled it all in your own way. Some days are good; some days are bad. Some days, in your own words, you're "just going through a transition." Many tears have been shed, but your laughs have overshadowed them.

I probably spend too much time on social media and reading nonsensical stories that pass for news or editorials these days. At some point this year, I read one that identified all the ways to say "I love you." Some of them ring true for us. I tell you to buckle your seatbelt. I ask who you ate lunch with every day.

We have our own love language too. I've always known it. I especially recognize it when you take time in the middle of a soccer game to give me that winner's smile. (But seriously son, keep your eye on the ball!)

You can read now, and I expect I'll let you read this. So, when you hear me say all these things, you'll know that I love you:

• Put your coat on your body.
• Eat three more bites.
• Good game, brother!
• I ran you an epsom salt bath.
• Go poop.
• Take a shower.
• Brush your teeth.
• Eat something.
• Put your shoes by the door (because if you don't I will yell and make the morning ugly).
• Do your homework. 
• Did you take an AR test today? 
• Pack your snack and water bottle. 
• Put your shoes on your feet. 
• Wow! You nailed it!
• Did you get a straight face  at school?
• Tell me the truth, and you'll get in less trouble. 
• Turn off the video games. 
• Play with your sister (because she'll be your friend forever). 
• Get a cheese stick and eat it. 
• [from the sidelines] Not your back, not your back, don't hurt your back. 
• [also from the sidelines] Go Ry-Guy!
• [also from the sidelines] Tie your shoes!
• Thanks for holding sissy. 
• Thanks for playing with sissy.
• I'm proud of you. 
• I love you. 

You're already nine years old. I know you were eight the last time I carried you. I know  you were nine the last time I caught you sneaking your blankie somewhere it shouldn't go:

It was last night, and you put your blankie in your soccer bag. 

I suspect it had something to do with Monday night's practice: 

I needed my blankie to let you go back on that field. 

Then again, we know you're quite the athlete.

We spent your actual birthday at the Science Museum with your class. You sneaked out of the science explosion show because it was too loud; I sneaked you a soft pretzel from the snack bar because I love you. 

Your ninth birthday was never-ending. Donuts followed a few days later, and your class sang happy birthday to you in character because you're the Lionel Messi of your school (in spirit, not necessarily skill--sorry kid, there's only one Messi). 

We delayed your party. In the meantime, 

you knocked your solo out of the park in the spring musical; 

we visited my little Lutheran school for track and field day, played (even more) soccer, and 

finally (finally), you had your soccer party with good friends. 

Your mom is pretty tired. 

Your dad is pretty cute. 

And your big little sister, 

well, 

she's your biggest fan,  

your moral support, 

the one who will always remind you to keep it silly, 

and to relinquish the wheel every now and again. 

Your little little sister 

is already falling for you, or 

just maybe,

it's the other way around. 

There are so many ways to say we love you. 

Now, go eat something, take a shower, and wash your booty and pits.  

What Happens in (almost) a Month

I took it upon myself to be super woman. My maternity leave was going to be a time to GET THINGS DONE. Closets will be purged. Toys will be donated. I will defrost the freezer and reclaim the flower beds from Lord Dandelion. 

Or, you know, there will be a lot of this:

So many snuggles. 

(And, proceed with caution, because so many pictures.)

I call this one "Portrait of Motherhood." At first glance, it's a beautiful sleeping babe snuggled on her mother's chest. No cares. No worries. Just perfection. But upon closer inspection, you see mom's morning vice in the form of sweet, sweet Coca-Cola. There's a brush on the table from where mom combed the knots from her older daughter's hair. There are (count them) three laundry baskets, and a pile of too-small PJ's stacked in the floor. And in the background sit two orange corduroy beanbags that will quickly surpass the $40 bouncy seat in popularity. 

It's blurry, and it's dark. The focus is off, and it's still one of my favorite pictures. I read about the Moro Reflex this week: in reaction to a feeling of falling, infants instinctively throw their hands to their sides, then clutch them to their chests and cry. It is believed that this reflex developed so that infants will instinctively reach for their mothers when they feel insecure. Those tiny fingers find their way to my collar more often than not; tiny scratches dot my shoulders where little nails have dug in. And someday, I'll forget all of this--until I see this picture. 

And seriously, 

the closets will organize themselves, 

or not, 

but we have so very many snuggles

in this family: 

kisses, 

proud moments, and 

just 

so 

many snuggles in this first month. 

We've done important things too; city elections matter. Get out and vote! Bets voted when she was 8 days old--what's your excuse?

We haven't been to Reno, Wichita, or Chicago, but we've been to Oklahoma City. Bets can sing right along with Johnny Cash after one month, "I've been everywhere, man, I've been everywhere." 

We've been to Sam's Club and soccer fields, swimming pools, and field trips, restaurants, waiting rooms, churches, and museums. We've changed diapers on public changing tables (the third child is so different), car seats, beds, floors, and playgrounds. I've nursed a baby on a folding chair, a lawn chair, the ground, and in the swagger wagon. We've been everywhere!

Soccer fields. 

Just because she's silly; and we really did go to sister's gymnastics class. 

Bets was nursing. In a folding chair. In a room full of people. So we focused on Gigi. 

School parties. 

School drop-off. 

Church. This is also a favorite. My place. My people. 

Bets craved onion burgers, hold the onions, the entire pregnancy, so we celebrated with friends at three weeks. Goodness, three weeks and out at restaurants--number three is different. 

So many soccer practices. 

We had a tea party with big sissy. 

And dyed Easter eggs (and the kitchen table). 

We parked it. 

Playgrounded it. 

Sun shine-dayed it. 

We fire-safetied it. 

Rode it. 

Drew it. 

Family-ed it. 

And field tripped it. 

And somehow, we still found time for just a few more:

Bets toots like a freight train. Her brother thinks it's hilarious. Probably too much information, but if you've stuck with me this long, you're clearly a friend who doesn't care about too much information. 

She does cry. I did pick her up seconds following this picture.

She's adorable, right? 

Here's a secret: she's pooping.

And she found it pretty funny.

She's got a sense of humor. 

So do I. 

This? This was taken at approximately 11 p.m. I take the same photo every night because every night she's awake at 11 p.m. 

Just because--baby.

Baby toes. 

And baby nose. 

Baby baths. 

And baby naps. 

Baby belly. 

And baby...Yoda? Monkey? I'm not sure, but I love this face. 

Baby yawns. 

And just

simply

baby.

As far as GETTING THINGS DONE? Laundry. I've done laundry. It turns out, that's what happens in a month.