What are you looking at?

Time capsule, Bubby edition

I was sprawled on my bed reading when Liam rushed in, happy to show off the Hermione LEGO mini-figure we scored at Barnes and Noble that afternoon. (Which is also when I got my book.) He flopped on my bed and ruffled up the pillows, cuddling into me, and I playfully locked an arm around his neck.

"Do you want to snuggle with me?" I asked. He smiled but didn't answer.

"Can I sniff your shirt?" I said.

"No!" he laughed, but I still inhaled his size 7 green tee.

"Can I bite off a piece of your hair?" I pressed, and he jumped up, still laughing.

"No!" he cried. "But I did it last year, and I can tell you, it tastes gross!"

I stared at him in amused disbelief. "How would you be in a situation where somebody else's hair is in your mouth?"

The details of this quick exchange -- only 30 minutes ago -- are already fuzzy, and I'm not sure I nailed it, but I remember with crystal clarity the mischievous smile that spread across his face and put a shrug in his little shoulders.

"It happens!" he said, and ran out of the room.

On nitpicking

A mom of a daughter and two sons, I once harbored grand delusions of escaping one of parenthood's most feared events. That the lockers in our elementary school combined with my fervent prayers to please, God, please let me avoid this single milestone, just might be enough to keep the malady at bay.

But in June, my dreams were shattered when our household was exposed to lice. LIIIICE.

One minute, we were toweling off the kids after bath time, reveling in the emotional high of our picnic dinner and Christmas-card-worthy photo shoot at a nearby park (photos I can never look at again because LIIIICE). The next, I was breathing into a paper bag and scouring the stores for shampoos, combs, scissors and hair clips. The boys were buzzed to the scalp. Our poor girl sobbed as I chopped her beautiful brown hair from past her shoulders to chin length. I called the pediatrician's office three times in one day to confess botching the pre-treatment directions and to explore the maximum length of time a head can absorb pesticides before too many brain cells are compromised.

That first weekend, I spent 15 hours over a day and a half pulling at the strands on my daughter's head, reeking in my own stink and sobbing on the phone with my mother because I didn't know what I was doing and I WANT MY MOMMY.

I think part of the reason it took me so long was my unwillingness to be "all in" with the task at hand. It's not like I expected a lice fairy to glide into my home and say, "Don't worry, love, I've got this," but...maybe? After all, God parted the Red Sea for Moses and the Israelites. Jesus fed thousands of people with five loaves and two fish. Miracles happen, is what I'm saying.

Luke was an option, but he was already overwhelmed with deep cleaning the house, and besides, he had done his fair share -- pulling the boys from their beds at one o'clock in the morning after Another Sighting to shave them in the tub, agreeing that the fewer heads we had to worry about, the better. That was just as fun as it sounds!

The only way to get these effing bugs out of my child's head was to do it myself.

So I did.

Eventually I mastered my technique and was able to check her head in three hours. Now I feel like the Chuck Norris of head lice. I'd add this skill to my resume if it weren't so disgusting. And Indy-area peeps? If you encounter A Sighting and aren't sure where to turn? You've got a friend.

The first couple of days were all-consuming with runs to the store, stripping the house and combing through heads, but after finishing me and Kara off with a hot air treatment, life returned to normal. One vacation day, one missed soccer practice and that was it. I checked our girl's head every two to three days, either dry hair strand by strand or with a conditioner/comb combo. I called the parents of all the kids we'd played with recently and the children's ministry director at church to explain the situation (not embarrassing at all, especially with moms you don't know that well!). We replaced our dying vacuum cleaner and dryer to handle the extra cleaning. I barked at my kids to keep their heads off the floor in public places and scratched my own for a good two months AFTER we were deemed lice free. (And maybe still today, gaaah LIIIICE.) All while we went about our bidness.

So I learned two things from this dramatic and also sitcom-style debacle:

1) Momastery was right: I can do hard things. As the oldest of five and one of four daughters, I vividly remember dealing with lice as a kid. Those letters from school sent my mother into a frenzy of stripping beds, bagging stuffed animals and dousing my head with entire bottles of product. (#thickhair) (#sorrymom) She was my hero, and never in a million years did I believe I could handle the same situation with any amount of dignity or grace. But I did handle it. I summited my personal Everest and lived to tell the tale.

2) I can live with crisis. I can deal with an issue that shakes me to the core while also realizing that I will not die, and this too shall pass. It hasn't always felt that way over the years, as I've adjusted to career transitions, family matters and an overall feeling of not knowing my place in the world, but this time, I looked fear in the eye and tackled it LIKE A BOSS.

Damn right, Chuck Norris.

Choosing brave in 2015, part one

Hello, internet friends! I have missed you. I feel a little like the prodigal son who came home after squandering his wealth on extravagant activities, if by "extravagant" we mean working, parenting and generally trying to maintain my delicate grip on reality. In this scenario, I will assume you are welcoming me with open arms, and wait, is that a fatted calf? You really shouldn't have. Let's just hug it out and move on.

I thought I would break my blogging hiatus with a recap of 2014, then follow up with my plans for 2015, but right now I'm more inspired to look forward. So I'm running with it.

This flamingo from the zoo is down with my plan.

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For the last few years, I've tried to focus milestones and goals around a key word or theme. Here's a quick recap:

2012: Leap

2013: Simple

2014: Steady

Leap was perfect; it was the same year I ended my seven-year stint with a local toxicology lab to take a new job in healthcare education, and lots of big steps were required of me during the search and transition. But these last two years, my themes have felt less meaningful - mainly because I ended up leaping again with another employer closer to home. Not ideal circumstances for pursuing simple or steady. While writing this post, I couldn't even remember steady; I had to look it up in my blog archives.

It's very possible this one-word business isn't for me, but I'm trying it one more time. Similar to 2012, this year's word is perfectly in sync with where I am at this point and where I want to go.

My word for 2015 is brave.

I want to be brave enough to live all of my values and be consistent in my actions. To quiet the lizard brain and create. To curb my leanings toward the analytical and be less afraid of my emotions. To just say no to anxiety.

Here are the guideposts I'll use to get there.

Get prayed up.

One of the hardest things I went through in 2014 was saying good-bye to the senior pastor at my church, who retired in July to focus on his health. Pastor Ted was the first preacher I ever grew attached to, and I so identified with his sermons. I even used them as a soundtrack sometimes on the weekends I brought work home. So in the months before he left, I had a hard time keeping it together in worship. He would talk and I would sob quietly, praying (no pun intended) that nobody would notice my tears and I could break down in peace, thank you very much, where do you think we are, church?

Anyway. That was January through June. In July we welcomed Pastor Charlie, and he is wonderful. In a recent sermon, Pastor Charlie talked about the concept of being "prayed up" - the state of being so in touch with God and in the habit of talking to Him that you don't have anything left in the vault. This is the state I want to be in. This area in particular is where I want to think less and feel more.

Practice patience.

This has never been a strong suit of mine. Unless I put myself in the best position possible to face the day - gotten enough sleep, prayed, allowed flexibility in my schedule - I get short tempered quickly and slack off on keeping myself in check. I don't want to lean on yelling as a parenting tool. I want to be less concerned with discipline when I don't get my way and focus more on understanding the situation. Even better - I want to think five steps ahead to reduce or even eliminate the stressors that throw us off our game in the first place.

Stop when it's time to stop.

Oh look, an area where I wanted to improve last year but didn't fully commit myself.

"I'll get to that when..."

"In five minutes I'll..."

"As soon as I do X, then I can..."

One of my worst faults is placing conditions on when I can jump into a new task or activity. Unfortunately, most of the time the next task is something like "get home for dinner," "finish my bible class reading" or "play board games with the kids."

My reasons for this make sense in the moment: It's easier to finish what I'm doing than walk away and hope I'll regain my momentum later. But the result is always the same: I spend five minutes basking in the glow of my accomplishment and the next two hours feeling like crap because I prioritized a thing over someone I love.

I became more conscious of this in 2014 but didn't work very hard to make real change. This year I'm facing it head on and holding myself accountable for respecting the needs of my family and my own emotional and spiritual growth. I know, so very Hallmark. Hopefully the prodigal son intro bought me a little leeway with you all.

But seriously, my feast-or-famine way of doing things is no way to build good habits. I need to start things when I'm not inspired and end tasks when I'm not ready. Stop when it's time to stop.

Don't force a finish.

A nice follow-up to the whole stopping bit. So often I push through thinking, I could totally get this done if I just keep at it for five more minutes. Except five minutes turns to fifteen and I'm still finessing that manager email and I just missed my window for getting home on time and WHY CAN'T I LEARN THIS LESSON ALREADY I AM DUMBER THAN A FISH SOMETIMES.

Suffer for fifteen minutes.

If I can keep tasks small, I have a better chance of finishing them. Kara's had her Daisy vest since May, but I'm so intimidated by all the damn patches that I still haven't sewed them on. And yes I know about the double-stick tape, what do you think has been collecting dust on my dresser since November?

I keep putting off the hour I think it'll take to get the patches on, when really I should set aside a little bit of time each night until it's done. Gretchen Rubin is a big fan of suffering for fifteen minutes, and I'm a big fan of Gretchen Rubin, so there's my starting point. And the time to start is now, because cookie season kicks off Friday, and if there's any time your daughter need a functioning Girl Scout vest, it's when peddling Thin Mints.

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A few more guideposts to come. You won't have to wait until 2016, I pinky swear.

Progress report, a revelation and a very important question

Tonight, after blowing proverbial dust from TypePad's login page and wiggling my fingers to unclog almost four months of supressed wisdom, I scanned unfinished drafts, hoping against hope that I could channel that wisdom into a spectaular finish and avoid a paralyzing start.

That's how I found this longish note on my taxing First World Problems in 2013.

On one hand, for a year that I pledged to focus on simplicity, I sure did complicate things. One of my biggest undertakings was launching a freelance writing business! In this case, "launched" means adding a section on LinkedIn, playing with fonts in Word and signing proposals as Dunscombe Creative instead of Bree or Frema or other such options.

Since I was already working on projects, it seemed the logical thing to do. In June, I was contacted about a website writing series for employees at a local university, with three presentations to give between early August and mid September. In July, an old friend from my tox lab days asked me to write a corporate website for his new employer. They were great projects to take on, but I knew from the beginning it would be too much. My kids saw me hunched over a computer screen more often than I would've liked - pajama clad, bleary eyed, coffee dependent and snappy.

There were many times where I hit and then crawled over my breaking point, not because I'm especially noble or virtuous, but because people were counting on me for a deliverable and come hell or high water, I was going to deliver. To put it mildly, I was not my best self.

Why I didn't publish this, I'll never know. So bright and cheery and totally leading to a point!

Anyway, since I really don't want to start a post from scratch, it seems fitting to give a progress report on 2014. Here's a short list of wins so far, in no particular order:

Reading

To date I've completed 19 books for #Read26Indy. Reclaiming my identity as a reader has done wonders for my soul. It feels great to lose myself in other people's ideas and use them as jumping points for my own; to prowl the Twitter hastag and my Goodreads feed for hidden gems; to engage in lively discussions about Wild (loved it) and The Fault in Our Stars (fought it, then loved it) and Eat Pray Love (tackled the audio book this year and re-loved it) and on and on and on.

Giving

The Bible warns against making a show of charitable giving, but just today the very bald and very wise Seth Godin discussed the importance of normalizing charitable behavior. I can cover both bases by saying that Luke and I elevated our giving this year to a new level, which has challenged our budget in new and exciting ways. Yes, exciting - to know that our money more closely aligns with our priorities than ever before.

Working

The job stress I've experienced in 2014 is different from last year's in many ways, but it still reeks of FWP. On the plus side, I've done a lot of things to put myself in a better place - shortening my commute with the new job, backing off aggressive freelance projects and resetting boundaries so I can do my job well without overshadowing my roles as a wife, mother, Jesus lover, writer, friend, etc. I lost my balance this summer but regained my footing, and I'm eager to see how my new strategy plays out.

Parenting

How can it be that a first grader and kindergartener live in my house? That my last baby is actually THREE YEARS OLD, uses the word "butt" at every opportunity and has no use for strollers, bibs or sippy cups? As Gretchen Rubin likes to say, "The days are long, but the years are short." This year I've been working on saying yes more to my kids - yes, we can play the Game of Life for the eighty-millionth time, yes, we can botch make Rapunzel biscuit braids from your library Disney cookbook, yes, I can sit with you for a few minutes while you fall asleep. It's not been as easy to stop raising my voice at the first sign of wrong doing, but still, there's progress.

Focusing

This is a tough one to capture in a neat little paragraph, but the gist is this: I've spent a lot of time this year thinking on how to funnel my energy and interests into a singular mission. Chris Brogan talks about focus a lot in his weekly newsletter, and my beloved Liz Gilbert tackles it on her Facebook page. Here's a screen shot of one of my very favorite posts from her:

The this she's referring to is:

 

The way I see it, my biggest FWP has been not knowing my yes. In this great big life, we have a ton of options, and without focus, everything worthy seems viable. Should I take this freelance job? Go out on my own completely? Nurture that friendship? Move now or later? Write my book or let the damn thing go?

Having a core yes isn't the same as having priorities. I have priorities. Spending time with my children is a priority and a huge focus in my life, but my role as a mother is one part of who I am, and I'm more than any one role. What is it that ties my roles together? What measures am I using to know if I'm following my right path or veering off course?

An answer did come to me last month, an answer that I'm still working through. I've written about it privately already, so instead of finding new words, I'll just share the ones that worked for me at the time.

I kept waiting for an answer to appear and also waiting to find the right amount of time to dedicate myself to the task of answering it myself, studying as if I were preparing for a test. I was making it too hard, but I didn't realize it until last week after hearing Pastor Charlie's second sermon about taking the long way around to appreciate the riches of a life with God. That's when I realized that the answer was easy - what is my mission? Jesus. That's it. That's all it has to be. If I keep my path aligned with Jesus, everything else will be as it should.

I was looking for a sophisticated answer like creativity or service or something that felt more in line with my newsletter subscriptions. Maybe sophisticated is the wrong word. Maybe just complicated. Or worldy - a mission based on things/acts that are based in the world, even if they are noble and important. But once I answered the question with Jesus, it felt like a light bulb went off in my head. YES. This is the answer I've wanted - and had - all along. I just never put the two together. Studying the question intellectually in some ways, praying at times for an answer that I assumed would be "other" - an answer that I assumed would help bring me closer to God, instead of realizing that God is the answer. I was so short-sighted. But now I feel much lighter.

This is a hard topic to work through on a blog. Talking about God is an easy way to alienate people, and that's the last thing I want to do. I'm not abandoning any of the roles I mentioned before, or quitting my day job, or trying to convert anyone to my church, or making outwardly radical changes to my life. I can't even tell you if I'll have more to say in my next blog post. But I am asking myself a lot of questions, and it feels right to explore those questions here when I feel like I have something meaningful to say. Plus, if I may quote the bald and wise Seth Godin again, great work makes us uncomfortable. If figuring out your yes isn't great work, I don't know what is.

How are you doing this year? What's taking up space in your brain? And perhaps most importantly: What's been your favorite read so far? My Goodreads list wants to know.

These little wonders

I love Saturday mornings when the kids are due for their hair cuts. Every four weeks, I drive Nathan and Liam to Cookie Cutters, and every eight weeks, Kara joins us. I love the 20-minute drive to the strip mall, nursing a thermos of coffee, listening to happy chatter from the backseat and catching random lyrics from She and Him, Laurie Berkner or the Lumineers, depending on how well I've planned ahead. At the end of our route, we have to pass through the tunnel of a train bridge, and even while it's just a tiny dot in front of us, Kara and Nathan go out of their minds trying to find an engine on the tracks.

For 15 minutes, they sit on tractors, race cars and swivel chairs watching Nick Jr. while gold and brown strands fall from their heads to the floor. Scissor cuts, because Nathan has the perfect boy mop and Liam please don't give me a heart attack he's the only baybee I have left. But we do pull out "the buzzers" for the boys, to clean up around their ears and neck. Liam takes it like a champ, but since the age of two, Nathan has struggled. The combination of sound and sensation is just too much for him, and he turns into a puddle of giggly nervousness the minute the switch is turned on. Oftentimes I have to hold his head so the hair stylist doesn't nick his skin. I used to be supremely embarrassed about this, until suddenly I wasn't. I learn valuable lessons every day as a mother, but by far the most precious is patience.

Once the grooming is done, everyone is free to zip down slides and ask for balloons and it isn't long before we're back in the car, looking for trains. Such a simple outing - it rarely lasts longer than an hour - but when I reflect on the pace of a happy life, these mornings are examples of perfection.

On November 2, Luke achieved a bucket-list accomplishment: completing a marathon before he turned 40. My father-in-law graciously watched the kids so I could gallivant around town unencumbered, catching Luke at various milestones along the route. We froze together outside the corral, waiting for the race to begin, and when the time came for him to join the other runners, I cried like a baby. The emotions I felt for him that morning rivaled those of our wedding day.

Once Luke was off, I was, too. In addition to cheering him on at the start, I caught him between miles 2 and 3 at the Soldiers and Sailors Monument downtown, mile 18 at the Indianapolis Museum of Art and the finish line near the state capitol.

What a time it was - a mixture of awe in my husband, pride in our city and thankfulness to be part of such a big moment in so many people's lives. Luke started training for this race in July, and because of my work schedule, 95% of his weekday runs happened at five in the morning. He ran when he didn't want to, took breaks to treat injuries, and worried more than once that he just wasn't ready. This entry from Zoot about the power of a goal race explains it better than I can at this late hour, but this quote nails it:

Crossing a finish line is about so much more than the race itself, it’s about battling the demons that tried to keep you from starting in the first place.

Still battling lots of demons in my quest for simplicity, and it feels like I fail more times than I win. But I think of those quiet Cookie Cutter mornings where drudgery and joy intersect, and I keep trying. I'm not sure when I decided that children's haircuts were synonymous with the meaning of life, but I promise not to wait another three months to tell you more.

First day of kindergarten? CHECK.

