A Return to No Road

It's time for a return to No Road to Normal after a very long hiatus.

Lately, life has taken on the form of a very steep staircase - shaped by quick ascents and relieving little plateaus. Given that I'm no master of either stairs or life, I look so forward to these calmer moments amidst the frenzied (read: parental) happenings of our days. As it happens, I'm taking respite in one of those very moments right now (though, I have to say, sometimes those little pauses are mom-made - a veritable necessity before the next sprint to scrub, firefight or scotch tape some near disaster back to normalcy). In the last several years I've come to not only accept but appreciate the wildness of our lives - I lounge in it. I channel surf whilst resting my feet on it. Because I would go crazy otherwise - and, hey, free footrest.

So, regarding those mom-made pauses, in the last four or so months I've become fairly adept at them. Not so much for me (pffftt..ok, as much for me - but no more), but out of necessity for a much more important cause. You see, our little family is happily expanding (along with my belly - which is equally expanding). It's a beautiful thing - for all of the obvious reasons - and because we are knowingly now trotting down the path to Frenzingham, a couple of train stops over from Hecticshire (where we currently reside).

Life will upheave, sleep will evaporate, toys, dishes, bibs and bottles will overrun the house in a bevy of unordered babyness - and it will be wonderful. And in exchange for the promise of chubby cheeks for kissing, a little voice for squealing and two big eyes for looking in wonderment I am working to provide this little one with quiet inside that is not hampered by bundles of stress. I am giving this child the Walden's Pond of uteruses.

I suspect that baby C's uterine living sounded more like my room junior year of college. New York City. One block from a fire station. Two blocks from a hospital. On fraternity row. On garbage collection day. During a street festival. And in return baby C delivered six months of endless screaming that sounded like all of those things. Amplified. I'd like to give myself a pass by saying that it was my first pregnancy and I was faced with a host of ridiculous and poorly timed traumas that reaked havoc on our finances, family and my collective psyche. While that may be true - it doesn't make any of how I handled it right.

And right on schedule those little stressors - those lovely little financial, familial traumas have reared their ugly heads again. And the inconvenient little bastards that they are - these pressures are ganging together to make kindling to my anxiety and re-create the same fire of worry, doubt and disquiet that they succeeded in doing three years ago. There are many things that I'd like to say to these stressors (and, frankly, to their underlying causes), none of which are child appropriate (buggering fuck-weasles comes to mind). Though I don't know that tapping into any of that anger is particularly useful either. Instead, I choose this baby. Taking the high road for this little one isn't a hard decision - but learning how to do it is somewhat akin to learning to walk for me. At the moment, I believe that I'm successfully cruising with stress - straining along its walls, table sides and chair tops until I'm striding across the room with confidence. It's a terrifying and endlessly frustrating journey full of pitfalls and rug burns. But it's progress.

I don't know what the next sixth months will bring with it - and, in the grander scheme, I suppose it doesn't matter provided that it ends with this baby. I'm stealing this sentiment from a friend - but it's so appropriate that it merits repetition - our first child made us parents, our second child made us a family. New little one - we've heard your heart beat, we've seen you wave, we've watched you grow from love and hope into what you are now (4 1/2 inches of sweet avocado sized joy). You have a Daddy who already adores you, a three year old who is bursting with excitement at the idea of being a big brother (we will encourage him to continue to build your sticks and moss castle in the backyard but will try to break it to him that you may prefer to live indoors) and as for a Mommy? You have a Mommy who loves you wholly, whose heart would beat 147 beats a minute just to keep time with yours and who simply cannot wait to wrap you in loving arms. Cozy up, little one, Mommy is fixing to create a quiet, happy home for you until its time for you to join us. Once you do - I can promise you a happy home full of love. Quiet...is another story altogether.

From Apples to Zebras: A Toddler's Wexicon.

A commemorative list of my favorite things that are in my son's lexicon:

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO C

Where w's routinely replace l's, t's routinely replace s's and names are replaced by sounds - he's just too darned cute for words.

