A Letter to my Little Hitchhiker

Dear Little Hitchhiker,

People ask me if I'm going to find out what you are.  People ask me if I prefer a certain gender over the other.  People ask me what I want this time.

These are all normal questions, little one.  I answer them as such:

Yes, I will find out what you are the day you are born.

No, I do not prefer a certain gender over the other.

The third question is tricky though; the asker is generally soliciting the answer of "boy" or "girl."  For an answer such as that one they can refer to the second question.

But I do know what I want this time, little hitchhiker.  I know because I'm already a mommy to your older brother and I think he is amazing.  When I was pregnant with him I thought the answer was cut and dry:  boy or girl.  Now that I've had him for four years I know the answer is not so cut and dry.

I want you to be healthy.  I want you to love God.  I want you to be kind.  I want you to be funny.  I want you to be smart.  I want for you to live a long life with very little suffering. I want you to be active.  I want you to be compassionate and giving.

I want all these things baby.  That said, when people ask me what I want, I don't think it terms of boy or girl, pink or blue.  I think about the person I am growing and the responsibility I have for you.  I think about how much I already love you, and how much you are already loved by your family.  Your brother pats you every day and asks how you are.  We are excited to have you.  You will complete our family.

So you just grow, grow, grow.  Be what you were meant to be.  We will be waiting for you.  See you in January, little hitchhiker.

I love you
mama

PS
We all think you are going to be a boy.  But if you're a girl, we won't be disappointed.

A Letter to My Boy on His Third Birthday

Dear Toph,

Happy third birthday, precious boy!

Have I ever shared with you my favorite scripture?  It's Matthew 6:21 and it reads, "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

You are my treasure, pal.  For these past three years, you have had my heart.  You're my treasure, my prize and I am so incredibly blessed to be your mommy.

This past year, the 12 months between 2 and 3, have been tremendous.  You have gone from this:

To this:

You have been amazing us all year long with your intelligence and your words, both funny and serious.  This year, we watched your blossom into the little boy that will one day grow into a big man.  We have learned that you are extremely funny (you make funny voices and making up funny songs), you are smart (Look Mommy, I'm watering the plant's stem!  There's an octagon!) and you are intense.  

You don't walk; you run.  You don't hop, you leap.   You don't tap the ball on the T, you knock the snot out of it. You don't doze off, you pass out.  You don't whine, you all out tantrum.  You don't tiptoe, you sprint.  You don't like, you love.  You look like your daddy, you act like your mommy.  You are fire.  You are three.  You are our most precious baby boy and time has gone by so quickly and so slowly.

These three years have been a wonderful ride, my baby.  I can't wait for all the years to come.  

Happy birthday, my treasure.

Love,

Mama

Half a Year Into 30: A Review

Never did mention this, but back in August, I turned the big 3-0.  It was fun.  Hubs and brother-in-law were in cahoots and threw a wonderful surprise get together for me and my friends.  We ate SO much and laughed SO much and enjoyed ourselves.

Thirty started with a full belly and full heart, a good thing.

Since then, thirty has been really good to me.  But as the photo mentioned, I now officially share some differences with 20 year-olds that I can only say comes from our 10 year age difference.

1.  Bedtime.  I must go to sleep by 9:30 on weekdays. Must do it.  Twenty year old me thought it normal to stay up late, even for no good reason.

2.  Wake up time.  I no longer cry at the thought of waking up at 5:15 every day, even on the weekends.  It's my life.  Sleeping in time is done. (When I was in college, I had an 8am class, for which I had to wake up at 6:30 to get to.  I literally cried at the thought of it.)

3.  Diet and exercise.  Now that I'm 30 and have born a child, I can no longer stuff anything into my mouth and not reap any consequences.  Used to, I'd run an extra mile or so and be fine.  Now, thirty has me watching what I eat and running and still not shedding pounds like I used to.  Oh well.

4.  Being clumsy.  Turning 30 didn't magically change me into a coordinated person, but it did make those clumsy slips much more painful.  I took note of this last week when I slipped on my keys and jarred my back.  Twenty year old me would have brushed it off as nothing, but thirty year old me was paying for it the next day.

5.  Hair dye.  I must dye my hair every four months or show off some terrific grey roots.  I am pretty sure that if I left my hair alone, I would be completed silver haired by forty.  Not ready to embrace that, not yet.

6.  Fun.  It's easier to have fun now that I'm thirty.  I care less about what people think and I'm getting back to having a great time.  It's awesome.  I've taken up running obstacle races and LOVE them and I don't think I would've done something like that as a 20 year old.

7.  Love.  My life is filled with so much love, thanks to my awesome husband and darling son, my family and friends.  My twenty year old self had love in her life, but was also fighting some demons that took the form of an evil stepmother (luckily now completely out of the picture).