On her first day of kindergarten, Kara was up and dressed a full hour before the bus was scheduled to arrive. She's always been an early riser, but walking around the house with her book bag over her shoulders before 7 am was a bit much. So instead we spent the time taking countless photos in strikingly similar poses.

Personally, I think they're all stunning.

Luke packed her lunch the night before: half a peanut butter and banana sandwich, bunny snack mix, an apple and raisins. He placed a note in her lunch box featuring a sketch of her face ("She likes pictures of herself!") that he and I both signed. When she wasn't sitting in thoughtful silence, she was chattering on excitedly about the bus.

"I ride bus, too! I ride bus, too!" Liam shrieked, and Nathan was jumping out of his skin with anticipation.

"Next year when I go to kindergarten, I can ride the bus with Kara," he told us. "I can sneak on and sit right next to her!" Which, ermagaaah, what are you all doing to me.

By 7:50, the whole family was outside waiting for the big yellow school bus to round the corner and take our baby away. I didn't ride the bus until I was in sixth grade, and even then the neighborhood stop was my old elementary school. I felt supremely out of my element.

"You must be Kara!" the bus driver said as she opened the doors. And then suddenly Kara was walking toward the steps, too quickly for me to hug her good-bye. I plan to remind her of this oversight on her wedding day.

All morning I was so proud of myself for holding it together - making jokes to keep Kara smiling and keeping my voice bright and perky - but I lost it, here. I waved furiously until she couldn't see us anymore and kept my face turned away from the other parents so they wouldn't judge the newbie mom crying all over herself just like when M'Lynn took Shelby off life support.

Then Luke, the boys and I piled into the Outlander and promptly drove to the elementary school.

Oh, yes we did. Because apparently it's perfectly reasonable these days to stalk your children when they're going to school for the first time, documenting their newfound independence with more pictures and a side of helicopter parenting. Works for me!

Baby steps off the bus, baby steps into the classroom...

We originally planned to walk back to our car after that, but the principal was ushering all the families inside to keep the parking lot clear, so we darted into the building and met up with Kara again, who was trying to figure out what to do with her lunch box.

The four of us stuck around for another 15 minutes, helping Kara at her locker, getting her folder to her teacher and watching her settle down with a puzzle. Then, seeing as it was the first day of kindergarten and not a spin-off of The Real World, we said good-bye one last time and finally made our way home.

We were back at the bus stop at 4 o'clock, and just as quickly as our family was separated that morning, we were reunited.

Kara's school adopted full-day kindergarten this year, which means she was in class for a whopping seven hours. Thanks to her detailed account, Luke and I were able to discern the following about her day:

• She colored a Clifford coloring sheet.
• She ate lunch in the cafeteria.
• She had quiet time on the carpet.
• I'm hungry, can I have a snack?

She's going to be just fine, this year.

Wearing the floor through the boards again

This summer has been the opposite of simple.

For starters, all three kids have taken turns being horribly sick and missing all the fun classes we carefully chose for them. Nathan threw up at W*lmart twice, and last week Kara stayed overnight at the hospital for IV fluids and antibiotics.Yesterday was her first fever-free day in a week and a half, which means she's cleared to start kindergarten in a few hours (and will likely have started by the time you read this because apparently I can't not write blog posts at 2 am).

My day job continues to keep me on my toes, and I'm taking on freelance work to build our savings because God as my witness, our next Christmas will be the last one in this house. Luke is training for a marathon and climbing into double-digit mileage. I'm working on my book every now and then, two notebook pages in the morning here, scribbles on an index card there. I'm brainstorming a Lean In Circle for my area despite missing Sheryl Sandberg's keynote at BlogHer to be with Kara. In my head I see meetings, a blog and a podcast. I'm crazy to even consider it, except that I'm too inspired to sit back.

I volunteered for an extra shift of Sunday School at church this fall since Liam transitions from the nursey where I spend every third Sunday to the Twos room across the hall. They don't have enough teachers and I'll miss playing trucks with him, so every first Sunday I'll dole out Bible stories and fishie crackers to a handful of half-babies. Because of course Liam is still my baby.

Did I mention Kara starts kindergarten today?!

There was an open house at the start of the week and to say she was overwhelmed would be an understatement. My own heart was in my throat the entire time and I could barely make eye contact with other parents because I'm still not ready for this and please God let's save the ugly cry for the car. The scarf around my neck felt more like a noose as we walked through the halls of her school, hunting for the library, music room, cafeteria, gym.

She was still upset yesterday but in better spirits when I came home from work. She even drew a picture.

"I'm walking from the house to the bus!"

But how can she be walking when to me she looks like this?

Many of my hardships these last few months I brought upon myself: poor management of stress, ignoring limits and the like. But kindergarten has been a monumental weight on my shoulders that I haven't been able to shake because it just feels so final. A symbolic entrusting of Kara to the universe with the expectation that her gentle spirit will stay intact. That she won't be grabbed from a bus, tortured by a bully or shot in a classroom.

It also means some shaping up on my part, like managing my schedule more efficiently so that I'm present for things like homework checks and PTO meetings. Plus, I'm tired of burning the candle at both ends all the time. If I don't want my kids to buy into a culture of busyness, I can't, either.

The feelings I have about Kara going to school aren't unlike what I experienced when I returned to work after maternity leave, and that turned out okay, so I do know we'll be fine. I just can't believe we're here.

* Yes, another Brandi Carlile lyric. Thanks for playing!

Normal-day milestones

Last month, for the first time in three years, I boarded a plane for work. For the first time ever, I landed in Las Vegas. It was never my dream to play three-dollar Black Jack or pose with celebrity wax figures, but when opportunity knocks, you have to answer.

He said he wanted to show me a few things.

Tomorrow marks seven months at my new job - can I still call it a new job? - and I am grateful. I work with smart people. I have incredible flexibility. There's still a lot I have to learn, and the growth is usually uncomfortable, but it took me a long time to get here. I am good.

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Last week, I registered Kara for kindergarten.

Being newbies at the formal school system thing, Luke and I weren't sure if you were supposed to bring your kid to registration, so I went to kindergarten round-up after work, alone. I turned in a bus form, vaccinations list and demographic sheets to the main office. I stopped by stations for the PTO and the nurse and food services and snapped a picture of a sample lunch tray with my smartphone. Oh, and I collected a zillion coloring sheets because guess what, dummy, you are supposed to bring your kid, it was like a pint-sized World's Fair up in there.

I blinked back tears as the secretary answered my questions about the school tour and teacher assessment and do the kids need to know how to use a computer? Will she be tested right away? I must have looked like a complete yuppie dufus, taking notes like I was on a job interview, but don't you see, they are taking away my baby. The same little girl who wants to live next door to me and work where I work and wear fancy clothes and have mommy-daughter dates when she grows up.

Back at my car, I sat in the driver's seat fully prepared for an ugly cry of Angela Chase proportions, only my initial weepiness caused my left contact lens to FALL OUT OF MY EYE. The reinserting of the lens put a damper on my plans, so I just drove home.

To prevent robbing Kara of preshus childhood memories, Luke took her to the round-up the following day with the boys in tow. She wasn't terribly impressed, but she does like her Girl Scouts pencil.

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My reading progress has been respectable. I devoured three Anne Lamott books over the winter and picked up The Year of Living Biblically, which is moving more slowly. The book I turn to most these days is the Bible. This is fascinating to me because I never wanted to have a relationship with it until very recently, for which I credit the amazing pastor at my church. At the beginning of the year I decided to tackle the New Testament beginning with Matthew, but during Lent I started going back to the Sunday gospel readings, which brought me to John, and now I've got a bookmark in Acts. I'm finding wisdom and relevance and a new interest in my relationship with Jesus.

I look at my faith life now and I'm in awe. Ten years ago, I couldn't have predicted that I would look forward to going to church, keep the Bible within arm's reach on my nightstand or pray in my car. I'm not a model Christian by any means, but I finally feel like I'm going in the right direction. That I'm wanting the right things and that God is moving from the fringes of my life to the center. 

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My book progress isn't as evolved, but it is there. I have a notebook for writing pages, and there are entries, but forming the habit has been hard. I'm not beating myself up about this, but I don't want to sit in limbo forever, either.

This article from Anne Lamott on making the time to write is a great kick in the pants.

"Time is not free—that’s why it’s so precious and worth fighting for."

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Simplicity is still my aim for the year. I resigned from my alma mater's volunteer board for this very reason. I still don't get work email on my cell phone. Luke and I are holding on major asthetic changes to the house and a new car.

The hardest part is fighting my natural tendencies. I like to be involved and go after new challenges. It's hard to step back when I want to raise my hand. But I don't regret any of it.

Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.

- Mary Jean Iron 

 

Why we stayed in Indy: part one of who knows

At the turn of the New Year, after the hell that was my recovery from gallbladder surgery, I was convinced we needed to move back home.

At that point I had been an Indy-area resident for more than six years, and never did I feel more aware of the physical distance between us and our families. Luke's parents were wonderful and came several times throughout December from northwest Indiana, for days at a time, to help while I was in and out of the hospital, and it had to have taken a toll on them, all that driving, running after three kids under the age of four, and not being able to collapse in their own bed at the end of an exhausting day. 

How different that experience would have been, I thought afterwards, if we were in closer proximity to our close relatives and friends. More people could have been available to help if all they had to do was relieve Luke for a few hours instead of going out of town, away from their jobs and kids and other responsibilities.

I was also convinced we would never find our groove here. Six years in and we still behaved like newcomers to the area. There were no dates because there were no baby-sitters, and there were no baby-sitters because we didn't have the money or the inclination to hire a stranger. And even when we had the support of the other, Luke and I were terrible about granting ourselves "me time" because it meant someone was getting the short end of the stick. I tried a book club for a few months before pulling out; the meet-ups were usually about 40 minutes from my house, and always during the week, so when I did go, I left the house around breakfast and came home after bedtime - missing the kids completely, which I hated, and forcing Luke to fly solo longer than he had to, after what was usually a hard day. I resigned from the volunteer board for Saint Joe after five years of service because the quarterly meetings were on Saturday and I couldn't bring myself to be out of the house for what amounted to the length of a sixth work day, 

If we were near Chicago, I thought, Luke and I would have no shortage of free baby-sitters and longtime friends to hang out with, making it easier to prioritize the non-parenting aspect of our marriage. I wouldn't feel guilty about going to book club if I knew Luke's parents were coming over for dinner. Luke could go hiking and I could visit my sister with the kids, each of us recharging without feeling guilty.

I realize our struggles are prime candidates for a First World Problems hashtag, but they feel very real to parents raising families away from where they grew up. Building a support group from scratch is a tough job. You need confidence to put yourself out there and time to invest in new relationships - neither of which overfloweth when you have little kids. Not to mention I'm fiercely protective of my time outside of work and Luke has fewer opportunities during the day to connect with adults in a meaningful way.

Living in Indy felt a lot like forcing a round peg into a square hole. Weren't we going about this backwards? Why were we trying so hard to create the conditions we already had closer to home? Wouldn't it make more sense to just go back home?

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When I shared these issues with a friend a couple of years ago, she gave me an assignment frequently used in her training and development classes. She told me to make four lists about Indy and Chicago, only instead of measuring pros and cons, the focus was losses and gains.

What I Gain From Staying in Indy

What I Lose by Staying in Indy

What I Gain From Moving to Chicagoland

What I Lose by Moving to Chicagoland

"They tell different things," she said when I asked about the perceived redundancy of the categories. "Just give it a try."

On September 8, 2010, I took a legal-sized notepad and went to town. And while the lists were different, the key themes were clear: closeness to family and affordable cost of living.

The first time I made the list, cost of living won out. My company was doing very well, Luke and I thoroughly enjoyed having a parent at home, and we were both optimistic about our ability to travel more as Kara and Nathan got older. It's not like we were going to complicate things by having another baby or anything!

After my gallbladder fiasco, though, the tables quickly turned, and for the first time since Kara was a baby, Luke was willing to talk about moving.

Which essentially meant:

Chicagoland, here we come.

Screensaver Photos, Work Laptop

Also known as I could have written another mini-post in the 20 minutes it took to upload these pictures but OMG, so tired

"Go vote. It makes you feel big and strong."

AGREED, Bob Schieffer’s mom.

I waited an hour and fifteen minutes to get my sticker, and the coffee in my thermos was iced by the time I was done, but of course First World Problems pale in comparison to having the privilege to vote.

Becoming a mother, getting more involved in our community, experiencing drastic ebbs and flows in our financial situation over the last few years - all of these factors have my stomach in knots over this election. This was the first year I watched all three presidential debates, donated to my party, and reviewed my ballot before hitting the polls. And there are still miles to go when it comes to my becoming and staying an informed citizen on issues that don't garner media attention. I want to make an impact in the areas that are most important to me, but with my current schedule and resources, to say nothing of the fact that politics intimidate the hell out of me, I'm not sure where to start.

Though, I suppose just voting is good enough for now.

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The 18-plus crowd wasn't the only demographic engaged in democracy today. This morning, Kara's pre-K class held a presidential election of their very own.

Voting consisted of placing a smiley face sticker next to "the man on the top" or "the man on the bottom."

Kara voted for "the right person. President Obama."

No prompting, I swear.

It was a close race, but in the end, the man on top emerged victorious, thanks to one smiley. Maybe it was Kara's.

Just like the office days of yore

My new gig is quite accommodating when it comes to working remotely; as a result, my laptop and I have taken to monopolizing the table in our dining room about once a week. I was one month into the job when Luke took the following picture of Kara, who informed him matter-of-factly she was working at her office.

"Like Mommy does?" he asked.

"Yes."

She even gave him a tour of her shiny new digs. "This is my desk (train table), this is my computer (blocks), and this is my mouse (yet more blocks)."

Seeing as I work in a cubicle devoid of wooden toys and zero train accessories, I'd say her work space trumps mine, no contest.

I would be interested to review work produced in such creative conditions.

As Nike likes to say...

"Momma, you're not going to die."

We were all in the car when Nathan said this to me, returning home on a random Thursday from a photo shoot for our church's directory, and I couldn't have been taken more off-guard. Luke's grandmother passed away a few months ago, and since then we've had on-going conversations about death and what it means, but still, kids are masters at the element of surprise.

Luke and I shot glances at each other before I started talking about how everything that is born has a lifecycle, and lifecycles are different for each type of creature, and many people live a very long time and that I probably would, too, because in our family we work hard to stay safe and live in a healthy way. And hey, turtles can live to be over a hundred years old! And afterwards, we get to see God and Jesus in Heaven!

Nathan took my response under careful consideration. We pulled into the garage.

"Momma, I don't want to die."

I freed him from his carseat and hugged him to my chest.

"I don't, either," I replied. Then he ran into the house, asking for cookies.

Maybe - just maybe - I could've handled that better.

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The following Tuesday, I went in for my first mammogram.

I scheduled it after my last physical at the recommendation of my doctor, since two of my mother's sisters were diagnosed with breast cancer before menopause and apparently that is a big deal. One is in remission, thank goodness, and the other, my auntie Debbie, passed away six years ago (WOW) from complications ultimately related to brain cancer. Her daughter was only four when she received that diagnosis - the same age Kara is now.

The results of my mammogram came back normal, but MAN, talk about a reminder that life is short.

Life is short.

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One of my biggest shortcomings is my tendency to wait for inspiration, forgetting it's in the act of doing that we are inspired. For example:

Ever since I was a little girl, I've wanted to write a book. I cranked out tons of short stories in grade school and gave them to my teachers as presents. (Yes, 'lil Frema was quite adorable.) In seventh grade I tied for first place in the Chicago Young Authors Contest for a story about a hit-and-run, and got an A+ when I submitted THE VERY SAME STORY as a final writing assignment my senior year in high school. In eighth grade, more than half the messages in my autograph book ended with, "I can't wait to read your first book!" In high school I laid the groundwork for Tragic Love Friday with my two-part soap opera miniseries. I majored in English in college.

Today? No book.

I can offer a number of excuses as to why that is. I'm not as jazzed about creative writing as I used to be. Blogging satisfies my need to be published. I'm not sure what I want to say. I can't find the time. I'm scared.

But none of them are true except the last one, and that is not good enough.

So last week, I made a declaration to my peeps on Facebook.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to write - something non-fiction, probably, to put my inner monologue to good use - but that didn't matter. I would figure it out. Do it, and then you will be motivated to do it.

Everyone was so generous with encouragement and praise that I forgot about all the reasons I had for not doing it earlier.

And two days later, on my way home from work, driving in the pouring rain, Nelson on the radio, my idea just came to me. Themes and chapter titles were scrolling across my mind like the stock ticker on a news broadcast, and I just started crying.

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Shortly after my announcement on Facebook, one of my middle-school friends commented, "I've been waiting since 7th grade!"

Me, too.

Rolling away my stone

Let It Be Known that on February 24, 2012, Luke and I submitted a payment of almost five thousand dollars to our credit card company, leaving us with a double-digit balance for the first time since 2010. We celebrated with a cheap bottle of red and nineteen dollars' worth of steak and tortillas from Qdoba. Bring on the cookies, bag up those chips. We can afford it. (Today.)

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After four months of intermittent physical therapy, I can finally run with only minimal aches and pains. Did I ever give you the skinny on that whole thing? A PT evaluation in October confirmed my body was still a mess from my last c-section: severe diastasis at least three fingers wide, weak pelvis and lower abs, compression in the right knee between the kneecap and the femur. It was explained that my core was too weak to absorb the regular impact of running, so the full burden fell to my lower half, which promptly failed the task. PT exercises helped alleviate this until my gallbladder pulled a hissy fit on Thanksgiving, and it wasn't until my birthday I felt like anything close to normal. By then it was January and hello, Mini Marathon training!

It had been my plan to run this year's Mini since being pregnant with Liam, with goals of improving on my freshman effort and marking a return to the sport with a PR. At the start of training, though, I hadn't logged a mile since September.

Here is where I experienced my first lesson in Keeping It Real for 2012 and admitted I couldn't tackle the Mini quite the way I planned. Right now I'm following a run-walk schedule that exists only in my head, and it is this: Get outside three times a week. Run when I can, walk when there's pain, and don't feel guilty if I skip two weeks a day. Just keep on.