Mo-gain - a combination of MORE and AGAIN
Tee-Bee - TV (as in "no pants tee-bee time")
Thaibot the Pirate - Pronounced TIE-BOT da PIE-ROT. Favorite pirate du jour complete with patch, hook and best friend
Pweep - Please. Generally conveyed with either a) annoyance (to get something he wants) or b) syrupy sweetness (to get something he wants).
Mootans - Mittens
Tink Book - More commonly known as the "I Stink" book. A bedtime fave. We would also accept Bee Book (for Richard Scarry's "Cars and Trucks and Things that Go" book - the most memorable item in which being Mr. Goldbug - and his incessant need to hide in obscure places on each page. This is not a bedtime book. Repeat. Not a bedtime book - unless you want "bedtime" to last in excess of eight hours. I'm looking at you G.).
Bee - all bugs. Bees included.
Chee - Macaroni and Cheese (as in Question: "What do you want for dinner/breakfast/snack/for the rest of your life?" Answer: "CHEE!!!")
Dip-dip - As in dip. Both the noun and verb. (to 'dip-dip' ones chicken nuggets into ketchup). We would also accept "deet-deet-deet" - a more aggressive form of the word which is generally reserved for Ranch dressing.
Coo-Op - Cool Off. (as in - sticking ones mac 'n cheese in the freezer to avoid tongue burning followed directly by toddler tongue lashing).
Dock-Dock - Helicopters (sometimes also refers to airplanes).
Brokey-bum - Injury incurred when child or toy fall dramatically to the ground. To brokey one's bum. Sometimes also used as "brokey-head".
HIM - Designation of person alternating between Gru (from Despicable Me) and Sully (from Monster's Inc.). In a sentence: "Me watch HIM. Me watch him on tee-bee."
Tuper-Why - Super Why. As in favorite book lovin' super hero.
Wee-Yoo - Firetruck. (as in the sound made by a firetruck/ambulance/police car/snow plow/anything with flashing lights)
Hewwo - as in "Hello". As in telephone. In a sentence: "No, dats my guy wif da hewwo" (referring to construction worker figurine with telephone clutched in his kung-fu grip - in case of bulldozing emergencies)
Moot/Cue Me - MOVE/EXCUSE ME! The former generally followed by the latter (once a correction of "Is that a nice way of asking?" a perturbed "Cue me" follows)
Big One!/Wittle More... - Kisses. A good bye and bed time mainstay (hurray!). First asking for a "Big One!" followed by a "Wittle more..." (for a second kiss to draw out said good bye or bed time).
Canno - Candle. More specifically, flameless candle used during recent multiple power outages. Now awesome toy.
Putah - Computer. (as in a) "me watch puppy doggies on Mummy's puter" or b) "Mummy - now work puter. Come play me!" [there is no answer to option B except "Yes" - then pick up nearest playschool action figure and get to work building those mega blocks!]
Wipey, Baby Nunny, Blue nunny, other Blue Nunny, Raccoon, Duck, Cookie, Bop, Kitty/Rain (*name varies depending on the day/season/direction of the sun), Eee-Eee, and Hoo-Hoo - aresenal of stuffed friends.
Additional "cute" self-explanatories to throw in for good measure: Tubby, Jammies, Wawa, Bwankie, Sowwy, Mummy, Daddy and...of course...I wuv you ;)


Oh my little chatter box...I wuv you too.

Wuv.

It's funny - as person I've come to develop expectations of how certain things will go in my life. I think that's fairly normal. You  have a routine. You have past experiences to base your feelings on - and, for the most part, you don't really expect to have those feelings completely turned on their head. Maybe that's called being glib. Or jaded. Or cynical. But I had nearly thirty years of past precedent in my wake when I became a parent. That's like reciting the alphabet every day of your life - until your child comes along and replaces a good portion of those letters with stuffed animals and sneakers. There's no point even trying to understand it - it's such a vast departure from the routine that you can't even attempt to comprehend it. It's not even a language. That's parenthood. Everything I thought I'd feel was different. What I thought I'd be like. What I thought my days would look like. Sure, there's some overarching routine practices - breakfast, lunch dinner...dinner, tubby time, storytime, rock-time, bedtime. But those little details - how could I have anticipated the details?

Yesterday I read a blog post a friend had written - complete with a picture of a mother next to her pre-tween son with the caption "You may have outgrown my lap, but you'll never outgrow my heart." And I held it together - until I recounted it to my husband later that evening. Buckets 'o tears.