Yes, thirty has been good to me.  I am excited to see what the next six months bring, what the next decade brings.  Mostly, I'm excited to share it with my Matt, who saw me through all my twenties and who will see me through all the decades to come.

Whose Child is This?

As both a parent and a teacher, this poem truly hits home in light of Friday's tragic events.



There's not much I can say right now that other's haven't already said.  One moment, the teacher in me weeps for the fallen teachers and administrators, dying to save their kids; and for the ones who helped their children escape safely.

The next moment, the parent in me weeps because I can't imagine the unspeakable horror of waiting, waiting, waiting, only to find out your baby won't be coming out of the school alive.

I pray for comfort for all those in Newtown.

Poem from Erica Bohrer

Shupa-Man

My child has developed a slight obsession over super heroes.  Or, as he says, Shupa-Man.

He has a Shupaman t-shirt and red socks, which he wears on his hands can calls them "Shupa-Man mittens."

You can't make this stuff up.

He flies (runs) around the house with the greatest of ease fighting invisible bad guys and Merry the cat.  He knows Superman can fly and therefore, when he is wearing his Superman shirt, he believes he can fly too.

I'm not a fan of that belief.  You can tell he's about to go "Shupa-Man" on us when he gets this determined look in his eye, walks to the edge of our stairwell and yells, "SHUPA-MAAAAAAN!"  And there's me, trying to grab at his hand and when he shakes it off, whizzing down the first flight of stairs trying to catch him. He then launches himself off the stairwell.

He does this over and over.  When that gets boring, he heads for the couch, where he jumps from couch, to ottoman, to loveseat and back.  He'll suddenly stop and shush me, saying there's bad guys waiting for us.  He'll take off, yell HIIIII-YAA from another room, and come back triumphant.

This child, he is one handful.  A hilarious, never boring, never ceasing to amaze me, handful.  He is a daily adventure and truly, he's a little super hero. My Shupa-Man.

During Which I Contemplate if I am indeed a Hoarder

Deep in the bowels of our freezer, there is a frozen bag of breastmilk.  It was pumped from my body almost two years ago.  It's been in there for two years, and yet, I can't remove it.  I can't throw it away.

I repeat: I am unable to throw away an old, stale, freezer-burned bag of breastmilk.

(If you're finished throwing up in your mouth, read on.)

The reason I can't throw this single, solitary bag of breastmilk away is because it represents something.  It represents a time in my life (not too long ago), during which I had a baby.  A baby who I breastfed, a baby who, although I was a working mom, was never fed formula.

That frozen bag of milk represents a time in my life during which I carved out roughly 90 minutes of my day to pump.  I look back, and knowing that I still have the same job, I wonder how I did it.  How did I find 90 minutes a day to be idle?  To sit and let a machine extract motherly fluid from my body?  I don't know the answer.

That frozen bag of milk represents a time in my life during which, on a nightly basis, I would clean and sanitize three bottles.  I was meticulous about those bottles and the pump parts.  I would hand scrub those bottles, then microwave them in a special sanitizing bag.  Nightly.  I would then pull out frozen bags of milk, unthaw them and pour them into those bottles.  I would pack those bottles oh so lovingly in my son's bottle bag, and send them with him daily to day care.  This was a solid 30 minutes of my evening.  Every day.

There were nights that I would be dead on my feet, scrubbing and pouring and measuring and I would think, "This is never going to end."

Guess what?  That season of our lives did indeed end.  Our boy quit taking the bottle right at his first birthday, thus ending my pumping and bagging of milk.  He finished all but one baggie of breastmilk and we moved on.  He keeps growing and we keep moving on.  Turn, turn, turn.

I look at him now, this whole milk drinking, baseball playing little boy, all knees and elbows, and I am stunned at how quickly he has grown.

I look at the baggie in my freezer, and I am reminded that he will always be my baby. I am reminded that with a child, every season, no matter how trying or tiring, is just that:  a season.  Turn, turn, turn.

The baggie will stay.  I don't know how long it will stay, but for now, I need it to stay.  (Don't trip, we will not be consuming it.)

Perhaps I will give it to him on his 16th birthday?

Insta-gin

An iPhone.  I got one.

For the longest time, I shunned the idea of an iPhone, saying I was not be controlled by a piece of technology.  If my phone could make and take calls, then I was fine.

Then, my upgrade came due and the 4s was only $99.  We both took the plunge and let me tell you, I have not looked back.

My favorite part?  The high quality, easily shareable pictures.  Methinks I'm becoming a regular iPhone photographer.  Our poor Nikon sits collecting dust like an antiquated type writer.  What do you mean, plug the camera in to upload?  Why won't it just send the pics to the cloud?

Here's what we've been up to, iPhone style:

Oh, iPhone.  I'm just so sorry I waited so long!