To date I'm at three miles, and the official training program hosted their 10K race last weekend. CAN WE SAY YIKES. Moving forward, it's probably best that I focus on races where training doesn't start in the dead of winter, especially when we're not in a financial position to take on a gym membership. But that's okay. The important thing is I'm moving again.

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My kids are growing up so fast. The toddlers are signed up for school in the fall - pre-K and preschool, respectively - and will take swim lessons this summer. They're also displaying an interest in learning how to read. How do you spell "snake," Mom? Daddy, how do you spell "airplane"? Kara holds ballet shows in our living room on a regular basis, inspired by Selena's and Olivia's enthusiasm, and will start her first dance class next month. There is constant chatter from her about turning five and going to kindergarten and next year can she please invite school friends to her birthday party and slow down, child, I'm not ready for this yet. Nathan is making steady progress on the potty-training front and adores all things trains and dinosaurs. Liam is cutting two bottom teeth and pulling up on everything in reach. He was baptised at our church, which we are quickly falling in love with, at the end of February. 

Such the little man.

Their relationship is every bit as adorable as you can imagine.

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I'm not sure how to navigate this new place I'm in, having recently resolved to let the dust settle from several years of activity instead of chasing The Next Big Thing. I've adopted four different life plans since the start of 2012, embracing then abandoning each one wholeheartedly when the sense of peace I waited for didn't come. Taking long-held dreams and examining them under a microscope, I'm faced with hard questions. How much of my goal setting has been driven by an attitude of laziness and a longing for easy? Am I allowing the bottles-and-diapers phase of parenting, which is unique and temporary, to misguide decision making related to the future? Have I been moving towards something or running away?

Then there is this: Who am I holding accountable for my long-term happiness, aside from myself? And where am I left if those people fall short? 

(Can you imagine living with this crazy on a daily basis? I assume Luke has your sympathy.)

I've made a lot of declarations the past couple of months - make that the last few years - about family and priorities and What Really Matters, and it's embarrassing to consider another direction now that the follow-through isn't meeting my expectations. Maybe it's the wrong time. Maybe I had the wrong dream. Maybe the alignment of the two already happened - right time, right dream - and I missed the window. No matter what the case, now I have to admit that it might be time to move on.

(Related food for thought: Linda's post on giving up a dream. Note my passionate monologue on plan one near the bottom. That Frema! So naive four weeks ago back then.)

Picture Linus from the Peanuts Gang being asked to give up his security blanket.

Lucky for me I don't need to act on anything today. Even luckier, there's plenty left to hold onto.

Happy is as happy does

After posting two entries' worth of pep talks, I wanted to share some of the ways I'm trying to bring more joy and perspective to my day-to-day.

This is especially important right now because Luke and I are too busy paying down debt to account for anything grandiose - we've already scrapped our plan to upgrade the family car, for example. Anything we take on over the next year has to be free or non-commital (i.e., pay-per-use or of the "cancel at any time" variety). So, really, free. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Journaling

l adopted this habit over the summer, inspired by Gretchen Rubin's stab at a gratitude journal. Her original intent was to write daily, but after finding it to be more of a chore than a stress reliever, she switched to writing one sentence a day about those in-the-weeds moments that tug at your heart but are likely to fade over time. Learning from her experience, I started my own journal as a combination of these ideas  - I focus on what I'm thankful for, but I don't write every day, and I don't limit myself to any kind of subject matter. Sometimes I've got pages of bullet points, and sometimes just a few lines. Sometimes they're big picture, like having enough money to pay our bills, and or they're as simple as the name of Kara's imaginary dog Bingo Benjamin (Bingo from Ladybug Girl, Benjamin from Liam's middle name; isn't that something you'd want to remember?). I don't want to lose these moments any more than Rubin does, and I can think of no better way to frame them than through a lense of gratitude. Plus, the fewer parameters I set for myself, the better my chances of keeping this up.

I do, however, have one restiction: I'm not allowed to pat myself on the back for house cleaning. It's important to me to keep up on things as best I can, especially now that Liam is frog-hopping everywhere and crams whatever he can into his pie hole, but I don't want to delude myself into thinking the ninety minutes I spend scrubbing down bathrooms is equal to an afternoon playing Memory with the kids. That's not what I want to reflect on when I go through these books five years or even one month from now. Not every "good" thing needs to be documented.

Quotationing, Information Collecting

Rubin had another reason for starting a notebook that I found really appealing. She talked about her love for the physical act of note taking and how journaling provided an outlet for this. She also talked about writing for its own sake and forgetting about results. As in, it's okay to collect information and not know what to do with it. It's okay to jot down ideas just because it's fun.

I, too, love note taking, and anyone who's known me longer than five minutes knows I have a pen in my hand almost all the time, just waiting to desecrate a blank piece of paper with my scribbles. (Remember my yada yada yada banner?) So I started a second notebook to serve as a random repository of all things Frema. I've written down books I want to read, movies I want to see, plot points for a TLF part three (when I thought about tackling National Novel Writing Month in November), and quotations. Pages and pages of them, mainly because I get Rubin's "Moment of Happiness" daily quotation delivered to my e-mail and ninety-five percent of them are ones I don't want to forget. Here's a gem from last week:

Also, no, I'm not being compensated for my repeated references to The Happiness Project, why do you ask? I've only cited it eighty million times in this entry.

Reading

One of my goals this year is to read more. Pretty lofty, right? And yet, there it is. Books have always been a huge part of my life, but with all the new demands on my time these last few years, I've been lazy in making them a priority. Part of the problem is that I think I need more time to keep up with reading than I actually do - i.e., I don't have to set aside an hour before bed to wind down with the Dalai Lama. I can grab twenty minutes at lunch or five on the john. (TMI?) All of those minutes will eventually lead to one finished book.

I'm not aiming to hit a specific number of books because that seems overwhelming, but I know that I need some measure of accountability to help me stay on task. Thus, my bookroll was born. Here's to tearing that bad boy UP come December.

I'm also trying to limit the amount of guilty-pleasure reading I do - less Soaps in Depth, fewer sensationalist blog posts that were clearly written to drive traffic or stir controversy. Half these sites aren't any different from the grocery store mags that recycle headlines every 18 months. This is much harder to do, because junk reading requires such little effort, but I'm trying to remind myself these things don't bring me happiness in the long run. I'm ready for something new.

Blogging

In case you haven't noticed, I've been trying to return to a regular posting schedule - as in, posting at all, period. This is mainly because I've always enjoyed working through my thoughts and feelings online, and I've missed being an active member of this community. I won't lie, though; I'm also still trying to figure out if this space can pave the way for other freelancing opportunities. Whether it can or not remains to be seen, but even if it doesn't, I'm having a great time, and that's all that matters in the end.

Churching

After almost a year-long hiatus, Luke and I are back in the habit of attending church, and we are both so happy about it. When Kara was a baby, we were going to an Episcopal church we liked a whole lot, but then we bought our house and moved to a new part of town where the Anglican congregation was wonderfully kind and generous but essentially in preacher limbo, having gone without a full-time pastor for almost two years, and it showed. When a pastor did finally sign on, despite her being a lovely person, Luke and I weren't as happy with the sermons or the way Sunday worship was organized, so we decided to explore other options. Since Kara and Nathan were already attending preschool programs at the local Methodist church, which is known for being super active in our community, we went to a service late last fall and have kept going ever since.

This is the first time in my adult life I'm continually excited and inspired by going to church. As someone who grew up in a conservative Catholic family with extended relatives who weren't exactly tolerarant of other faiths, even Christian ones, it's been an eye-opening process to evolve from Guilt-Ridden Catholic to Nervous Catholic Light to Full-Blown Protestant. The nice thing is that all three traditions? PRAY TO THE SAME JESUS. It's true! Plus, I can let the most fulfilling parts of each experience inform my overall relationship with God and faith. I never could have predicted the spiritual journey in store for me back when I first started debating my religion, but I couldn't be more thankful for where it's led me and my family.

Less Yelling

I constantly tell people it's a good thing tLuke is the at-home parent in our marriage because my level of patience fluctuates wildly when it comes to the kids. I'm making an active effort to find other ways to handle these situations, because when I do, the results are worth their weight in gold. I just need to do it more.

Sleeping, Exercising

Actually, these are the only ones I'm NOT doing yet, but I want to be. I'm sold on the why when it comes to both; it's the how that holds me back. How can I go to bed when there are pages to read / journals to update / blog posts to write? On the flip side, how can I get up to Shred when I was up until two o'clock reading, journaling, and blogging? You see where this is going. In the end, I need to accept that I can't do eight things in a day, pick the two or three that need the most attention in that moment, and hop to it.

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I am trying so hard to focus on improving the "little" parts of my day, because really, isn't that the bulk of our lives? It's not often we're keeled over by outlandish moments of grandeur; I need to enjoy each day for what it is and explore happiness in my current set of conditions, instead of hitting the pause button until all obstacles have been overcome. I've made significant progress in this area in the last year and a half, but I can always do better.

How are you doing on your 2012 goals and resolutions? What are you doing to keep happiness at the forefront of your life? I would love to hear from you.

I'm so glad we had this time together

Indianapolis started school almost a month ago, but for the Frema-Useless Clutter household, we are just now closing our chapter on the season that is summer.

Nathan started his parents' day out program yesterday. He was so excited about it that he ran into the classroom ("Terrific Twos!") before Luke and I could hug him good-bye. As it should be, even if it did stab my heart a little.

Kara would have started along with him in the Thriving Threes and Fours group as was planned earlier in the spring except that Luke and I decided to mix things up at the last minute in light of my recent pay increase and upgraded her registration to preschool. Compared to others, her classroom time seems relatively light at just two afternoons a week, but for us it is the perfect amount of exposure to new concepts and reinforcement of what she's already mastered at home. She's even completed her first homework assignment, doled out at last Thursday's open house, if you call cutting up magazines for an "All About Me" poster homework, which I totally do, because hello, the girl's only three. Her first session was today.

Meanwhile, the newest addition to our family turned 10 weeks old this morning. He continues to delight everyone in the house with his smiles, coos, and poops. He isn't sleeping through the night yet, but he does pull some seriously long stretches from mid-evening to early morning. Now if only his stupid parents would use this time to sleep instead of watching Friends reruns and loading the dishwasher.

As for me? Well, today was my last day of maternity leave.

What to say about these last ten weeks? It's been amazing, relishing in newbornhood one more time, and spending days upon days clocking hours of snuggle time in our glider, building robots out of Legos, playing catch up with Pixar, and overall just enjoying my babies. They are all such funny little people, so smart and charming, and Kara and Nathan were so patient with me during my pregnancy with Liam. They deserved this time to bond with me, too, to get caught in the rain with me at the zoo, to have me drive them to and from tumbling class, to share a blueberry muffin with me at Starbucks after a random trip to Target. I was introduced to Mater and Ladybug Girl and Yo Gabba Gabba!, and they were reminded that their mother is capable of doing more than visiting the doctor and sleeping on the couch. It's hard for them sometimes, watching me with Liam when they'd rather have me for themselves, but these growing pains will become easier to handle as he gets older, and they pale in comparison to how much fun we have when we're all together.

I think everything is ready for tomorrow: outfit ironed, lunch packed, professional shots of Liam ready to be added to my desk. I've got a fresh hair cut, new purse, and filed nails. I'll certainly look ready to be back at work, even if the pit in my stomach indicates otherwise. 

Having pushed through this hurdle twice now, I know in the end it'll be okay. I work with wonderful people who will help me transition back to office life, and the kids couldn't be in better hands with Luke. Good things are ahead of us. I just wish time could've stopped a little bit longer.

A year ago, and a lifetime

Liam turned seven weeks old a few days ago, and when I compare where we are now to where we were at this point with Kara and Nathan, I almost can't believe it.

For one thing, of my three maternity leaves, this one has definitely been the most active. I've brought the baby to work and met coworkers for coffee and lunch twice; scheduled several playdates with friends; went with the entire family to our local Children's Museum (and finally secured our membership); took the toddlers to a splash park and numerous trips to Target; and saw the doctor (OB/GYN, dentist, and pediatrician) more times than I care to count. We drove to Chicago and northwest Indiana last weekend to attend my nephew's third birthday party and spent two nights away from home, Liam just six weeks old - the earliest we've ever traveled with a newborn.

Walking with Grandpa

Cuddling with Auntie Samantha

Mugging with Uncle Geo

Another first: exercise. I didn't work out at all after Kara, and Nathan was five or six months old when I welcomed The 30-Day Shred into my life, but this time around, I started exercising in the same week I was cleared to do so. Two Jillian Michaels DVDs and a couple of easy runs totaling about a mile each. There were times during each of the videos where I found myself flopping around like a fish, and I think a snail passed me on the trail yesterday, but still. For my physical health and mental sanity, I am making fitness a priority, and DAMN, does it feel good.

It helps that Liam is such an easy-going baby, save for some recent episodes of evening-time grumpiness. He is cooing and smiling and most often content so long as he is snuggled in your arms, which I am happy to oblige, even though my floors need mopping and phone calls need returning and hey, the checkbook isn't going to balance itself. I start back at the office the Wednesday after Labor Day (on a somewhat reduced schedule, thank goodness), and that familiar Oh my God, I'm going back to work dread has already started creeping in, reminding me how important it is to savor this time while I still can.

Last August, I felt trapped in my own life. I loved my husband and children beyond measure, but our future was blurred, seemingly without direction, and I had no idea how to best move us forward. I missed my extended family something fierce and cursed the miles between us. My writing goals were drastically changing shape but equally undefined. I struggled to make peace with not having any more babies, and Luke and I were in the worst financial shape of our marriage, having first fallen into the trap of paying everything by credit card, then depending on quarterly bonuses to catch up on bills, and fnally spending more each month than we brought in.

I became insanely jealous of those who seemed to have it all figured out, and I couldn't stop comparing our situation to others with similar demographics. I found myself asking, "Is this all there is for us? Is this the best that life can be?"

Thankfully, the answer was a resounding NO. 

I still don't have all the answers, and our path isn't completely clear, but for the first time in years, I can finally see its shape.

What a difference a year makes.

Tuck it in, tuck it in *(belly, not baby)

Six weeks and six days ago, I had a baby. Here he is.

The Beach Boys and hottie John Stamos aren't the only ones who want to go to Kokomo.

At six weeks and six days, Liam:

• Has been diagnosed with and declared healed from umbilical granuloma
• Indulges in self-torture by way of pulling his own hair
• Screams after said hair pulling but requires Momma to free him from his iron grip
• Smiles when you plant puckery kisses on his mouth
• Is drawn to light, especially when it's shining through half-closed blinds
• Cannot maintain a dry diaper for longer than eight seconds
• Is settling into a feeding pattern of four ounces every three hours and is already showing signs that he's ready to ditch his middle-of-the-night feeding
• Spent a half-hour awake and smiling in his cradle swing today. THIS IS HUGE.
• Has perfected several facial expressions, including Zoolander's Blue Steel
• Is already losing his hair. Maybe, son, it's because YOU'RE PULLING IT OUT BY THE ROOTS
• Will probably grow up answering to Luke's and my primary nickname of choice: Nathan

Harbored behind those bright blue eyes and chipmunk cheeks is an ocean of wisdom.

Meanwhile, this is me.

At six weeks and six days postpartum, I:

• Drink a lot of coffee, as evidenced by ninety percent of my Facebook posts
• Call milk and cookies my evening poison
• Sit almost five pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight, despite my brand loyalty to all things Oreo
• Lay claim to one (1) infection-free c-section scar
• Have hosted a lengthy visit from the nefarious Aunt Flo
• Heard the phrases "tummy tuck" and "plastic surgeon" uttered by my OB/GYN during last Thursday's postpartum follow-up
• Feel super awesome about this!

Let me explain.

Early on in my second trimester, I was diagnosed with having diastasis recti - the separation of your abdominal muscles into left and right halves. It felt like a pretty big deal at the time, as I cried out in pain whenever someone so much as brushed against my stomach, but by my third trimester, the discomfort was gone and I assumed I was out of the woods. Prior to my c-section, though, my OB/GYN promised to be mindful of my abdominal area and do what she could to tighten things up during surgery, if such tightening were necessary.

The first few weeks after Liam was born, I was in such hell from my c-section and then so focused on recovering that I didn't think much about the diastasis recti, until a fellow Hoosier blogger posted about her own dance with the condition. I wasn't feeling any of the pain Casey talked about, but my stomach protruded in a similar fashion, albeit saddled with eight extra tons of Frema flab. Now, I've never rocked a six-pack, or even a one-pack for that matter, but maybe at least some of the flab could be attributed to this? I decided to ask my doctor about it at my six-week check-up.

The exam itself went great. Incision healed, vitals normal, birth control taken care of (thanks again, honey), physical activity approved.... All good news. Then I brought up the diastasis recti and waited to hear the recommended course of treatment. Ab splint? Physical therapy? Whatever it is, I said, I would do it. Bring it on.

My OB/GYN was silent as she rested her hand slightly below my breasts.

(Get your mind out of the gutter, you.)

"There's still a slight separation I can feel right here," she explained, her hand still in place, "but most of what we're dealing with is stretched out skin."

Hmm. Not exactly the verdict I was hoping for. "Since I'm cleared for exercise, would that do anything for me?" 

She tilted her head as she considered the question. "It could help some, but typically excess skin, once it's there, doesn't go away without surgery."

Enter abdominoplasty/tummy tuck conversation here.

Before you start railing on my doctor, please note that she did not in any way, shape, or form suggest that I need to have this done. If you had been a fly on the wall for my entire check-up, it would have been obvious to you that the thought of carrying around this amount of skin for the rest of my life made me more than a little uncomfortable. She also went on to say that during my c-section, she added some extra stitches to tighten things up around my abdomen and pointed out that internally I am not completely healed. "It's too soon to make any decisions right now. See what you can do with diet and exercise, and after some time, if it still bothers you, I can give you a referral for a plastic surgeon, and you can schedule a consult to get more information."

So, there you have it. One more bullet point to add to my list of "Things I Used to Scoff At Before I Became a Mother."