Because my two year old little boy is most wonderful, talented, funny, active, supercalifragilisticexpealidociously special little boy in the world. And boy does he have an opinion. He'll say things like "Me watch tv with no pants today, Mummy." And I'll watch, bemused, as he strips his pants off, proudly climbs on the couch to watch Super Why or Bob the Builder and sigh and say "No pants tv time." (the undertone being BEST.DAY.EVER.)

Yes, my little man, you have quite the sense of humor.

Everything is a struggle. You don't want to take a bath. Then we can't get you out. You don't want to put on your pajamas. Then we can't get you out of them. And sleep is for wussies. You could go forever on no sleep as long as you had books, your favorite stuffed dog "Wipey", and space to run. But you don't run alone. We are coaxed into running with you - up and down the hall - as super hereos with arms outstretched. Or spinning like helicopters. Or dancing or skipping or jumping or leaping. And the drama - the endless drama. You must already be practicing your Oscars acceptance speech because you ham it up like nobody else. You have a tremendous slow demise you re-enact over and over again. Spinning and wailing until you collapse on the floor and emerge with a clever smile..."Oh...me broke me bum!"

You have a newly developed pout - which sneakily appears whenever you can't get your way. A pushed out bottom lip of despair - your blue eyes get big and glassy, you hang your head and make sure we've watched the pout form long enough before you crash to the floor - hands over eyes - in a manner that can only be described is "Goodbye cruel world!!!" or "OOohhhh the humanity!"

You spend a lot of time telling us about everything. You have your own little dialogue that is endlessly entertaining. "What's dat sound? Oh, the garbage truck. He come here." "Where lights go? Oh, it dark. Lights go off." Better yet are the conversations your toys have with each other. Firetrucks with mail trucks. Elmo with Rock Raccoon. Your Dad and I will often listen to your monitor long after we've put you down for bedtime and listen as you sing and play and create an entire world amongst your stuffed amigos. You may not want to hear this - but that's something you get courtesy of your Mum. I was the queen of imaginary worlds. I guess that makes you the prince.

And after your long, dramatic, action packed, superhero day comes to a close - you and I read a book (or four) and I turn off the light. As of late, you've gotten into the habit of "rock-time". At first I was fairly certain that this was just an effort to push off sleeping just a little while longer. I've let those misgivings fall away. At rock-time, I take you in my arms and we sit your rocking chair - just like when you were only a few months old. We sing songs. You sing to me. I sing to you. The current favorite is 5 Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed. Your interpretation of that includes a sing song rendition of "Monkey - Jump - Bed - OUCH MY HEAD!" Funny though, the other day you asked for a lullaby. You nuzzled your head against my neck and said "Turtle-loo-loo song, Mummy." I had no idea what this was until I ran down my laundry list of old songs and realized you were asking for "Too-Ra-Loo-Ra." A song I sang to you endlessly as a little baby - because that's what my parents always sang to me. "Turtle-loo-loo." And almost every night now you and I sing that song until you concede that it's bedtime and I lay you down.

Not long ago I lay you in your bed, gave you Wipey the dog and kissed you softly on the head. I whispered "Good-night" and turned for the door. Then you softly asked, "Mummy?" I turned around and through the dark I saw you smile - "Mummy...I wuv you."

That's it. That's the moment where all the routines come flying apart - the alphabet you've always known crumbles into nonsense and the world turns upside down. My son told me he loved me - seemingly such a small, silly moment - but it takes up so very much space in my heart. You said it for no reason at all. And now you say it all the time. And every single time my heart wells up to the rafters.

There may be a time that you're too big to rest on my lap for rock-time. But you will never - ever - be too big for my heart.

Christmas Bit Me

There is no denying the sorry state of my un-merry spirit this year. My hum-bugedness is palpable and thus far no onslaught of jingle-jingle festive song and seasonal pleasantries have succeeded in shaking me out of it. Christmas bit me this year - and I have yet to recover.

I am the first person to don a Santa hat, pump the Bing Crosby and crank the yule tide cheer up to pre-Thanksgiving obnoxious. This year was no different, and yet - I am neither holy nor jolly. Instead I'm sitting typing with sagging shoulders and a visible grimace with a bandage firmly wrapped around my middle finger to secure the injury Christmas so cruely inflicted.