Seriously, though, I'm not sure what to think. On one hand, even before having kids, I've always had a bit of a belly overhang that kept me from effortlessly shopping for clothes, being naked in front of other people, and having sex without feeling at least a little self-conscious. After Kara, that bit of overhang turned into a tire gut, and after Nathan, graduated to the dreaded "mother's apron" (a term I just today learned from Shape of a Mother, thank you very much), and now? Well, let's just say even the worst "Before" pictures on Wikipedia's abdominoplasty page don't do my midsection justice. Yet, all this time, I've never before entertained the idea of having it surgically removed. Girl power, love yourself and all that jazz. And now as a parent, in particular a mom to a daughter, I worry about the kind of message I would be sending about self-love and acceptance by submitting myself to unnecessary plastic surgery. How can I encourage Kara to embrace who she is, AS she is, if I'm having my own imperfections hacked off with a scalpel?

On the other hand, it's not as if I'm in danger of becoming the next Heidi Montag. Overall I quite like my body and thank God for all it's been able to do, including but not limited to carrying three healthy babies and running a half-marathon. I have no problems walking out of the house sans make-up, even to work, and I can take or leave coloring my hair. Getting a tummy tuck would be a specific answer to a specific problem that's frustrated me for years. And unless I changed my zero-tolerance policy on bikinis and tube tops, the only person besides me who would even notice the end result is Luke. Which is fine by me, since I would only be doing it for me.

As for Kara and the boys? Well, I may be relatively new to parenting, but even I know enough to appreciate that this one choice wouldn't negate years of consistent teaching and role modeling when it comes to loving yourself as you are. Plus, while I believe in the importance of self-acceptance, I also support making your own happiness and not closing a door out of fear for what others might think. 

On the other OTHER hand, cosmetic surgery is not something to be taken lightly, and after three c-sections, going under the knife a fourth time to basically improve my self-esteem hardly sounds appealing. Also, I'm nowhere near convinced that the benefits outweigh the risks when I've barely scratched the surface when it comes to improving my commitment to physical fitness. I may never eliminate my gut entirely that way, but who knows? I might come close, all on my own, and that may be enough.

Also, dudes. Tummy tucks? Not cheap.  Even if I was resigned to having it done, we couldn't afford it until Luke was back at work, which could be another five years away, and even then I'd have a hard time justifying the cost when the money could be deposited into one of our retirement accounts. 

Maybe one day Liam would take pity on me and HE'D pay for the surgery. We could call it the Mother's Day gift that keeps on giving. You think?

Luckily, this is not a decision I have to make (or can afford to make!) tomorrow. What I can do is run over to Wal-Mart, pick up a new Jillian Michaels video, and draw inspiration from one Marty McFly: "If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."

Now for what YOU can do: Ripped in 30 or 6-Week Six-Pack?

* ETA because I didn't even think about the title indicating that this might be a sleep entry.

This is what four weeks postpartum looks like

Four weeks ago yesterday, at 9:48 a.m., the last child I will ever carry (that is, unless Luke is fatally injured, I meet Joshua Jackson, and he requires biological offspring in lieu of a marriage prenup) was strategically evicted from my uterus. Only it doesn't feel like four weeks ago, more like an eternity, because it's already that difficult to imagine what life was like without Liam.

Fortunately and unfortunately, the biggest hurdle to overcome thus far has been my own physical recovery. There's some persistent fluid build-up causing tenderness in my abdominal area, tenderness that until a few days ago inspired mild nausea whenever anyone came into contact with my stomach, and my tire gut contributed to bacterial and fungal infections around my incision that interfered with the normal healing process. Apparently, all that extra skin (sexy!) worked against me when it came to keeping the scar dry, turning the whole area into a red, blotchy mess. I've been to my ob/gyn's office twice since coming home from the hospital, with another follow-up slated for today. 

Luckily, an elaborate ritual involving cotton balls, hydrogen peroxide, MY FRIGGING BLOW DRYER, anti-fungal powder, and hospital-grade gauze applied twice a day for the last week has resulted in me finally feeling like myself again, my personal best, even, since before the onset of my first trimester morning sickness. I'm feeling so good, in fact, that I also have two full days of meds-free living under my belt, with not so much as an over-the-counter pill in my system. Hooray for me, and also, IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME.

It's only because I'm doing so well I can admit that in those first few weeks, all that unresolved pain paired with the traditional complications from this type of surgery seriously impacted my ability to function. What I said about mornings being a cherished part of my routine in my last post was true, but it's also true that they were the hardest part of my day. I posted a lot of jokes on Facebook about my A.M. coffee intake, but truly, I was no good to anyone until half-way to lunch, even though Luke and I shared night duty for Liam, and even though Luke continued to get up with Kara and Nathan just as he does when I'm working so that I could go back to bed for another couple of hours while Liam dozed after his first morning bottle.

For so long I was embarrassed about this, would apologize to my husband for having to pick up my slack, and felt like less of a mother because I couldn't push through my own issues to be fully present for ALL the members of my family. It wasn't like I was completely detached from daily living, but oftentimes even simple tasks such as giving a bath or unloading the dishwasher put too much strain on my body, so that I couldn't do more than a couple of things like that in a 24-hour time span. Now that my infections are just about healed and my overall pain has been downgraded to annoying at best, all I can do is recognize that I'm not Wonder Woman, acknowledge that I needed help - a lot of help - to get back on my feet, and thank my lucky stars Luke was around to give it to me. His being the at-home parent in our relationship allowed Kara and Nathan to get the care and attention they needed and enabled me to focus on bonding with Liam and getting better. I'm not proud of how often I fell short, but I can forgive myself for it and move on.

And yet, even in those early weeks when I would cry over not being the wife and mother I wanted to be, I was still in much better shape mentally then I was after having Kara, as I learned how to integrate the role of mother into my life, and after Nathan, born not fourteen months after his sister, who was still just a baby herself. This time around, there was no veil of self-doubt, no wavering in making decisions that were best for my family. I was still able to embrace each day for the gift it was, laugh through the building of Lego towers with my toddlers, and appreciate every hour of snuggle time with my new baby.

I keep comparing this maternity leave to Kara's and Nathan's, and each time, I realize how far I've come since then. This is the first time I've been able to bring home a child and hold onto the best, most confident parts of myself. I am so grateful for that. This focus and sense of peace I've discovered since Liam was born, it's such a blessing.

Speaking of Liam, he continues to knock our socks off. He's finally "woken up," so to speak, and joined the world of the living in that he isn't sleeping twenty hours a day anymore; he has fussy periods in the morning and evening hours, but they are not unbearable or even a surprise, given his age. At last Friday's weight check, he clocked in at a whopping 10 pounds and 3 ounces. Two days later, he rolled over for the first time. He enchants us all with gassy smiles, wide eyes, and pursed lips. Poor thing still has traces of Kara's and Nathan's cold, and it appears that we are dealing with a clogged tear duct in his right eye, but again, nothing unbearable. I can't believe how lucky we are to have him, or that I owe his existence to a bottle of red from Walmart. Miracles, though, aren't picky.

As for me, I am good, so very, very good, if not a little stir-crazy from mostly hanging out indoors, partly due to the above-mentioned ailments and partly from the Midwest's record-breaking humidity. I've generated a few unexpected bills since my leave began (damn crown, breaking off two days after coming home from the hospital!), and since we had to deplete a lot of our savings before Liam's birth for a variety of reasons, I have decided to return to work two weeks early so we can avoid financial strain. This puts me back in the office the week of Labor Day instead of late September. 

In the past, the very thought of this scenario would have reduced me to a weepy puddle of WAAAH, but I'm okay with this decision, too. I'm not wishing my time away with my family by any means, but there is a piece of me that's eager to embrace our new normal, and that new normal includes me going back to work. Plus, there is so much for us to do now that Liam is here; prepare to put our house on the market, for one. Pay off our credit card debt (and new array of medical bills) once and for all. Start tending to my professional network again. In other words, make our dreams come true. 

I am so ready.

Filled to the brim

These days, mornings are a cherished part of my routine. For one thing, there is coffee, something I didn't miss much during my pregnancy but has quickly become an invaluable commodity since Liam's birth. Second, I'm fresh from at least a few consecutive hours of sleep. And finally, there are all the positive feelings associated with the promise of a new day.

I'm very aware that I could jinx our good fortune by speaking this out loud, but Liam continues to be the most easy-going newborn Luke and I have parented. Despite all the pictures we have of his bright baby blues, the boy sleeps ALL. THE. TIME., usually only waking to eat or poop or make funny faces at his brother and sister. He is especially fond of sleeping on my chest, so that's how I spend a lot of my day. It is exactly what I wanted for this maternity leave, this unfettered snuggle time with him.

Everything else is okay. C-section recovery is still slow; I run out of happy pills today, and I have to figure out if I want to call my OB for more or figure out a lesser way to handle my pain. I never came to this point with Kara or Nathan - possibly needing more drugs than originally prescribed - so I can only assume opening up a twice-healed abdominal scar one last time would of course produce some unanticipated physical effects.

It doesn't help that I've been on my feet more this time around, but with two toddlers craving activity and attention from a mother who is now home 24/7, sometimes there isn't a choice. I'm so excited for us to start having our adventures, and it already feels like time is flying by so fast, but Luke keeps reminding me there are many good days ahead of us and that I'm not doing myself any favors by taking shortcuts around my recovery. Sound advice, but hard to follow nonetheless.

Here is my last belly shot with Liam from June 28, at the start of week 39, twenty-four hours before Baby Day. Already, it feels like this shot was taken forever ago, and that Liam's been with us for so much longer than one day shy of two weeks. Luke and I were talking last night about how we each feel differently, now being parents to three children, but it's hard to articulate why. For me, there is a feeling of completeness I've never known before, a confidence that I am on the right path, and a sense of peace in knowing that all the right puzzle pieces are finally in place. Liam's arrival has also increased my capacity to love all the members of my sweet little family, as well as my desire to do right by them, and myself.

I don't know what the future holds for us, but I'm eager to take it all on. Nothing feels impossible.

Outnumbered, overjoyed, undermedicated

 

A week ago yesterday, I gave birth to Liam. And in this past week, I have dealt with two sick toddlers, 48 hours worth of c-section recovery without the aid of narcotics, and nursing difficulties that once again rocked me to my core.

On the surface, it all sounds pretty craptastic. Yet, that isn't the case at all (mostly - Kara and Nathan's colds weren't fun for anyone).

I've given myself 20 minutes to post, so most of the bloggy goodness will be shared over time, but here is what I feel compelled to share at this particular moment about having three children - or, more directly, three c-sections.

RATION THY NARCOTICS.

In the hospital, I was taking two capsules of my OB/GYN's drug of choice every four hours; as a result, I was feeling well enough to shower, meander through my corridor, receive visitors with a smile (if not without bloated ankles and droopy eyes), and leave within two days of surgery, which became a primary goal the minute Liam was out and we were both deemed healthy. Because I was afraid of losing my post-partum high, I continued this regimen once I returned home, which meant by Monday morning, I was out of meds. No worries, I thought. I have one refill. I'll just refill it! So imagine my surprise when, after Luke called in the prescription, the pharmacy's auto robot denied my request because it was too soon to have depleted my supply.

(Are you imagining that scene from Wayne's World where Mike Myers walks into the guitar store and sees the "No Stairway" sign over his favorite piece? If you weren't, you totally are now, aren't you?)

The bottle said I could take one to two pills every four to six hours, so I didn't see anything wrong with following the maximum dosing schedule. Apparently, though, the on-call OB/GYN who released me did. Which meant that entire Monday all I could depend on for relief was Al*eve and Ty*lenol.

Tuesday came, but I was afraid to call in again because what if the pharmacy's auto robot was keeping track of this and thought my profile matched that of a bonafide street addict?

Monday and Tuesday were not good days.

Luckily, then came Wednesday, and I was brave enough to call again, and the gods were smiling upon me, because I received another dose of happy pills. Of which I am now taking one, every six hours, and am no worse for the wear.

If they don't want you to take two pills every four hours, they really should just make that clear on the damn bottle.

I'm very sorry for wasting so much of your time with my pill-popping story, but this is an issue that quickly became very important to me, so I would like to spare all of you similar pain if I can. You are welcome.

Okay, okay, more pictures.

 

Kara is in love with Liam and constantly refers to him as "my baby." She can't help herself from kissing his hands, feet, cheeks, head, etc. Luckily, her fever/cold is just about gone, so  I should be able to allow her to make contact with his sweet little face again.

 

Nathan, poor thing, took the brunt of the summer cold this time around, but is thankfully now on the mend. He loves his baby brother just as much as Kara does, and they are equally concerned for his general welfare. Whenever he wakes up or cries or does anything even remotely resembling an awake human being, they immediately start shouting, "Mommy! Daddy! The baby NEEDS you!" until Luke or I stop what we are doing and tend to whatever the issue is requiring attention.

They've said some pretty funny things about Liam, too. I wish I could remember them all, but here's a sample.

Kara: (after staring at him intensely) Is Liam creepy?

Nathan: (after waking up and finding the two of us on the couch) Oh, Mommy! The baby is still here!

I have passed my 20 minutes, but there is one more thing I wanted to share before signing off. Mainly because I don't plan on talking about it in-depth and prefer that it not turn into an "Is she or isn't she?" lingering kind of issue.

I am no longer nursing.

I did it while I was in the hospital, and I'm glad I did, and continued a bit when I got home, but that first night was extremely difficult, and I quickly realized what I personally would need to do to make it work for my entire family. In the end, I decided it was not my path. So Liam is now formula fed, and I am at peace with it. So, if anybody would like a half-used box of Mother's Milk tea and a completely new bottle of fenugreek for their upcoming breastfeeding needs, just let me know.

Alright, fine, one more picture.

 

I am seriously over my time limit here, but how can I let you go without telling you how amazing this baby is? Because he is. Everything about Liam is wonderful, from his Danny DeVito hairline to his piano-player fingers, from his bright blue eyes to his ruby-red lips. Right now we are in the honeymoon phase that is the first week, during which they sleep almost ninety percent of the time and therefore trick you into thinking they are absolute angels and that their agreeableness is the result of your mad parenting skillz, and then somewhere between weeks two and three they wake up for longer than 90 minutes at a time and trick you into thinking you don't know anything at all. So I very well could be pulling my hair out seven days from now over the latest development of his personality. But right now I am grateful that he eats, pees, and poops well and is content to sleep almost anywhere and takes all the poking and proding from his older siblings in stride. Also, that he is a happy, snuggly baby, a miracle baby that I am so, so grateful for.

The five of us, we are going to be unstoppable.

The Great Carseat Experiment: Updated

I turn 37 weeks tomorrow, which has catapulted me into full-on nesting mode, attempting to tie up every loose end in the history of the universe before Baby Brother's June 29 delivery date. Last week we focused on car maintenance and child seating; the Cobalt needed about $360 worth of repairs (mad props, savings) and over the weekend Luke cleaned out both vehicles and experimented with car seat arrangements for the first time since February. At that time, we made the decision to transition Kara into a high-back booster (sans five-point harness) to make room for the baby's infant bucket.

Come Saturday, though, we just couldn't do it.

Despite my initial confidence over this set-up, I became increasingly more anxious about it since reading about the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration's updated guidelines for child restraints back in March. While Kara does meet the height and weight requirements for a booster, she is still only three years old and isn't even close to outgrowing her current Britax Marathon. But keeping her in the Marathon would require us to buy a new car, and despite having an excellent reason to justify such a significant purchase (SAFETY), we simply cannot afford to do that. In my Google research I learned about a slimmer seat with a five-point harness by Sunshine Radian that looked like it would fit and also received favorable reviews on several third-party sites, but the seat isn't sold at any stores in our vicinity, so we'd have to order it online, and what if it didn't fit, and man, these things aren't cheap. We looked into other options for Kara, but all seat specs were similar to the Marathon's. We looked into other infant seats, but the Baby Trend Flex-Loc handed down to us from my friend Jenn has the smallest dimensions we've seen. Nathan's Britax Roundabout wasn't worth messing with because it's already plenty slim and fits his measurements perfectly.

We may as well give the booster a try, Luke and I would say in the end, each time the topic came up, and it came up many times. We'll stay off the highway while we test it out. Our longest drive in town is less than ten minutes. It will be okay.

But again: we just couldn't do it.

Luke spent all of Saturday morning once again trying to get the Marathon in safely and securely, but again it was all in vain. Despite your best efforts, you just can't force a square peg into a round hole. When that didn't work, we pulled out the booster.

It wasn't in the car five seconds before a horrible knot began forming in the pit of my stomach and I was sobbing to Luke that we had to order the Radian.

The Marathon brushed against the door of the Outlander, but just barely. The Radian would save us a precious inch and a half of seat space; we shouldn't need any more than that to make it fit, I said. This is our daughter's safety we're talking about. Please, please order the seat and save me from having a heart attack already.

Luke just nodded. He didn't need any convincing. He was nervous for Kara, too.

The Radian should arrive before the end of the week.

Buying the seat doesn't change the fact that we'll need to buy a new car once the baby outgrows the infant bucket, but we'll be in much better shape financially by then. I'm getting a raise at the end of the month that should absorb most if not all of the anticipated budget increases incurred by Life With Three Children. Tax refunds arrive in late winter, and our credit card debt will be gone by spring, at which point I should be due for another raise. We can plan to make room in our budget for a car payment by then.

In this scenario, I can tell myself It will be okay and actually believe it.

-------

Of all the worries I've had over my three and a half years as a parent, I don't think any of those experiences came close to the level of intensity of this one. Not even nursing. When choosing formula, I felt guilty over denying them the optimal choice in baby food, but at least we could afford to pay for it. Luke and I hate that we can't take on a car payment to get the best ride for our family; that guilt coupled with visions of our child's body being torn to shreds in an accident? If we had gone with the booster and something would have happened.... Well, there are no words.

Parenting is so much harder than you think it will be when you're first starting out. Luckily, there are also no words to describe its joy.

 

The Toddler Days of Summer

The last day of Kara's parents' day out program was last Friday, and since families were invited, I took the day off work to attend the annual end-of-year carnival with Luke and the kids. There were game stations and dollar-store prizes, a bounce house that neither child took to very well, a fire engine tour they both adored, and a creepy old-man magician that had Luke and I rolling our eyes every five minutes. Overall, though, it was a neat way to pass the time.

 

This picture has nothing to do with the carnival, but man, is my family gorgeous or what?

The closer we get to bringing this baby home (five weeks from tomorrow, not that anyone's counting), sometimes it's hard to remember that the two kids we have now actually started out as newborns. Babies are lovely for sniffing and snuggling, but the older Kara and Nathan get, the more fun we all have together -- even planning for the future has become more interesting, as we imagine what lies ahead for our party of five.

Precisely because they aren't babies anymore, and also because one of my biggest stressors is making sure the kids have a fun summer despite the initial turmoil that is sure to result from welcoming a new baby, Luke and I are working hard with the money we have at our disposal (thank you, savings) to sign them up for a couple of things that force us to get them out of the house. They'll both take a nine-week tumbling class at our town's rec center starting in two weeks, and Kara is signed up for a week-long nature camp sponsored by a local park for late July. We also learned of a week-long vacation Bible study class offered through the same church that runs our parents' day out program, for the low, low price of FIVE DOLLARS, so we'll register Kara for that as well. I wish there was more for Nathan to do, but those last two require the kids to be fully potty-trained, so he'll just have to wait until next year. Really, though, just getting him in the tumbling class is a big deal, since he's never done anything like that before. It should be a nice transition into his starting "school" in the fall.

We researched a number of activities in the Indy metro area for ideas of things to do, but the nearest YMCA doesn't have anything for the toddler age range, and the closest Gymboree is 45 minutes away. Also, frankly, our bank account can't handle many more unplanned expenses without putting our maternity leave savings at risk. Still, though, I'm excited about what we do have planned, and we recently renewed our zoo membership, and we're already frequent visitors of our local library, and there are several neighborhood playgrounds in our zip code, which means there are plenty of opportunities for additional fun. Once Baby Brother is here and we know he's healthy, Luke and I have already talked about using more of our savings to buy additional memberships to the city's Children's Museum and the rec center where tumbling is being held, as it has fantastic indoor and outdoor swimming facilities AND a gym AND exercise classes AND is within walking distance from our house. There's even been talk of going to the beach again, like we did last year.

I've been trying not to get so hung up on our summer plans, but it's hard. There were actually a couple more classes at the rec center that we could've enrolled the kids into (dance and music), and I would have done it without a second thought until Luke wisely talked me down, reminding me about the zoo and the library and the parks and also of our commitment to keeping them active even while I'm recovering from my (last!!!) c-section. That's been the kicker for me, I think: knowing it will take me the majority of the first six weeks to feel anything like myself again and how unavailable I will be during that time to do things like hike, swim, or even take long walks on the trail.

Fortunately, Luke and I have already talked at length about this, and we agree that it will be important for him to be out and about with them just like he is when I'm at work so that I recuperate from surgery without feeling guilty. After that, though, I hope to be more on my feet so that we can make the best of the second six weeks we have left. This summer will definitely have its challenges, but I still want to make it the best one we've had yet.

What are you doing this summer?

33 weeks

I heard Janet Jackson's "Miss You Much" on the way to Subway today, and it reminded me of all things I miss about my pre-pregnancy life. At 33 weeks, the list includes:

• The shape of my face (aka non-puffy)
• Eating any type of spaghetti sauce I want without fear of indigestion
• Being able to get in and out of bed without grunting in pain
• Sleeping without a pillow cushioned against my belly
• Walking in heels without resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa (Don't worry, I switched to flats months ago)
• Running
• Sitting the children on my lap instead of barely fitting them onto my knee
• Wearing pants with buttons instead of elastic waistbands
• Not worrying that my shirt is going to creep up and expose what must be the largest uterus on Planet Earth
• Overall energy level, zest for life

And... the photographic evidence:

 

This was taken last week; originally I intended to post a more current photo with this entry, but after reviewing the results of this morning's shoot I found that the lighting on my face is all wrong and part of my hair is sticking up and really, it would be better for everyone to gaze upon a version of my visage from happier days.

Fatigue continues to plague me constantly, whether I get eight hours of sleep or five. There is occasional swelling in my feet after a long day, but it's easily cured by putting them up the minute I get home. Two things that did worry me this past weekend were intermittent pains in my stomach and some light vomiting after taking my vitamin cocktail, so I called my OB/GYN's office on Monday and was seen that day to check my blood pressure, urine levels, and the baby's heartbeat. Luckily, everything is looking good; as for the vomiting, my doctor and I think it was the result of switching from the premium-grade vitamin samples I was using back to the generic ones I had been taking all along. They didn't make me throw up before, but that was before I was prescribed the iron supplement. I now have almost a month's worth of samples in my possession, which should see me through almost to the end of the pregnancy, and by that point, I may just pay the piper to avoid making out with the porcelain throne again.

Quite a lot has happened since the last time we pow-wowed, the biggest being Luke's follow-through with the snip at the end of April (the timing with the royal wedding was purely coincidental, I swear). He is just now beginning to feel like himself again, so I feel okay to talk about it.

The planner in me is so relieved to have this taken care of and cross such a huge thing off our post-partum to-do list, and for the first time in my life, I am absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent certain that I do not want to be pregnant ever again. Still, though, on the morning of, there was a huge rock in my stomach that stayed with me for the first half of the day, wondering if we were doing the right thing. Was I being selfish asking Luke to do this when I could just as easily get on the pill, despite my misgivings? Were we being fiscally irresponsible by spending precious hospital dollars to have this done, knowing that my insurance deductible would be met after Baby Brother's arrival and we could score a tubal for free? Was I really comfortable with the idea of the two of us never making a baby together again?

I always knew I would be sad when the time came to do something permanent with our reproductive parts; I just didn't know how sad.

Luke and I talked it out, and while we were both nervous, we also knew logically it was the best long-term choice for our family, and one we both could handle without regret. And so it was done, and now I have come full circle, because seriously. Giving birth is a miracle, and I will always be grateful for being a part of it, but I NEVER WANT TO BE PREGNANT AGAIN. Thanks, honey, for taking one for the team.

The urologist did ask Luke if we wanted to postpone the procedure until after Baby Brother was born, "just in case," but as devastated as we'd be over anything happening to this little guy, it wouldn't change the fact that we are just not up for another pregnancy.

Morbid "what-if" conversations with your spouse: yet another perk of the whole marriage and family planning package!

The second big thing is that we finally made a dent in Baby Brother's bedroom. We stuck with our decision to keep the paint and wall art as is, but we did rearrange the furniture so that it actually feels like it was set up for a brand new person. It's not picture-ready yet, as there is a pile of laundry that appears to be mating with itself next to the crib, but it finally feels like progress is being made.

 

The kids are doing great. Kara's last official day of "school" was last week, but this week they're throwing a last-hurrah carnival for all the kids and their families, so I will be taking the day off work so the four of us can attend together. One of the best decisions we made was to send Kara to this program, even if we could only swing one day a week; she has so enjoyed the Fridays where she gets to play with her friends and interact with her teachers and make "heart projects" (her original pronounciation of "art projects") to bring home.

I wish our finances and our family situation allowed us to send her to the church's preschool program in the fall, because Luke and I both know she would thrive in one, but with a tight budget and a newborn on the way, it just isn't feasible for us this year. But she's only three, and she will still have her one day a week, as will Nathan, and we can pay for those things without losing sleep, so it will have to be enough for now.

 

Inspired by Emily's recent post on summer strategizing, I fully intended to talk about Kara and Nathan's plans here, but this entry is already long enough, and with my sporadic posting schedule, it's probably best that I not place all of my blogging eggs into this one basket - er, post. Until next time, then!

Mother-daughter moment

You can count Kara and me as being among the bazillion people to check out the royal wedding on April 29.

Typically, I don't follow the happenings of the British monarchy, but my boss, bless her heart, took a vacation day to be able to watch all the coverage in real time, and her excitement and the buzz among my coworkers was contagious, so I set my alarm for 6:10 a.m. and snuck downstairs to catch some of the marital pomp and circumstance.

Luke and Nathan were asleep, but Kara had crawled into bed with us sometime before six. She was quiet when I left the room, but fifteen minutes later, I heard her call out from upstairs, "I want to watch with you, Mommy!" (Luke had explained to her what I was doing, and he knew I wanted to let her join in the festivities if she woke up in time.)

So, for about twenty minutes, until I absolutely had to turn off the TV and hop in the shower for work, Kara and I cuddled together on the living room couch and took in the wedding. I told her she was watching a real prince and princess get married, and that they were getting married in a church just like where we go on Sundays. She thought about that for a minute, then said, "That's a church like our church, with a playroom!"

I laughed. "No, honey, this church definitely does NOT have a playroom."

I held her close and massaged my fingers over her scalp as she rested her head alongside my belly, every once and a while turning her face to me to show a big smile. Baby Brother was in rare form, and she was able to experience some of his most impressive acrobatics to date. "Mommy, I felt the baby pop!" she said.

At one point, I grew misty-eyed thinking that, at almost three and a half, it's very possible that Kara will remember sharing this moment with me, even if her memory of it is fuzzy and incomplete.

It was such a small part of our day, but Kara talked about that wedding on and off all weekend. "Mommy, I really liked watching your wedding with you," she said at first.

"Honey, that wasn't my wedding, that was the royal wedding."

"I mean, I really liked watching the royal wedding with you."

Me, too, sweetheart. Me, too. 

The big 3-0 and musings on the working mother balance

Folks, we have officially entered single-digit territory - no more than nine weeks until we bring Baby Brother home. My word.

 

I will shoot daggers at anyone who might dare utter this to me, but at 30 weeks, even I have to admit that I'm looking large and in charge (and also in need of a haircut; THAT I hope to remedy next week). Sitting both children on my lap for storytime is damn near impossible, and several items of maternity clothing are no longer fit for public display, especially button-up shirts, which mistakenly give the impression that this child is going to burst through my uterus Incredible Hulk style. Thankfully, I have some things to tide me over courtesy of my book club friends until my sister delivers an entire bin of looser-fitting summer clothes late next month, because the goal is still to spend as little money in this area as possible. (To Katy: I get compliments on this top everytime I wear it, and your patterned black skirt, too.)

Despite the iron supplement I'm taking to address my anemia, I wear out so easily these days, and if there is ever an opportunity to nap on the weekends, I jump on it immediately. Unfortunately, now that we're inching into the final weeks, those opportunities are few and far between. Last weekend was all about The Great Bedroom Merge, and the weekend before that I FINALLY started on Nathan's baby book. Our current goals are to focus on preparing Baby Brother's room and addressing minor touch-ups and eyesores throughout the rest of the house. I've also been busy at work, training my coworkers to handle various projects and to-dos while I'm on maternity leave for 12 weeks.

The closer we get to the big day, the more apprehensive I feel about making it through those early months with a new baby. As a mother of toddlers, I have no doubts about their attachment to me or their understanding of my love for them. This knowledge has allowed me to grant myself permission to strike a manageable balance between my roles as mother, wife, working professional, and individual who continues to exist alongside (and sometimes independently of) all of those identities. In my day-to-day, that balance looks something like this:

I do not bring work home. I will arrive at the office early, or I will stay late, but aside from regularly checking e-mail on my smartphone, work stuff stays at work. It is much easier to stay put until the job is done than it is to stop my train of thought, pack up my laptop, get through dinner, clean-up, and bedtime, and THEN try to pick up where I left off. Not only am I easily distracted at home and get little accomplished whether the kids are awake or not, I also feel cheated out of quality time with Luke. So if coming home late for dinner once in a while helps me to be a more attentive wife (and really, a better employee), than that is what I will do.

Dinner clean-up is done after dinner, not after bedtime. I fought this for such a long time in the beginning, because I felt like those precious minutes before the bedtime routine begins should be spent on the living room floor playing with my kids, not at the kitchen sink washing dishes. So I used to let everything sit until after they were asleep; however, Kara and Nathan were not made from the early-to-bed cloth, so often I wouldn't be arriving downstairs until well after nine o'clock, which meant it could get as late as ten before my "real" evening officially began. This made for a crabby Frema and, once again, a neglected husband, who by this point was in dire need of adult interaction. Finally, I realized that it wasn't the end of the world to listen to the kids laugh and rough around with their father while I puttered around in the kitchen. There are some exceptions to this; on those days where I do come home late, for example, Luke is usually quick to shoo me into the living room while he takes on kitchen detail, and lately he's been making things even easier by wiping out the pre-dinner dishes before he starts cooking. Especially because of this last thing, I am often able to do both.

(Have I told you lately how wonderful my husband is? Because truly, he is so wonderful.)

I do not miss bedtime. This isn't an absolute, of course; sometimes there are evening work functions (though none during this pregnancy so far), Luke and I have splurged on date nights if we are in the vicinity of grandparents or can afford to hire our sitter, and for a few months in the fall I attended a monthly book club gathering on the other side of the city, but overall my general rule is to be present for Kara and Nathan's bedtime. Sometimes it's frustrating if the kids are acting up, and sometimes it's inconvenient, like last summer when I was constantly late for my weekly run with Jenn, but overall it's worth it to consistently be there for bathtime, lights out, and everything in between. I revel in holding them close and sniffing their freshly shampooed heads while reading them stories. It means a lot to me to be able to kiss their cheeks and tuck them in. So I make it a priority.

I do not volunteer. This one I'm not proud of, and it's another reality I fought for a long time, but in the end, it is what it is. I was a member of my college's alumni association for about five years, and I loved doing it, but the distance between Indianapolis and Rensselaer made traveling for quarterly meetings and participating in campus events highly undesirable, especially when I already spend enough time away from home. So in 2009, I sadly turned in my resignation. My employer is great about allowing time off during the work week to participate in volunteer activities, and on and off for a couple of years I was involved in a grade-school reading program for an hour a week, but once I had kids, even that one hour away from my desk was enough to throw off my entire day, so at the end of the 2010 school year, I told the program director that I wouldn't be signing up again. Last fall, my desire to reach beyond myself grew again, and I looked into donating my time at a local women's and children's shelter, possibly on the weekends. Then I got pregnant again, and then I got sick, and now the recommendation letters I solicited are collecting dust in my mail basket, and I'm at the point where I have to admit that now is not the time to throw myself into extracurricular activities that take me away from my family, no matter how worthy the cause. That said, Luke and I recently began going to church again, a church right here in town, and we sometimes talk about looking into their soup kitchen or Bible study classes or something to that effect. So it's not like I'm swearing off do-gooding or charitable works completely, but I have realized my limits, and I have to respect them.

All of that to say - almost three and a half years into this parenthood thing, and I have finally figured out what works for me and my family. And we're about to turn all of that on its head.

Because for me, as a working mother, when I have a baby and then reach the point where I have to go back to work, I'm NOT as secure in our attachment like I am when they're older, so everything feels like it's up for grabs. You can talk to a toddler about things like having to miss dinner and they understand. That is not the case with a baby. So my big-picture focus changes from maintaining balance to simply being there as much as I can.

What this translates into on a micro level: It's hard enough being away for an average work day when they're so little that the last thing I want to do is sit at my desk even one minute after five, even if the alternative is nodding off at my laptop at ten. And when I'm dividing my attention among three children, why would I concern myself with dishes when I could be doling out hugs and kisses? On top of all that, Luke and I have not wavered on our plans to put the house on the market next year, and whether it takes a month or a year to sell, preparing for the next stage of our lives will require me to start using and building on my professional network, and part of that will entail opening myself up to extracurricular programs and events, whether it's the right time or not.

I think about all of this, toss in a few random worries about nursing (yes, I have decided to try again), and my brain threatens to explode.

Then I remind myself to breathe and not get so caught up in the future. I remember that fortunately, another reality is that Luke and I are not brand spanking new parents anymore, and we HAVE figured out a system that works for us; and while there will be an initial period of deviation from that, eventually the dust will settle, and we'll embrace a familiar version of normal once again, even if it's not identical to what we had before. Until then, I will have to grant myself permission to take it one day at a time.

So, to sum up: I am 30 weeks pregnant. I am a tad worried about managing life with a third baby. But I'm also more seasoned now than I was with the first two. Plus, my husband rocks. It will be okay.

I'm a big kid now (times two)

This past weekend, Luke and I took the first tangible step in preparing our house for a new baby by moving Kara and Nathan into the same bedroom. The Big Kids Bedroom. A bedroom that now contains a twin bed, a toddler bed, and two children under the age of four.

 

A view of Nathan's big boy bed. You'll notice we nixed the idea of themed wall art and instead went with that famous line known as "Cheap Pictures We Liked From Target."

We've been talking about this merge ever since we found out about Baby Brother, and we've been discussing it with the kids for almost as long, but it wasn't until last week when I was reading stories to Nathan in his glider that it hit me: Oh my gosh, my baby is losing his room. And his crib, and his dresser, and all those other baby things that we picked out just for him.

I thought about how he might not be ready, and how, as one of two boys, he may never have his own room again, and how adorable, kissably soft, and baby-like his cheeks are, even though his favorite statement of late is "No, I want to do it by myself," and I ended up crying myself to sleep. Oh, the tangled emotions involved in making room for another child, and forcing watching the children you already have grow up in the process.

But JC Penney wasn't aware of my misgivings, so Kara's twin bed arrived on Saturday as planned, and Luke and I spent that afternoon washing bedding, rearranging furniture, and transferring Nathan's things into Kara's closet and dresser. Between the two of them, Nathan actually had the largest set of drawers, but I wanted to keep all the matching furniture together, partly for the baby and partly for (eventual) showing purposes; in the end, we made it work by designating the closet for all shirts and pants and the dresser for socks, underclothes, and pajamas.

 

A close-up of Nathan's big boy bed, which looks perfect against the yellow paint, in my frugal lazy humble opinion.

Fortunately, ironing out the logistics of The Great Bedroom Merge turned out to be a lot of fun; while I'm no Martha Stewart when it comes to decorating, I rise to the tasks of organizing, removing extraneous clutter, and finding a proper place for belongings that make the cut. It also helped that Nathan LOVED the idea of sleeping in the toddler bed; pair that with his fondness for his quilt from godmother Auntie Molly, and you get a charged-up little boy who was more than ready to roll around in the covers and play with his animals the minute his set-up was complete. The car pillow was a new purchse and proved to be a hit with both kids. 