I can trace it back to Saturday morning when our little family unit traversed to the local Christmas tree farm as per our holiday tradition. We elected to cut down our own tree rather than buy a pre-cut one this year - which we construed as an adventure. And it was. Though slightly more akin to a Griswold family hijinx than to a holiday season Hallmark special as we were envisioning. So we traipsed into the field, saw in hand, and lo and behold by the grace of God was a single but near blinding ray of light splaying through the trees and falling on it - our Christmas tree. So brilliant was this light that it was almost impossible not to believe that God, Himself, had elected this tree to shine brightly in our family room. So it was to my shock and horror that somewhere between unearthing this tree and depositing it back at our car that I realized I had, in fact, been bitten by Christmas. On the finger. My middle finger... (*Spoiler Alert* Some exaggerations may follow)...where the nail was split down the middle leaving my hand bloody and, now, bandaged and arguably appearing claw-like and generally sad.

Flash forward to Sunday afternoon as the family attempts to string holiday lights across the apex of the garage and down the path to our front door (disfigured claw and all). Whilst my husband struggles to attach the lights to the roof I, ever so gracefully, manage to crunch my fat foot over one of the sweet little Christmas bulbs and it explodes in over-dramatic "POP!" all over the gravel driveway. Que my son cheering and applauding Mommy's mistake. It'd been three days now and he still can't set foot on the driveway without exclaiming "MOMMY'S TAKE! MOMMY'S TAKE!" while gesturing wildly between the ground and the garage. Yes - the entire holiday lights effort was seemingly thwarted by my lead footed mistake. Because, you know, if you break one bulb the entire string doesn't work. Similiarly, if you break one bulb some unseen power will smite you for apparently defiling Christmas. Following the POP! heard round the world all the lights refused to go up on the garage and, oh yeah, I managed to snap off one of the fluffy snowflake lights from its peg while trying to stake it into the ground. I am officially the world's worst Christmas light decorator. Our entire neighborhood is a-glow with Christmas spirit. Our house is marked by a half string of functional Christmas lights on the garage followed by a trail of defeat embodied by an unopened package of Christmas lights left in the driveway, a ladder propped against the house, instructions to the snowflake peg lights and the dismantled plastic snowflakes themselves - a veritable graveyard of Christmas cheer - leading up to our front door (where the lighted garland I put around the door, too, refused to light this year..because it hates me).

The collective exasperation of giving up on the Christmas lights was bookended by our son, overtired and not willing to give up his station next to his beloved lawn mower while he watched his father and I fail at decorating the house and calling out my mistakes...over and over...refusing to nap. Instead, he insisted on screaming himself hoarse from his crib into his bedside monitor (I believe this was because he sensed my weakness). The thing about toddlers, I've come to determine, is that allowing them to forego their nap quickly results in a vortex of all things good being sucked into a black hole of unending tantrums and maternal desperation. So, for the moment, I was letting him scream in the vain hope that he would settle and get some much needed sleep - and all would be right in the world if only for a moment. My husband determines that this would be a good time to erect our Christmas tree (which had been stationed overnight in the garage) in our family room so we could surprise our son after his nap. Murphy's law being what it is (or perhaps just stemming from the afliction of being bitten by Christmas) the tree would not go up straight. Standing back and regarding our tree, cocked ever so ridiculously to the right, I watched the life drain from my husband's eyes and replace itself with the anger, frustration and wicked fed-upedness lit with the energy of a thousand suns. I love my husband dearly and for that reason I will not delve into the subject matter of the tyrade that followed (and, equally, because I shared every sentiment of that rage-fueled monologue) but suffice it to say it had much to do with a lamenting of why things can feel so damn hard at times. Why is work so hard? Why does our son fight so hard? Why does it feel as though there's no time for anything (let alone time to stand still or think for one abbreviated second)? Why does it feel as though I can't do a single thing right? Why can't an Ivy league graduate figure out how to string a set of bloody Christmas lights? AND WHY DID CHRISTMAS BITE MY DAMN FINGER??!!!! That is the particular moment I'm tagging as the point of no return. At least, it's the point I'm not sure I've returned from - and it happened days ago. It's not that I don't recognize how incredibly fortunate I and my family are - in a time of year when people want for even the most basic of living essentials. Where people are sick. Where people are separated from their families and loved ones by time, space, tragedy and war. I know all of these things. And still there is a part of me - a sad and frazzled part - that feels entirely defeated. I have been convinced (or convinced myself) that there isn't a single thing that I can do with particular expertise whether it be my job, parenting, keeping a clean house, being a good wife or preparing a piece of toast. I feel like a disaster. And I am so consumed by that thought that I have wrapped myself in a shroud of it. A swaddle of dark, dank thoughts so thick and oppressive that I have seemingly forgotten my way out of it.