 

A view of Kara's newest big girl bed. Is it wrong to kind of want it for myself?

Because it took all day to get things settled, both kids missed their naps (not that Kara takes them very often, anyway), so it was a challenge to get them settled down come bedtime. They didn't want to read stories in the rocking chair as is our usual way, opting instead to camp out in their respective beds, and their attention span was extremely short; plus, Nathan typically goes down about 30 minutes before Kara, and Kara doesn't fall asleep as quickly as he does, so we weren't sure how difficult it would be for each of them to fall asleep in the presence of the other. The cherry on top was following through with our decision to attempt to wean Nathan from his pacifier; I was so sure he would call us on this and put up a fight. 

At 8:06, we showered them with kisses, left the room, and braced ourselves for a long night ahead.

By 9:02, they were out like a light, with Nathan pacifier free.

That is not to imply the fifty-six minutes in between were perfect -- several times they tumbled out of bed, and Nathan did mention his pacifier once while being tucked in. But overall our son took his new role as a big boy very seriously, and big boys stay in their beds, so he did, and pacifiers are meant for babies, so subconsiously I think he deemed it inappropriate to push the issue. Also, his stay-put example definitely inspired Kara to follow suit, as she's never had any problems abandoning her big girl status to visit Mommy and Daddy more frequently than TV shows air commercials. She actually fell asleep earlier with Nathan across the room than she typically does on her own. SCORE AND SCORE.

Luke and I were not as enthused when Kara jumped into our bed at five o'clock the next morning and Nathan sobbed for his pacifier at six (insert stab to the heart here).

We held firm on the latter, though, and Luke eventually tried to appease Nathan by bringing him into bed with us, but four people + a queen-sized mattress does not = restful sleep for anyone. It was a long Easter, let me tell you. And Nathan hasn't fully processed the permanence of the arrangement yet, because occasionally he still asks to read stories in "his room." But at two and a half nights in, we have a consistent pattern of both children falling asleep before 9:30, which has NOT been our experience in the past, so at this point I am inclined to declare the Great Merge a smashing success.

 

Here is our boy, all tucked in and ready for Dreamland. He was delighted with his big boy pillows and adamant about laying his head on the stack of them, which I think is one of the reasons it took him so long to fall asleep that first night. It was clear he was uncomfortable having his head elevated so high. "You don't have to use both of them if you don't want to - you can cuddle the car pillow like a stuffed animal or even move it to the other side of the bed. Whatever you want," I told him, but he wouldn't hear of it.

He must have considered the suggestion on some level, though, because eventually we found him like this:

 

Luke wanted a better-looking photo than that for our albums, though, so he took some artistic liberties to achieve this:

 

How is he not on the cover of a Golden Book? Those cheeks!

Meanwhile, Kara adjusted to her own upgrade pretty well and was especially taken with her new quilt. This shot is only slightly staged:

 

It took a lot of self-restraint not to crawl in there with her, for a mother-daughter cuddle.

At this point last week, I was so sad about Nathan shedding another layer of his babyhood, but now I am so happy for him, and proud that he was able to handle these big, important steps so easily. My favorite part? I can give those baby-toddler cheeks another kiss good-night once he's fast asleep, just like I do with Kara, now that we're no longer separated by crib slats.

 

We are getting so close to Baby Day, and there is still so much to do, but this merge? It was a good thing, and a step in the right direction.

26-27 weeks, big boy beds, and number three's ETA

Howdy, third trimester! Allow me to welcome you with a washed-out, shiny, deer-in-headlights expression:

 

I think I've grown since last week - check out the below picture and judge for yourself.

 

Here I am at 26 weeks and some change with Kara, who wanted to join in on the photo-snapping fun, and here is photographic evidence of being pregnant with both Kara and Nathan at this same point. Man, is my body predictable when it comes to gestation.

Things are going fine, incubator-wise. I continue to have an appetite that cannot be satisfied; I've only gained about eight new pounds with this pregnancy so far, but half of that was put on in the last two weeks. My diastasis recti is easing up, thankfully, but it's being replaced with an easily-triggered fatigue that I assume is the result of hauling around another ginormous baby, if Baby Brother 2.0 stays the path carved out by his older siblings; at 27 weeks, the boy is already measuring at 28 centimeters, according to my OB/GYN. My latest appointment was three days ago, which involved throwing back a fruit-punch-flavored glucose drink for my gestational diabetes test. The results of the bloodwork showed that my sugar levels are fine but that I'm slightly anemic (which would also account for some of that fatigue). This same thing happened with Kara, so I will just take my prescribed iron supplement and carry on as normal.

The most exciting thing about my visit was getting my c-section on the books at the hospital - Wednesday, June 29, 9:30 a.m. Mark your calendars!

Finally, I have now reached the point where I need to visit my OB every two weeks. Things are really starting to move along - and not just with the child occupying my uterus. Kara and Nathan are in for some changes soon, too.

 

Kara spreading her own PB&J. In case that wasn't supremely obvious already.

Grandma and Grandpa Dunscombe were in town this week to help us out with some spring-cleaning type projects and also to order parts for Kara's "new big girl bed" - also known as The Extra Bed We Desperately Need To Free Up The Crib For The Baby. Kara will occupy the new twin (to arrive in about two weeks), Nathan will inherit Kara's toddler bed, and the baby will get all of the furniture in Nathan's room. Luke and I have been talking to the kids ad nauseum over the past month about how they'll be sharing a room soon and the big kids will all be together and Won't that be so much fun? Kara's taking it all in stride, but Nathan hasn't readily embraced the concept yet.

Monday night while getting ready for bed, after having talked about the move for the eighty-seven-millionth time:

Frema: Hey Nathan, are you a baby?

Nathan: (smiles) No.

Frema: That's right, you're a big boy. And do big boys sleep in cribs?

Nathan: No. No, they don't!

Frema: That's right, they sleep in big boy beds! So pretty soon, you're going to sleep in a big boy bed! And you can bring all your blankets and all your stuffed animals - the only thing that's changing is that you'll be in a big boy bed!

Nathan: (pauses, then reaches out to touch his crib) I want to sleep in this big bed.

Frema: No, honey, that bed isn't for big boys, it's for babies.

Nathan: I like this bed.

And to think we want to take away his beloved pacifier at the same time! (Because only babies who sleep in cribs use pacifiers! Not big boys!) We're prepared to be flexible, but still, this transition should be super-duper fun.

Money-wise, things are going well. After a grueling six-week wait, we finally received our federal tax return on April Fool's Day, which allowed us to cut our credit card debt almost in half and set aside the out-of-pocket cash we'll need during my maternity leave. We continue to funnel money into savings and cut corners in our budget to make all of this happen, and it feels like it's finally paying off. We sailed through all the major bills of spring - car insurance premiums, school registration, vehicle registration renewals - without using our Visa; in fact, we haven't touched it at all this year, AND we've been making steady progress in lowering our balance even before receiving our tax check. We buckled down when it counted the most, and we are seeing the rewards, and it feels awesome.

To celebrate our financial success, we drove 40 minutes to our local creamery and blew nine dollars on organic ice cream. Hey, all work and no play, right?

 

I'm not sure what the kids are staring at. Certainly not the camera.

After spending so much of the winter cooped up indoors, it felt great to venture beyond our zip code and blow a few bucks on something as indulgent as dessert. We weren't there that long, but Luke and I had such a good time, and the kids, too.

 

Of course, can you have a bad time when ice cream's involved?

 

The cows were in the barn and mooing something fierce when we arrived, so Kara and Nathan wouldn't venture much farther than the doorway.

And...that is my blog update! I hope you all are just swell.

The Great Carseat Experiment: Conducted!

Luke and I went through with The Great Carseat Experiment this weekend, and we were able to come up with an arrangement that will suit our needs well enough to bring Baby Brother home in the Outlander.

We first tried using the three existing seats presently in our possession - Kara's Britax Marathon, Nathan's Britax Roundabout, and the Baby Trend infant bucket and base from Jenn - but the Marathon kept bumping into the passenger door upon closing, so on Saturday afternoon we made a trip to Target to invest in a highback booster seat, which bought us the couple of inches we needed to avoid a budget-blowing vehicle upgrade. We are lucky in that Kara meets both the height and weight requirements for a booster, and we went with a highback so our girl could enjoy the benefits of side impact protection a while longer. Though we have the seat in our possession now, we will continue to use the Marathon for Kara until right before the baby's arrival, when the bucket seat will be permanently installed.

We don't know for sure how long we can get by with our current car; at some point Nathan's Roundabout will need an upgrade, and I don't know how three convertible/booster seats will fit back there, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, we are just grateful to retain our status as a car-payment-free family, however long that lasts.

Kneeling on the front passenger cushion to look back at all those child seats nestled together, I realized this was the first time I had a tangible representation of what life will look like with three children. And honestly, it was a little overwhelming. I assume that was only the first of numerous similar-type moments to come.

ABOUT THE STROLLER

Luke and I have given the whole stroller situation some more thought and decided against buying anything for now. For one, Luke reminded me we have a perfectly good umbrella stroller collecting dust in the garage. Also, we have a several baby carriers at our disposal - an infant-sized Baby Bjorn hand-me-down, the Maclaren I received while writing for Parents.com that worked splendidly with Nathan, and an Ergo that will see us into toddlerhood. With all of those things, we own more than enough gear to transport this baby on errands, zoo trips, etc. My main concern was having something for Luke to use when getting Kara and Nathan to and from school, but he has already assured me he would rather use the carrier instead of a stroller to keep both hands free.

Also, about the double stroller: I appreciated all the suggetions, but Luke and I have a double stroller. With two kids 13 months apart, it was sort of a necessity, at least in the early months when Nathan was brand-new and Kara was still a baby herself. Nowadays, though, it doesn't get much use since we received a wagon as a generous present from my in-laws and Kara and Nathan much prefer that to being strapped in to individual seats. Plus, even with the wagon, they actually walk most of the time, so Luke and I anticipate needing only one stroller (if any, what with all the aforementioned carrier options) to contain the baby.

Does your brain hurt? I know mine does. Another recurring symptom of Life With Three Children, I suspect.

On breastfeeding (or not) again

One of my biggest, all-consuming fears about having baby number three is breastfeeding.

Part of me feels ridiculous admitting that to anyone. After all, I've gone through this twice already! Shouldn't I be a pro by now? Or, at the very least, accept that breastfeeding is not my fight and write it off altogether? After all, to say I've been unsuccessful at nursing would be a vast understatement. To say I'm excited to try it again? That would be a lie.

It's funny; the content of this post has been on my mind for weeks, but now that I'm writing it, I'm not sure what to say.

When I found out I was pregnant again, I resolved to do everything in my power to make breastfeeding a reality for my family. I have read The Books, and the blogs, and the comments to those blogs, so the health and bonding benefits of breastmilk (and, consequently, the drawbacks of formula) are not lost on me. Plus, it's no secret that we are living on a pretty tight budget, so the cost savings aren't anything to laugh at, either. More than anything, though, was this feeling of wanting to overcome a hurdle that has previously appeared insurmountable.

I'm not blaming low supply because honestly, I'm not convinced that was the problem. With Kara, I couldn't keep her on the breast for more than a couple of minutes before she was crying and pushing me away. The lactation consultants at the hospital checked her latch several times, and it seemed fine to them, but who knows? It's not like I had any idea what I was doing, despite reading all those books, so it's very possible my technique was off or Kara's positioning wasn't right or any number of things related to my management of the situation. I never got more than a couple ounces from the pump in a session, whether I pumped every two hours or four, but again, what the hell did I know? Maybe my volume would have increased over time. Maybe I should have just been happy with the amount I was producing and made peace with supplementing the rest of the time.

I didn't try nipple shields, and I didn't attend any support group meetings (though I did call about the one offered through our hospital, and sorry, that once-a-month get-together slated for next Thursday isn't going to help me RIGHT NOW). It's not like I kept at it until my boobs had nothing left to give. It truly was my decision.

So for those who think I didn't try hard enough, well. I suppose they are right. But during those initial weeks of breastfeeding, my mind went to some very dark places. I felt terrible about myself as a mother, which in theory should have been enough to make me go the distance for as long as I could, but even more than that, I hated the idea of doing all those things and STILL most likely failing. Aside from the first couple of days of her life, feeding Kara was a source of stress, self-doubt, and guilt. At some point before the six-week mark I decided that suffering through those feelings for even one more day was more than I could bear. The reality of motherhood, I quickly learned, is that sometimes, when there's a conflict of interest between what you could ideally accomplish as a parent and what you can realistically handle, your own mental sanity has to win out. Second best just has to be enough.

... And THAT was breastfeeding with Kara.

With Nathan, things felt like they were getting off to a better start. I had still had trouble perfecting my latch, but he didn't fight my efforts and ate as often as I would let him, so I was hopeful that this time, please, this time, things would be different. However, at his two-week appointment with the pediatrician, my stomach dropped after the nurse checked his weight and announced a paltry two-ounce gain. TWO OUNCES. My God, did I feel like shit then, and my mind immediately went back to my experience with Kara, and how I fucked that up, and by the time we saw the doctor, any shred of confidence I had about nursing was gone. I continued to pump for another couple of weeks, but I don't think I ever put him on the breast again.

And now, I get to do it all over again with baby number three.

Like I stated above, when I first learned we were having another baby, I was set on doing everything within my power to make breastfeeding work this time around, and hey, third time's a charm, right? I talked about it with Katy, who nursed both of her boys into toddlerhood; borrowed more books; researched lactation consultants; and gave myself numerous pep talks that this time, things would be different.

But now? I honestly don't know. I hate that my first months at home with Kara and Nathan are tainted with such strong feelings of failure. As a working mother, that time to bond means more to me than almost anything else in that first year, and Luke and I are doing everything we can to stock our bank account accordingly so that I can take all twelve of those precious, job-protected weeks off without suffering serious financial repurcussions. I cherish that time to connect with my babies, to snuggle them in the rocking chair and take naps with them on my chest and cover their hands and cheeks and toes with kisses and overall just get to know who they are. It would be so much easier to say, This is not for me, and release myself from ever having to think about this again.

Then again, this time, things might be different. Baby Brother 2.0 could prove to be a fantastic nurser and all my worries could be for nothing. (Kind of like all those "Should we have a third baby?" conversations!) And I do appreciate the benefits, and I do really want those cost savings. Just not at the cost of my self-esteem.

One of the most popular retorts I've heard spoken by the more judgemental nursing mothers and that has most enraged me about the entire breast-or-bottle discussion is the whole "Well, if you aren't willing to make sacrifices for your children, why did you bother to have them?" It makes my fists clench and blood boil and and smoke shoot out of my ears, because really, when did how you feed a baby in the first year of life become the sole measuring stick for quality parenting? And who is anyone to say that I don't make sacrifices for my kids? Luke and I bust our tail to live on one income so they can enjoy all the benefits that go along with that. We painstakingly chose our house because we wanted to make sure they could go to one of the best public school systems in the city. We pack their meals with fruits and vegetables and whole grains, and they have yet to even try soda. We have slashed our household budget more times than I care to count in order to enroll both of them into Kara's day-out program this fall. I can't tell you the last time we bought clothes or shoes or even a magazine for ourselves, but Kara and Nathan get everything they need and then some. 

I did not become a mother because I wanted to breastfeed. I became a mother because I wanted to experience the joy of raising children and because I thought I could do a good job. I did not promise to make every right choice. I did not promise to always put myself last. But I do strive to give my family the best that I have as often as I can. I am proud of the home Luke and I have made for our kids and the life we are able to give them. And when I don't have it in me to reach the ideal, I will forgive myself (eventually) and try to move on.

This all sounds so good in black and white, doesn't it? Let's see how well my heart can embrace it, come June.

She trims her bangs, her bangs

Last week, I was all set to sacrifice a proper salon experience for the sake of my family's budget. It would be an adventure! I told myself optimistically in an effort to calm my fears. And good blog fodder to boot! I OWE IT TO THE INTERNET AND ALSO THE COMEDIC GENRE TO GO TO GREAT CLIPS. This was happening.

Then I talked to Gina, my girlfriend since kindergarten who back in high school introduced me to Brenda, My Favorite Hair Stylist Ever, and who appreciates the ability to do good hair even more than I do. When I explained to her my financial dilemma and adventurous plan over a two-hour chat Saturday night, I could practically hear her shaking her head on the other end of the line. "Breain, you can't go to Great Clips. You just can't," she said, and eventually convinced me to call my regular salon and ask about a bang trim, since they were the primary frustration reason I had for scheduling an appointment anywhere. And you know what? It was SIX DOLLARS. So I booked a visit for yesterday after work, and ten minutes later I walked away eight dollars poorer but also two free samples richer AND mentally a million dollars happier. Apparently, friends don't let friends go to Great Clips. Thanks again, friend.

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Another happiness boost: today is payday, and this morning I realized with a start that it marks the third payday of not having to dip into our savings account OR having to charge anything to our Visa. Step by painful step, our plan to live within our means, pay off our credit card debt, and save for the future is working. It works partly because I am no longer fighting the word "no" -- no, you can't run to Chipotle with the girls; no, you don't need eight subs AND pizza for Kara and Nathan's party, even if you do feel like a cheapskate for serving cold cuts. I know that I wear the same handful of clothes to work every day, eat the same kind of lunch every day, and it doesn't bother me like it did before. Luke has to run in below-freezing temperatures to train for the Indy 500 Mini-Marathon because we can't afford a treadmill or even a monthly gym membership, and he is doing it without complaint. Gifts to nieces and nephews have been drastically scaled down for occasions like Christmas, birthdays, and baptisms, but we do it and just remain grateful we can afford to buy them anything at all.

However, this new reality only works because Luke and I have undergone a huge shift in mindset and a willingness to ask, "What are we really working for? What is the priority here?" while embracing the amount of money we have to work with right now, instead of looking to the future for some magical solution. For example, I mentioned in an earlier post how I thought that our situation would resolve itself after receiving our tax refund check and my annual merit increase, which is typically issued at the same time every year. Well, recent events have made it clear to me that the type of increase I was expecting to get isn't something I can take for granted (the economy is affecting everyone, it seems!). And the tax check will be good, but it won't eliminate our Visa balance, so every paycheck prior to Baby Brother's arrival will continue to be carefully orchestrated to make sure we can axe off this debt, pay my OB bill, and maintain a small nest egg to compensate for what paid maternity leave and short-term disability benefits won't cover. Now more than ever, I reflect on Suze Orman's long-ago-uttered mantra, "I have more money than I will ever need," and strive (along with Luke, of course) to make this true for my family. 