Every day I try to re-set and adjust my expectations and push through. I try to allocate my time. I try to forgive myself of the things where I fall short. At work I often feel as though I'm a tourist in a foreign country where all of my colleagues are fluent in the local language and I know how to ask where to sleep, where the bathroom is and for a beer. And while the basics will sustain you for a short period there inevitably comes a time where people expect you to do more than sleep, shit and drink. I feel as though I've hit that point and my lack of conversational ability in this foreign country is making me feel like an idiot and like deportation is imminent. It's a bad place to be - and it makes me sick most days.

I watch my son try to figure his way through things. How to insert puzzle pieces into the correct holes. How to connect legos. How to assemble things. And I watch him, at times, reach a level of frustration that devolves him into a trembling, screaming mess - I know he gets that lack of patience from me. I know it, in particular right now, because there is a vibrating, mess of a child inside me right now - desperate for someone to come along and help me to put my puzzle together. Work tasks here in the round hole, Family over there in the square hole. I've been here before - and I know that there just isn't a person in the world who can pull back that dark shroud but me. It's a lesson I don't want my son to know for a long, long time. Because right now I can still sit next to him and build that tower. And turn keys and press buttons and make all of those niggling frustrations disipate. Because I can help him learn how to do those things. Because I can try to teach him patience - in allowing time and effort to master skills - and in forgiving oneself when it takes time and effort to master them. Somehow that level of patience becomes much harder to achieve in adulthood - and when the gravity of one's job and one's family unit are dependent upon the success of mastering those tasks efficiently and expertly.

Patience. Something we could've used when tackling those Christmas lights. And, I suppose, something I could really use some of at the moment. Because if my spirit were a display of festive lights - right now it'd look a hell of a lot like our front yard. So, at the moment, I'm going to try to untangle the unruly ball of blinking depression wound up inside of me and hang it up right. The lights aren't going to be perfect. Because parts of me are burned out. Parts droop. Parts are flaking and off-color. But the sentiment is still the same.

Things will never be perfect. I'm not sure I'd like them if they were. Life is full of Mommy's mistakes - as I'm sure my son will happily point out to me as we go. I don't know how to navigate these inherent errors right now - how to be ok with my shortcomings absent becoming a full time mother or a full time attorney. Neither seems like the lit path. Sadly, it doesn't seem often that a ray of light parts the trees and shows you the way in life like it revealed our little Christmas tree.  But this is the time of year for giving. For forgiveness. For joy and thankfulness for the people and things you have in your life. Maybe my little injury isn't rooted in malicious evergreen trees at all - maybe Christmas bit me to wake me the hell up so I'd take a look around and see past everyone else, past all the perfectly decorated yards, experience co-workers and expert Moms and pay attention to what's really important in my life. To be thankful for who I am. And patient with who I'm not. To believe in myself and in possibility - to embrace the imperfections - and to create the light that takes you the first step out of the darkness. To find a way to go from Bah-Humbug to

...God bless us...every one.

Separation Infatuation

When I was little I used to wonder if the entire world ceased to exist save for the moments that I was present in it. If the moment I left a room it evaporated. If people would go dormant in my absence like powered-off droids if I wasn't there to engage them. I think this is the epitome of self-centered. When I was six I thought the world literally did revolve around me. Silly, yes, except I'm fairly certain that this ego centric view of the universe has been passed genetically to my toddler.

Our pediatrician has asked us repeatedly about "separation anxiety". It was a milestone our kiddo never hit. Sure, he's shy when an inquisitive stranger smiles at him (generally resulting in sly smile and burying of little face into my leg). Sure, he's going through an epic "Mommy" phase which is equal parts adorable and impossible. But when it's time to part ways my son has mostly come to accept the reality that we have lives beyond one another. Or, more rightly, that he has a life beyond me and I sit in a closet all day gathering dust until it's time for me to pick him up again.

When C was six months old I went back to work full time and he started up at daycare - a wonderful family run program that incorporates a pre-school curriculum into daily activities and has really come to be a second home to all of us. Rewind two weeks before I was scheduled to head back to the office and young C to the classroom, however, and you would find a panic stricken mother who couldn't get her baby to nap without at least forty-five minutes of vigorous, swaddled rocking and who couldn't get her baby to eat from a bottle. So, unless I was able to find a way to medically detach myself from my boobs and staple C into his swaddle there were going to be some hefty changes a foot. And in the nearly six months that C and I had known each other we had come to the mutual understanding that we both suffered greatly when hungry, sleep deprived, or confronted with change. Hooray!  Lo and behold, though, that the transition to daycare did not bring forth the end of the world. Nothing fell from the sky. The world continued to turn. Honestly, I think we were both a little surprised. Suddenly, the bottle was an acceptable medium for dinner and sleep training brought forth oodles of much needed hours of sleep for all involved.  It was a good change for both of us. I knew it. And C knew it. And he never once cried when I dropped him there at the end of the day.

In effect that should be a good little parable. But, of course, it left me wondering if I had in some way failed him. Why wasn't he clinging to me with wild abandon begging me not to leave him? Doesn't he need me anymore? Truth? He does need me. A whole lot. And the drama free drop offs? A sign that he's a happy, well adjusted and confident little world explorer. Still, it's at least a smidge heartbreaking every time he gives me a little kiss and yells "BYE BYE MOMMY!!" as he's running off to join the other children each morning. He's two. I didn't think I'd have to see that kind of gleeful departure until he was eighteen.

Since that time our little guy has made new friends, developed his own keen interets and expanded his little world exponentially - something I don't think I managed to do until college. In the instances when C gets up in the morning and I've already left the house, he looks at G and asks: "Mommy work?" He knows where I am. He knows what it means (to some extent at least - that could still mean gathering dust in the closet next to his old jumperoo). And most importantly - he knows that I'll be back.

His vocabulary is sprouting new seeds every day - surprising the hell out of G and I every time he shoots off a new word or phrase. And, of course, being the true only child - all things belong to him. Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives. He is possessive of all of them. "My mow-mow!"(lawn mower); "My night-night!"(sleep); "My toot!"(farts - he's not just accountable for them, he's damn proud of them) and, newly added to the list, "My wiggle!"(the group the Wiggles. Somebody better inform their representation - they now legally, physically and metaphorically and otherwise belong to my child).

I also happen to think that someone explained the concept of parenting to him incorrectly. I am not now, nor have I ever been, or in any way resemble a genie in a lamp. For some reason my son seems to think that if he claps his hands that you magically materialize at which time he can make unfettered demands. "Bob - on!" (aka - put on Bob the Builder. This news stuff is crap and Daddy, the Cubs still suck.)  "Daddy - mow-mow! Mommy weep!" (aka - Daddy, go mow the lawn as it amuses me endlessly. Mommy....make yourself useful and clean up the mess I made all over the kitchen floor) "Mickey - eat/march/run/deet!" (aka - you're lower on the food chain than I am dog and we both know it. So eat, march, run and sit at my command lest you want me to prod you repeatedly with my jabby finger or run you over with my fisher price lawn mower. Here's some scraps for your trouble).

Yes - my son is not lacking for confidence or independence. When he isn't busying himself with barking orders he's germanating new and exciting ways to confound G and I. Current favorite activity? Reading the "C" books (the many volumes of photo albums all starring - C! Not so interested in the ones before he was born). Current favorite word? "Park". As in "lets go to the". Last week G and I were cleverly referring to the "Parents Guide to Outsmarting Your Toddler" by spelling everything in front of C. I said, "G - it's supposed to be sunny tomorrow, that may mean it's nice enough for the P-A-R-K." C looked at us and exclaimed "PARK!" That constituted one of those moments where you realize how grossly you've underestimated your children. G and I exchanged glances and therein came to an unspoken agreement that we'd raised an evil genius - a spelling prodigy. With trembling trepidation we repeated the question over and over..."C, what does P-A-R-K spell?" "PARK PARK PARK!" It wasn't until some time later that I thought to ask..."C, what does B-A-B-Y spell?" "PARK!" "What does D-O-G spell?" "PARK" "What does D-A-D-D-Y spell?" "PARK PARK PARK" And with that we were once again wrapped in a warm blanket of reassurance that (for the time being) we were not on the verge of being surpassed in power and/or intelligence by our two year old. Of course, he may just be on to us and feigning ignorance...only time will tell.