But not everything is a wash. This month is fall registration time at Kara's school, and Luke and I are committed to sending both Kara and Nathan for one day a week this year. Technically, Kara is old enough for preschool, which meets for two and a half hours twice a week, but not only was it slightly more expensive, it also required Luke to finagle three small children -- including one newborn -- out of the house multiple days a week. By keeping Kara in the same type of program she's in now, she and Nathan can be out on the same day for the same number of hours, making drop-off and pick-up logistics infinitely easier on Luke. It wasn't an easy decision, knowing that Kara is capable of (and would enjoy) participating in a more education-based curriculum, but there's always next year, and we do plenty at home, and again, we're just grateful she can continue an activity she loves and that we can offer the same opportunity to Nathan. After all, THEY are what we're working for. THEY are our priority. We would gladly give up a lifetime of gym memberships and a million fast-food tacos for them.

For he's a jolly good fellow

Nathan's second birthday was a picture-perfect day.

Our January 31st started bright and early with breakfast followed by PRESENTS!

 

He and Kara adore jigsaw puzzles, but Nathan is especially smitten, so Luke and I stocked up on a few of those (the 24- and 48-piece Melissa and Doug ones are my favorite) and thew in some books for good measure. Man, am I grateful for how easy it is to please toddlers when it comes to gifts.

The day continued with a prohibited picnic lunch at an Indy-area park.

 

In my defense, I had called the facility ahead of time like a good little park enthusiast to ask about a suitable place to eat our food and was easily directed to the nature center; however, we were hit in the face with "No food and drink allowed" signs immediately upon entering the building. So Luke and I felt a bit like rebels here. I was stuffing plasticware into our picnic basket as fast as we could empty it. Totally worth it, though. The kids were captivated by the view.

 

After lunch, we spent a considerable portion of the afternoon camped out in the children's activity center, which featured small animals in tanks, toys, books, games, and puppets. And since it was a Monday, we had the whole place to ourselves.

 

Look, a toad! Their knowledge of toads is limited to the aptly named character in one of Kara's favorite series, but they were pretty taken with this one.

 

The insect bucket was also a huge hit.

 

HUGE. As was the owl puppet Nathan is clutching here.

 

LOOK MOM A PUZZLE CAN YOU BELIEVE IT.

 

Nathan would not enter this cave. Would. not. do it, and in fact felt the need to confirm this decision on multiple occasions for the duration of our time: "You don't have to go in the cave if you don't want to, riiight?"

 

Kara, meanwhile, had no such reservations. That's my girl.

 

We wrapped up the day with snickerdoodles and a wagon ride through the park, which lasted all of ten minutes because Nathan didn't like his cookie and didn't want to stay in the wagon but didn't want to walk and he was too wiggly for me to carry and he was fighting Luke tooth and nail. Clearly he was suffering from an unfortunate yet common toddler condition known as Dude, where's my nap? itis. We promptly left the park to oblige.

 

The day could end no other way, of course, except with cake. Nathan doesn't actually care much for cake and typically only takes a few obligatory bites when it's placed in front of him -- it's like he knows he should go batshit crazy over this delectable combination of carbs and sugar and doesn't want to disappoint his peers. However, he adores the idea of cake, and it was all he asked about in the days leading up to his big day.

"You can have cake on your birthday, riiight?"

"It can have candles?"

"You can have letters on it, riiight?"

Luke, the maker and baker of all edible goods in our household, did not disappoint.

 

Like I said, picture-perfect day.

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One weekday morning last week, Luke and I were still in bed when I heard the sound of rustling through the baby monitor we still keep in Nathan's room. Then, a few minutes later:

"Daaaaddy.... Daaaaddy...."

Silence, then:

"Daddy, I pooped my pants."

[pause]

"It was a big poop."

Luke got up to investigate, but there was no number two in sight. Probable culprit? Flatulence. Honest mistake. Could've happened to anyone.

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He loves to count but often forgets the number five. He's an easy-going eater but rarely drinks all of his milk. He often asks to sit on the potty before bedtime and has even gone once. His current favorite book is an I Spy compilation Kara received for Christmas, and he is insanely good at identifying all the objects, sometimes more quickly than Kara. He loves to help and is quick to throw out a "Sure!" whenever I ask him to put away his trucks or help Mommy pick up blocks. He loves trucks and trains and dinosaurs and his Build-A-Bear panda. He is more articulate than a lot of toddlers his age I've seen but still has adorable pronounciations that mark his still-visible babyhood, like "meelt" for milk and "bannas" for "bananas," and "Kara" often sounds like "Tara," with a bit of an East coast accent. He's a demanding child when he's got his eye on something, and it's not uncommon to hear him shout out commands like "I want my meelt!" or "I want ranch, Mommy!" He's also very loving and is generous with thank-yous for even the simplest of tasks.

He soaks up his time with Kara and constants seeks out her feedback and companionship. "Hey, Kara, come play trucks with me!" "Let's play with the doctor set, Kaaara!" His favorite songs to sing are "A Bushel and a Peck" and "You Are My Sunshine." He loves to dance to "the Energy song, Mommy!" and will shout "Be! Be! Energy!" as he skips in circles during the chorus. He STILL hates having his diaper changed and is not a fan of brushing his teeth. He enjoys finger painting and coloring and playing the new Goodnight, Moon game received at his and Kara's joint birthday party last month. His cheeks are so soft it's impossible not to shower them with kisses. He's a daddy's boy in many respects but thankfully still likes to cuddle with Mommy. Though cuddling is for daytime hours only; he has yet to want to sleep in bed with Luke and me. Good thing, too, seeing as it's crowded enough what with HIS OLDER SISTER thrashing about a handful of nights per week.

How many ways can I say it? He is amazing; amazing! It blows my mind to think that soon he'll play big brother to another little guy just like him. Except that nobody will ever be quite like Nathan.

 

Happy birthday, buddy. We love you.

Video courtesy of Luke and the outdated Photoshop Elements program on our computer.

I Want (To Know) Your Sex

To be sung to the tune of the classic George Michael song or uttered like a blood-thirsty vampire. It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure for blog titles!

On Tuesday, I will be nineteen weeks pregnant. Tomorrow, Luke, Kara, and Nathan will accompany me to this month's ob/gyn appointment, also known as The Big Day. Private Parts Day. ULTRASOUND DAY!

[Include grand proclamation-type trumpet sound here]

"You know, we're not guaranteed to find out the baby's sex," Luke informed me, but we'll cross that bridge if we come to it. Until then, this baby's giving up the goods, y'all.

I have mixed feelings about this. Not about finding out, but what I'm hoping for.

When I was expecting Kara, I wanted a girl. After all, I'm a girl. I know what girls are like and how they think. I had dreams of sharing my childhood interests with a girl while she was young and sharing my vast perspective as a wife/mother/daughter/career woman as she grew older. Of watching her take that information and use it to shape her own path. Plus, girls' names are more fun to play around with. When I was a kid, I kept a notebook of potential character names, and my list of girls' names was more than double my list for boys.

Anyway, we all know how that turned out. My baby was a girl! Hooray for me.

When Luke and I found out we were expecting Nathan, most people assumed we'd be gunning for a boy, playing into the whole "one of each" mentality that seems so ingrained into the picture-perfect middle class family. But once again, I hoped for a girl. I am one of four daughters and am extremely close to two of my sisters; so close that I watched one of them GIVE BIRTH. You can't predict the quality of relationship your children will have with each other as they grow up, but nonetheless, I wished for this same type of connection for them.

Of course, we didn't have a girl, and of course, I have no regrets. Nathan is amazing and has brought more happiness to our lives than I ever could have imagined. I never longed for a son the way I did a daughter, but I couldn't be more in love with my thoughtful, quirky, joyful little boy.

Upon learning about our latest bundle of joy, true to form, my default reaction was to wish for a girl. I still love the idea of being a mother to sisters and watching them bond, and again with the more interesting pool of girls' names to choose from. (To date, Luke and I agree on one boy's name. ONE.) I also like the idea of Nathan being known as our boy and not the middle child. Then again, I think about how much fun it would be to have two little boys running around and to watch that relationship grow. And if Kara were to be our girl, well, that could only bode well for her in the long run. Though maybe not her boyfriends.

In the end, I guess what I'm saying is no matter which type of parts present themselves tomorrow, I will be delighted either way. Be sure to check in for the news!

Three is different from two

As is two and a half, and two and seven months, and two and eleven months. Life, it is like a river, what with all the ebbs and flows and and rapid changes, and while the water is often delightful, there are many times throughout each day where I feel like HOLY CRAP, THIS RIVER IS KILLING ME.

This entry has been so difficult to write (hence, why it is also more than a month late) because Kara is not a baby anymore, and my interactions with her feel more intensely personal than when my primary concerns as a mother were breast or bottle, stroller or baby carrier, and cry-it-out or rock-it-out. We have in-depth conversations now about her friends Jack and Mary and Phil and Gertrude and how they like to go on picnics and ice skate in the dining room and Mommy, they are very nice, and oh yes, their parents are nice, too. We sing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" at bedtime, and when I come home from work she likes to come upstairs with me while I change into my sweat pants, and once I hit the closet, she cries out, "Hooray! You get to see your mommy again!" and runs to throw her arms around my legs. Last month, while reading one of our Christmas books and talking about Mary and Joseph being Jesus' parents, Kara said, "Mommy? Do I have parents?" Also, "Can I have a Christmas Day?"

Her ability to rationalize and think through a situation never ceases to amaze me. She is so smart, so thoughtful. I love her just as much as I did when she was a baby, but I appreciate her more as I discover more about the person she is and imagine who she will become, with all her contradictions, complexities, and surprises.

However, she has also reached an age where she can be held accountable for some of her actions and can more directly impact the dynamics of our relationship - intentional or otherwise. Meanwhile, I have reached the stage as a parent where my cognitive skills and foresight have become critical to all of us having a good day. 

Before we hit this stage, Luke and I talked a lot about how we would handle issues from a discipline standpoint, and we both agreed that for our family, spanking/hitting is not a resource we care to add to our parenting toolbox. However, as a kid, I was hit all the time, for all kinds of reasons - meaning I have no personal experience with time-outs or anything resembling non-violence until I was too old for that sort of thing, and even then, there was still lots of yelling and little to none of that sit-down-at-the-kitchen-table-for-a-loving-but-firm-conversation-about-your-actions ala Full House or Family Ties.

In other words, I am totally winging this, relying on nothing but my own instincts, my ability to effectively communicate with my husband, knowledge and tips gleaned from numerous mommy blogs, and random episodes of Super Nanny.

Case in point: On the day of Kara's actual birthday, Luke and I planned to celebrate by taking her to Build-A-Bear. We had it all planned out: pick her up from school, drive the 45 minutes to the overcrowded mall where the store resided, let her pick out any animal she wanted (along with a few accessories), have a treat in the food court, and drive home for dinner and cake. Easy peasy, and heartwarming memories. Double score!

Actual turn of events: Pick her up from school. Drive the 45 minutes to Build-A-Bear. Spend TWO HOURS in the store as Kara bounced from area to area, touching all the unstuffed animal shells, claiming to want everything from the brown bunny to the blue bear to the gray owl but then promptly melting down when we tried to guide her to the stuffing machine. She wanted everything, and wanted nothing. It was an incurable bout of Indecision, with no cure in sight; if anything, they become more frequent as time goes on.

Anyway, the pivotal moment came when, after Luke and I suggested we visit another store to pick out something different, Kara threw herself down on the floor kicking and screaming and I had to carry her outside of the store. Together we sat to the side of the entrance, me holding her on my lap and repeating, "It's okay, it's okay," while she wiggled and cried and passersby looked down on us with wide eyes and that disapproving expression of, "Does that mother not know how to control her own child?" One woman actually came up to me to suggest ADDITIONAL WAYS to restrain my child. That was especially appreciated.

Eventually, though, Kara did calm down and settle on an animal to take home. The winner? Hello Effing Kitty. Surrounded by adorable furry creatures of all types and colors and she goes after the most commercial of the bunch. And it's not like she even knew who Hello Kitty was; apparently, it was love at  seventy-millionth first sight.

And because our little Nathan was such a champ during the entire ordeal, we let him get something, too. He selected the black-and-white panda bear you see in the picture below and couldn't have been sweeter about it.

 

"Honey, are you SURE you don't want to reconsider? Maybe select a doll that doesn't make your mother's toes curl with disdain?"

 

She was sure.

Afterwards, because we left the mall so much later than planned and because we had no energy left to prepare anything at home, Luke and I took the kids to a nearby Mexican restaurant for dinner.

 

Wearing a happy face once again (both of them).

 

That night a surprise visitor made a special appearance, which delighted the children to no end. He, Mrs. Claus, and several elves were seated at a table directly across the room from us, and Kara and Nathan could not keep their eyes off them. And that's actually how they preferred him - at arm's length, as evidenced by this picture.

 

Ending the day on a brighter note.

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Kara's birthday didn't go at all how we planned, and it certainly wasn't fun to work through a tantrum in front of a crowd of strangers, but as we move through the Year of Three, I hope that more often than not I will be able to draw strength from that experience and remember how much of the outcome depended on my willingness to stay in control and not give in to the frustration that was building up inside of me. I'm not proud of the scene she caused, but I'm not embarrassed by how I handled it, either, and for me, that is the most important thing in the end. When all is said and done, the setbacks experienced in any given day become less important than my living, breathing response to them. I can't control my children's actions, but I can control my own, and commit to doing better when I fail.

Happy belated birthday, sweeheart.

(As always, mad props to Luke for the birthday video.)

Nine-week milestone and happy December

I turned nine weeks yesterday. To mark this joyous occasion, Kara and I had the following conversation after I came home from work:

Kara: Mommy, I missed the baby in your belly!

Frema: Aw, we missed you, too, honey! Melts, hugs firstborn lovingly against her breast

Kara: I want to put the baby in my belly. Makes grabbing motions towards occupied uterus, rubs tummy satisfactorily

Frema: It doesn't work like that, honey. Only Mommy can have a baby in her belly.

Kara: I have a baby in my belly! Runs around dining table, victorious

Frema: Big girls can't have babies in their bellies, honey, only mommies can, uh (rethinks statement) - well - you have to be older.

Kara: I'm not a big girl, I'm a little girl.

Frema: Stands corrected.

Six(ish) weeks

When I started drafting this entry last Wednesday, there weren't any signs of morning sickness to be had, so aside from some run-of-the-mill fatigue and uterine cramping, I was feeling well and therefore insanely optimistic. Baby number three = warm fuzzies of completeness! My family can take on anything! Who needs a savings account when you have love?

Then practically overnight I was nodding off during storytime and experiencing constant stomach upset and swearing off pork chops and coffee. Yesterday I couldn't stop worrying over my ability to divide my time among three children, and today I almost cried actual tears because Subway told me they were out of chicken and dumpling soup, so I suppose we have officially entered the Trimester of Sick and Raging Hormones.

And I really was doing so well. From the moment we suspected I might be pregnant, I've been telling Luke how much easier it will be for us this time around. For starters, we'll only have one baby to deal with instead of two, as Kara and Nathan are pretty self-sufficient as far as toddlers go - ability to play independently, (mostly) follow basic directions, operate utensils without assistance, and put themselves to sleep with (mostly) minimal fanfare. Kara is almost potty-trained and should be completely diaper-free come summer. (We recently tried underwear instead of pull-ups for bedtime, with mixed results, so we are going to try again in another month or two.) Luke is going to work on Nathan soon, who is already showing a vague interest, thanks to the example set by his sister.

More positives: I will give birth in the summer, a first for me, which will allow us to be out and about for the bulk of my maternity leave, once I've recovered from my c-section. Summer break means that Luke's parents and Dan and Samantha will have an easier time spending time with us while the baby is new. I have a couple of honest-to-goodness friends in the area to lean on for support, and we have a reliable baby-sitter at our disposal. My newfound commitment to eating less junk food and being more physically active during this pregnancy should hopefully better prepare my body to bounce back from surgery. We won't be house-hunting or planning a move this time, or making any drastic changes to our home, save for some new paint in a few rooms and reorganizing some furniture, so life should be calmer.

And yet, as I review our finances, and lament over still being so far away from family, and remember how hard it was to get back in the swing of things after the arrival of each child and how vulnerable I always feel in those early months, and how unforgiving the world seems, I get nervous and scared and wonder what the hell Luke and I have gotten ourselves into. I wonder if I will ever have free time again, if we will ever have money again, if we will ever move beyond this "coming into our own" phase and achieve the long-term goals we have set for ourselves.

It will be okay. I think we just need a little more time to adjust.

In the meantime, it's not too late to show off Halloween pictures, is it?

 

This was the first year we took the kids trick-or-treating, and to mark the occasion we let them pick out their own costumes at Target. We went two weeks before Halloween, so options in Kara's size were pretty sparse. Luckily, she was able to don something she liked - a firefighter costume, just like Grandpa (my dad).

 

Nathan was a puppy. He kept calling the ears his "puppy hat." Let the squeeing commence.

 

The act of trick-or-treating was somewhat complicated this year, as Luke and I were out of town that Saturday for my cousin's wedding reception, but one of the news websites said our area would be celebrating on Sunday night as it should be, so we thought we were safe, only after coming back on Sunday afternoon to carve pumpkins and deposit eight dollars' worth of chocolate bars into a bowl near the front door and after getting the children good and excited about visiting numerous strangers' houses for candy, we learned that the news website Luke had found was actually from last year, and that all local festivities had taken place the day before, while we were in Chicago. So we scrambled through dinner, threw the costumes on the kids, and drove twenty minutes to a neighboring town to fulfill their toddler fantasies. Ah, parenthood.

On living honestly

This morning, Luke and I registered Kara for preschool.