He's definitely his own person - and I love that about him. For the first many months of his life G and I would contemplate which parts of him were derived from parts of he or I. My ears, your nose. My feet, your eyes. My laugh...your insatiable desire for mischief and destruction. It's only recently occured to me that so much of C is just that - him. His sense of humor. His dance moves. His imagination (what other kid out there has a stuffed seal named "kitty", a push wagon named "doggie", a penguin named "duck" and a family of stuffed bears all named "Nunny". Blue Nunny. Red Nunny. Baby Nunny. Oh, and Nunny Too.) He always engages us in his world of play - excited to share with us all of his wonderful creations and scenarios. And while he might skip away when it's time to part ways for the day, eager to learn and explore and grow, he always comes running for me when I pick him up. He never wants to leave us, necessarily - but his world goes on for the short times that we do. And when we're at home again, he sits in my lap and we begin my favorite time of day - when he recounts to me all of the amazing things he encountered in those parted hours with the excitement and wonder that Dorothy had upon her return from Oz. And he hugs me. And there's no place like home...no place like home...

1+1 = ?

There are days that I pause long enough to wonder what weight I'm capable of carrying. I've been told that God does not give people more than they can handle - and while I wish I could say that the lion's share of the time I feel as though I can take on the world I think the truer reality is that I spend quite a bit of time considering how close I might be to that line and to the buckling of the legs of my life.

I've caught myself gazing out my office window several times this afternoon. Funny - I don't know that I ever believed I'd have an office with a window. Certainly not one that overlooked Elliot Bay and the Olympics. Ah, the weight of a window. A transparent pane of glass that symbolizes, in part, where I am now in my career. It provides a new perspective - and also gives me some indication on how far down I could potentially fall. Some days this window is a scary thing. In school it was easier to achieve a single A than to string them together into a consistent 4.0 average. Now, perhaps it's easier to be awarded a promotion - and a window - than it is to consistently prove that you deserve both. Somehow, when there was seemingly less to lose with respect to my career, there was also a feeling of relief. If I screw this up something else will come along. I can stay home - with my children - as some part of me always wanted. Now - now there are days where I let my trepidation overwhelm me. Days where I fear that I can't 'have it all.' That I can't have this job and be the mother and wife that I want to be, ultimately. What do I do with that? I don't think there's an answer necessarily.

What brings even further gravity to the 'have it all' argument is the thought of bringing another little someone into the equation. There is no question that we have our hands full as it is - between two very full time jobs and one very precocious toddler. There's also no denying that the mother part of me is orbiting towards the desire for one more member to complete our loving family. People make much more difficult situations happen. I know this. People with little to no means have much larger families. People with more strenuous jobs still support their families. But can I? Does God think that I can handle it? Do I think I can? I waver on that determination most days. I think there was a not so quiet part of me that debated what kind of mother I'd be to one baby, let alone two. It's the not knowing - it's the great uncertainty - parenthood for the first time. But once G and I made the decision to enter into the unknown world we did so with gusto and excitement and hands firmly intertwined. I have a faith, a quiet confidence, that I will be re-visited by that same conviction when we do finally make that decision. It's just that...it's a little less unknown now. I now know what it's like to be sleep deprived for huge amounts of time strung together like a bitter cloth of woven frailities and exhaustion. I know what it's like to fight and pick and bicker with the man you love over things so small that they're imperceptible to the 'outside world' because you are so removed from yourself out of the deep sadness of feeling as though you are failing your crying child. Of forgetting what life is like outside of sweatpants. Of the fear - the persistent fear - that something is wrong with your child because he isn't compliantly developing according to the pediatrician's say-so chart of milestones. Of the worry shaken through you when the baby monitor goes off in the middle of the night and you stir desperately out of the sleep you weren't even allowing yourself to fall into because you're afraid he'll stop breathing. And yet - with all of that now a part of my internal fabric, I still so much want to go back there. Go back to that land of Never-Nod. Perhaps a little wiser. Definitely looking older. I want to go back there in spite of all of the fear and the fighting and the exhaustion and the worry. Because the good outweighs the bad in such vast numbers that I'm unable to recount it all here. Because family really is paramount to me. I don't know what my life will look like come baby number two. But it'd sure be nice to consider it all while looking out this window across an expanse of water - while the sun slips down the late afternoon sky. I suppose it doesn't matter where you see that sun rise or set when it all comes down to it. I guess I'd gladly trade the window for a family to watch that sun with - through any window. And in knowing that - maybe there really isn't that much to fear after all.

My Worried Mind

How fast time flies. Case in point? It's been two months since I last posted - where did those two months go? It's amazing how time can seemingly slip into the same vortex socks fall victim to deep within the Narnian complexity of the dryer. At any rate, that time can be fairly summed up as follows: work, hideous toddler stomach flu, emergency room visit (x2!), vacation (phew!), second birthday, promotion, niggling toddler cold, date night, arrival of fall (hooray for fall! you sweep in with your cooler air and longer nights and cover me in your sweet, sweet weather goodness).  

And that's life. What was once punctuated by new school years is now a firm and consistent path where the chapters seem less defined. When do I get issued my official "You're a Grown Up Now" diploma to hang on the wall? Like a lot of things it just sort of happened (right?) At the office I'm often privvy to the weekend post-mortem conversations which for many are a re-telling of various exciting adventures and rendezvous which are such a gross departure from my own stories that I'm not even sure it's the same language. I literally devolved into spastic hysteria and a series of high fives after receiving word from daycare that baby C used the potty for the first time with the same enthusiasm as others devote to spring break hook ups. Conversely, my idea of a high class meal generally involves anything without bibs or physically wiping another dining attendee down after the meal whereas I sense that others focus a bit more on the traditional eight plate dinner parties and the opening of hip restaurants. What's that sound? It's me getting old. And lame. And loving it.

I'm learning to embrace my lameness. I'm also making an effort to not take it all too seriously - I generally spectacularly fail at this task. Especially in this new role at work where I'm fairly certain I'm going to fall short of expectation, get fired or, I don't know, pushed out a window at any given moment. None of these are pleasant ideas that reside in the neurotic folds of my brain that flare up any time I scooch out of my comfort zone. And given that I'm currently somewhere about five time zones to the left of my comfort zone that means I'm in a state of perpetual worry. Not a pretty sight. In spite of all that I'm working to understand work and home and their ability to each occupy a seat on the see-saw without bullying one or the other off the playground. And in those moments where I get that feeling that I'm playing dress-up in someone else's office I call up some recent memory of amazing little kiddo and try to put the worry to bed in knowing that there are bigger things out there that carry greater weight. C's biggest worries are that he may never see Elmo (or, "MELMO!!" as he is lovingly referred to in our house) again after the dramatic close of Elmo's World. That Daddy may never cut ("MOW-MOW!") the lawn again (our grass has never been so short - our toddler insists its cut every other day so that he may applaud as G traipses around the backyard with that sensational piece of machinery) or, of course, that he wont be able to play outside ("SIDE!") as often as he'd like. Our worries are different but no less important than one or the other - just a different stage of life. I remember my worries as a teenager and sort of scoff at them now (What if so-and-so doesn't like me? What will I wear to the dance? What if I don't get an A in Biology?). I'm always going to have worries that change with time and circumstance. And at no time will they seem less grave until I have enough perspective to realize how momentous the ones I currently have are compared to those that have long since evaporated. Some day I'll look back on myself and shake my head at the time I wasted sitting at my desk - afraid of what others thought of me. Especially when one of my biggest goals as a parent is to teach C that he needs to be himself.

I think one of my biggest worries these days is that time really is going too fast. Nothing I can do about that - except maybe to push back from my desk, even for a moment, and just realize that I enjoy what I'm doing. I enjoy the people I work with. I enjoy what I do every single day and I really am doing the best that I can at it. And if I disappoint - I get back up and try again. And if I get fired - I get up and try again. And if I get pushed out a window? I wave my arms like crazy and try to fly - cuz there ain't no getting up from that. :)  And at the end of the day I can smike...because most of all, I enjoy the home I return to each night.