Well, technically, not preschool. It's categorized as a children's ministry program, offered through a nearby church. Four hours a day, one day a week. The program isn't accredited with fancy acronyms, and the staff members don't have teaching licenses, but there will be free play and music and snack time and show-and-tell and take-home bulletins once a month. Plus, we'll have to get her a backpack and lunchbox. So for a two-year-old girl who's been hanging out at home with her dad and her baby brother almost her entire life, it's close enough.

It's plenty close for her parents, too.

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In an effort to get a better handle on our finances, Luke and I are trying something new at home. Suze Orman calls it the back-to-cash movement. I like to think of it as our new reality.

The new reality is this: Gone are the days where we put everything on the credit card and pay for it at the end of thirty days (which, near the end, wasn't working out so well, anyway). Good-bye to Excel spreadsheets that were intended to help us budget on a monthly basis rather than per-paycheck. From now on, if we want to buy something, we are going to the bank, making a withdrawal from the ATM, and paying for it in cash. There will be occasional exceptions, of course, like purchases online or the occasional Redbox rental, but ninety-five percent of the time, them's the rules.

We started on October 1. Six days in so far, and doing well.

 

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Luke and I have been talking a lot about what we want to accomplish in the short term--realistic goals we can achieve in the next six to twelve months. In the short term, we want more social networking opportunities for Kara and Nathan (not the Facebook and Twitter kind), to give them a chance to explore interests outside the confines of our living room, interacting with adults who are not us. We want to enjoy financial freedom and not have to itemize every single penny of a paycheck two months in advance in order to afford concert tickets or Christmas presents or a random date night. We want to formally close the baby chapter of our lives by New Year's and put our house on the market come spring. And I want to volunteer.

However, we're also in agreement on what we don't want. For example, we are not quite ready to enroll Nathan in any sort of program that takes him out of our care. He can have a few more months of home time with Luke and Kara, and enjoy the precious one-on-one time he's about to score with his dad, and at least blow out the candles on his second birthday cake before we re-evaluate our position. Also, we are not ready for Luke to go back to work, even if we could put another salary to good use ($1,600 worth of car repairs on the Outlander, I'm looking at you). We appreciate and depend on the benefits of being a one-income family: the extra bonding time for Luke and the kids, the flexibility of managing only one work schedule, the ability for me to concentrate on my corporate to-dos as needed instead of tossing my laptop into a bag the minute the clock turns five. We wouldn't be any worse for the wear for having those issues, but they would most definitely complicate things, and we have all the uncertainty we can handle right now, thankyouverymuch.

We've talked about me picking up some freelance work or Luke taking a part-time job with night and weekend hours to bring more money through the door, but honestly, right now we are content to just buckle down and do the best we can with what we have today. There is enough to pay the bills and buy the organic yogurt we like and travel north and even score dinner out once and a while. We are beefing up our short-term savings and still making regular deposits into our health savings account for medical expenses. We don't need a second mortgage, and we aren't defaulting on Sallie Mae. In every area that counts, we are fine. And believe me, we are thankful.

But still, we are making hard choices, like back in August when we discontinued satellite. This month, we stopped all contributions to my 401(k), an account that's been funded every two weeks rain or shine for the last five years AND saw generous matches from my employer, to make room in the budget for Kara's tutition. I am disappointed over this and understand there may be long-term ramifications come our golden years, but I do not regret it. Luke and I have been preparing for the future since before we even married. We're proud of the money we've accrued for retirement already. But right now, it is time to plan for now.

 

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In a conversation with Molly earlier this fall, she used the phrase "living honestly," and it has stuck with me ever since. Because that's what it feels like we're doing now: living a life that reflects our priorities and our resources, and sorting out the white noise that only gets in the way. For the first time in a long time, we're putting our money where our mouth is. What's that worth to you? I ask about almost everything now, from wedding RSVPs to a bag of Gummi Bears to preschool. What are you willing to sacrifice to make this happen?

Our short term is paving the way for the long term, a reality in which we are mortgage-free and in a position to entertain housing options that bring us closer to our loved ones, who I am missing more than ever these days. A reality that has both of us in careers that we love and best align with our strengths and passions. A reality that includes another child, obtained in a non-traditional way. It will take baby steps, but we will get there. I know it in my bones.

 

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As Kara and Nathan grow older, I become more aware of all the ways we can screw them up. I know, I know, they're only babies, all they need is love, blah blah blah, but even at this young age, we are setting the bar for how they will realize their potential. Take Kara's "school," for example. She'll be three in December, and is intellectually capable, I think, of handling a (slightly) more rigorous curriculum than the one we are placing her in; kids younger than her do this all the time in daycare, yes? But that benefit of school is not important to Luke and me right now, and as a result, her experience will be missing that formalized educational component. We'll revisit our feelings next year, obviously, but for now that's where we stand. 

We are also setting the bar for ourselves, I suppose, in regards to what Kara and Nathan can expect from us as parents. We did what we felt was necessary to get Kara into school, but we didn't even consider placing her more than one day a week (baby steps, remember?) or research more expensive options like the Goddard School or Montessori. We already know that retirement savings will always trump a 529. Many parents have different opinions on this, and that's okay. But as much as Luke and I want to give the kids the very best of ourselves, we are going to make ourselves a priority, too, and not apologize for that to anyone.

 

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I have come to learn that as a mother, I enjoy the toddler years far more than the infant ones. Kara's humor and sass are shining through these days, the product of two wise-cracking parents, to be sure, and builds upon both by relying on her razor-sharp memory. One day while we were eating dinner, she thought it a good idea to let milk dribble out of her mouth. She laughed as the milk traveled down her chin, and I hid a smile as I said, "Kara Leigh, please don't do that, that's not funny," and she replied, "Well, maybe a little funny," a phrase Luke uttered in passing the day before. (Thank you, dear.)

Meanwhile, Nathan speaks in full sentences and punctuates the majority of them with a question mark. "What's that noise, Mommy?  Want to build Mrs. Potato? Where's the moon, Mommy? Is that a oak leaf, Mommy? Want to read Turtle, Turtle, Watch Out? Should Momma hooold you?" And so on with the inquisitiveness. He is so curious, so observant, so willing to sit back and watch the action unfold. That is, when he's not bouncing off the couch, roaring like Michael Jackson circa "Scream," or body slamming his torso into the nearest gate.

They both have insatiable appetites for reading, which has been further enhanced by the recent discovery of our local library. At first I was worried they wouldn't get the concept of borrowing books, afraid they would pout and fuss when it came time to return them, but they totally get it, and now live for the next chance to play with the trains and scramble through the catepillar tunnel featured in the kids' room.

Our new reality is that our toddlers are becoming full-blown children. And man, do we just want to do right by them, and ourselves, too.

 

Unabridged status updates sorted by topic

FREEDOM: This summer is the first since 2008 that Luke and I don't have a child under the age of one in our house, and it is glorious. Gone are the days of following a rigid feeding schedule or cutting an errand short because you didn't prep enough bottles. Events taking place after seven don't automatically require a sitter. You can get by with two diapers per tushie instead of three or four, and bringing along a change of clothes is now an elective instead of non-negotiable.

To celebrate this new phase in our lives, we are planning accordingly. Evening baseball games and family walks (both sponsored by my employer, thankfully). Plans for our first summer vacation (near the lake) with talks of visiting the ocean next year. Longer day trips farther away home, and more often. These "adventures" are definitely not perfect; sometimes the kids are crabby because they're missing their naps/tired of being in the car/eating a late lunch/angry over leaving/take your pick, but we are no longer letting the benefits of a routine automatically trump getting out and about as a family. Races, bridesmaid responsibilities, birthday parties, and an overall lack of funds will keep us at least Indiana-bound most of the season, but fortunately there are plenty of local parks and kid-friendly attractions to keep us appropriately engaged. I even ordered an Ergo over the weekend to support our new on-the-go lifestyle, allowing us to tackle rocky terrain, city streets, and other walking-centric activities stroller-free. Nathan will be a year and a half soon, but he's sitting pretty at around twenty-four pounds, and the carrier holds forty, so I'm hoping we'll get a lot of use out of it even without the addition of more children. (More on that in another post.)

 

Visiting a local creamery over Memorial Day weekend.

LOST FINALE: What to say about the show to end all shows? I doubt I have anything new to add to the conversation, but LOST was introduced to me during one of the most vulnerable times of my life; it tethered me to the adult, pre-motherhood world outside my apartment when my insecurities as a first-time mom left me unmotivated to even drive to the grocery store. It wouldn't be right to let it ride off into the sunset without voicing my thoughts. Because I'm, like, a month behind, I'll keep it brief.

• I thought the ending was strong. I was satisfied with the idea of the castaways needing to come to terms with their life on the island before they could Move On.
• I loved the scenes between Jack and his father, and the fact that it was Jack's love for Christian, not Kate, that finally triggered his island memory. I loved the reunions between Sun and Jin, Sawyer and Juliet, and Claire and Charlie.
• I thought Hurley was a worthy choice for Jack's replacement on the island and liked Ben as Hurley's number two. I bought that Ben's work in purgatory wasn't finished and that he didn't belong with the core group's ascension into the light.
• I didn't like that Sayid was paired with Shannon instead of Nadia or that Michael was confined to the island forever, especially when he acted as he did not out of malice or jealousy (as Ben often did) but to protect his son.
• I hated that the "Walt is special" and "Aaron is a miracle baby and can't be raised by another/an Other" storylines were never resolved. Also, that Desmond's season-two revelation of Claire leaving the island with Aaron never materialized, when all of his other premonitions came true.
• Still curious about Charlotte's connection with the island and the effect it had on her (i.e. death).
• I don't understand what if any effect the time traveling had on the overall plot.
• I appreciate the island being the life source for the entire world but thought the physical reprensentation of it--light in a cave? Really?--was a bit hokey.
• After what I'm calling the "Island Mythology" episode, I had less respect for Jacob and more sympathy for the Man in Black, along with a lot of questions as to why the brothers couldn't hurt each other and why Jacob could leave the island but Smokey couldn't.
• I may be the only viewer on Earth who didn't like the Richard-centric episode. I thought he was kind of a wimp.
• I'm sad that Jack didn't really have a son or that John never actually reunited with Helen. Those ideas made me so, so happy.
• I bawled my eyes out during the last ten minutes of the show and even harder at the appearance of Vincent at Jack's side near the end.
• I'm still torn over the Widmore-versus-Ben dynamic. Am thinking Widmore was actually the more honorable of the two.

...Okay, so not exactly brief. But man, that felt good.

 

My two favorite guys.

RACING UPDATE: Still training for the Rock 'n Roll Chicago Half Marathon, still struggling to find the motivation to train most of the time. I'm wondering if it was too ambitious to tackle another half so soon after my first? It helps that Jenn, the local blog reader who reached out to me during the Mini, lives in a neighboring town and that we are close enough in proximity to meet up for runs during the week. Running is a lot easier with a partner at your side, and it's been so great to find another mom friend in my general area. Plus, Jenn has two young children who are close in age to Kara and Nathan. Win for the mommies, win for the kids.

Anyway, I've got six weeks until race day, and while I'm not following Hal Higdon's intermediate schedule to the letter, it's a good place to start, and I have been more consistent with integrating strength training between runs. After August 1, I'm going to focus more on shorter races and improving my time. Still aiming to increase my pace to that elusive (to me) ten-minute mile.

Enjoying the waterfall view at Lieber State Recreation Area. You better believe this will be blown up to 8x10 size when they're teenagers, for all their friends to see.

MONEY: After years of struggling to implement a successful household budgeting system, I have finally found a way to at least account for our monthly cash flow. Because we live in an age where writing a check is considered an antiquated means for rendering payment, I've always assumed that the key to setting up a budget is the computer, i.e. Excel, i.e. turning on the damn thing every night, tallying the day's expenses, and reviewing what you have left for the rest of the month. However, because my internal hardwiring isn't programmed to handle anything more complex than watching The Daily Show once the kids are in bed, it's difficult to sustain the mental capacity for something as tedious as sorting through mounds of receipts. Plus, the computer is in the loft, and the loft is upstairs, on the same floor as the bedrooms, away from the TV, and it's all just so very inconvenient and time-consuming I want to scream. So I would painstakingly craft a budget, save it to our desktop, gather receipts accordingly, and...let those receipts build up on our desk until another month came and went and we weren't any closer to knowing where we fell on the surplus/deficit spectrum. Not. Smart.

It's going to sound crazy, but the key to my financial sanity? A notepad. This plain, tiny, white, lined notepad with orange flowers that I received as part of a birthday basket back in January whose purpose in life had been previously unknown. Now every couple of days I pull out my receipts, notepad, and calculator to document which days we spent money, where we spent the money, and how much was spent. Elementary, I know, but it's been so helpful to have a complete record of expenses that I can manage IN FRONT OF THE TV. Those big boxes that run the Internet, they are so complicated.

 

Nathan getting up close and personal with one of the zoo's newest arrivals. 

There is more to share, including the rapid development of my children, but my lunch hour is up and really, it is time to have something at the top of my homepage other than a before shot of Nathan, pre-haircut. So here you go.

Shark petting = awesome.

 

At the "Outrun the Sun" race at Fort Benjamin Harrison State Park. 
 
 

My big, beautiful girl at "Outrun the Sun."

 

My handsome, delicate flower of a boy at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

 

We hope you're all just swell.

Running from scissors

Not Nathan. Me. Because even the idea of chopping off my secondborn's beautiful golden curls was enough to trigger a small heart attack. Can you blame me? Kara's managed for two and a half years without so much as a trim.* Why should Nathan have been any different? So what if he occasionally gets mistaken for a girl? He's manly. He can handle it.

 

See? Orange shirt. Alligators. Manly!

Sadly, though, his father cannot. And since neither of us has the ability to do good hair, we made an appointment with a chain whose name just happens to rhyme with Bookie Butters.

Okay, even I admit, the boy could pass for one of Ricky Bobby's hooligan sons here. Coming at you like a spider monkey!

Once the boy was strapped into his tractor-chair and looking appropriately confused as to what the heck was going on, my initial request involved simply cleaning up his bangs so he could once again experience life without being blinded by a veil of human hair. But when the stylist asked about the back, I just froze like a deer in headlights (not the curls!) while Luke practically had to be restrained from doing the deed himself.

Those cuuuurls! Be still, my heart.

Nathan was a champ from start to finish, though he did seem a little taken aback at the thought of losing his mullet. I wept for the both of us.

It's too early for bathtime, so why did this woman just spray water on my head?

 

This is my "confused but adorable" face. You like?

 

First they take my breakfast bottle, and now this? Oh, the humanity!

 

Hmmm. Well. I do appear rather dashing now, don't I? Presidential, even. Now excuse me a moment whilst I stare thoughtfully at some random object and mentally compose my acceptance speech.

Not so fast, Little Boo Boo. Momma's not done with you just yet.

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Nathan is shedding his babyhood faster than I can blink. At his 15-month well-baby visit two weeks ago, he clocked in at a respectable 24 pounds and measured 32 inches long. He is bottle-free and getting better and better with using utensils; he is also fiercely independent and will at times scream his bloody head off if you even think about trying to assist him (though he definitely still needs the help). He loves cheese and bread and carrots and will eat almost anything you put in front of him, on his own timeframe. He says dozens of new words almost every day and learns even more by chirping "Is it? Is it?" while pointing to the next big thing.

He adores birds and is fascinated by ants. He sleeps with his pacifier, a blanket, and a stuffed duckie that Kara received from Luke's parents before she was born. He'll give you a kiss, but only if you ask. His current go-to books include Because a Little Bug Went Ka Choo!, Are You My Mother?, Penguin Pete, Busy Bunnies, Animal Babies in Seas, The Rainbow Fish, Shapes, and Elmer and the Lost Teddy. He still loves blocks, puzzles, Kara's tea set, and our Little People collection. During walks through our subdivision and on our trail, he's been spending more and more time outside the stroller and running around to study rocks, sticks, and leaves. He watches some TV but never seems too terribly interested in it. He loves Kara with a passion and takes all of her "aggressive" hugs, kisses, and sharing attempts in stride.

He is a bubble of personality, and I can hardly believe how lucky I am, to be able to call him my son.

* Her appointment is this week, only not at Bookie Butters because we would never be able to tear her away from the slide. Getting her out the door was the hardest part of the appointment!

LockedIn

Before I begin, first let me say that I am not a fan of the word "playdate." Are you hearing that? Playdate. Sounds so preppy, doesn't it? Very la-dee-dah and let me don some pleated khakis and pristine Keds so my perfectly groomed offspring can delicately sip tea in your living room. As a girl who grew up on the South Side of Chicago and whose neighborhood wasn't immume to the occasional drive-by, it just sounds pretentious to me. But there isn't another word that better describes coming to somebody else's house for a couple hours of hands-on toddler fun, so there you go.

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It was a cold, snowy day in February, and I had just pulled into Katy's driveway for a playdate. And not just any old playdate: my very first one. Katy, my racing partner in crime, is the first non-work friend I've made since moving to Indianapolis and also becoming a mom, and we are still very much in the courtship phase of getting to know each other. Add to that the fact that family and work obligations have prevented us from meeting up outside of the occasional race, and you're left with a mother who is equal parts nervous about unleashing her kids on unfamiliar turf and hopeful that everyone would hit it off famously, laying important groundwork for future merriment to come. It was perfect timing, too, as Luke was supposed to be out of town visiting his BFF, so I wasn't even cutting into our family time.

The first crack in our plan was the cancellation of Luke's trip due to poor weather; Indianapolis had been hit with a few inches of snow, making a lengthy road trip on I-65 not such a smart idea, so he decided to reschedule for the following weekend when conditions were predicted to improve. The second was Nathan's accidental ingestion and prompt regurgitation of a pretzel stick that became lodged in his throat, resulting in a clothing change two minutes before we were supposed to leave the house. As I buckled the children into their car seats, pulled out of my garage, and began the 45-minute trek to Katy's neighboring town, I quietly wondered if God was trying to tell me via snow and vomit that maybe we'd all be better off if I just stayed home.

But, but.... Friendship for me! Social interaction for the children! (Think of the children!) As Gollum would say, "We wants it, we needs it!" And so I trudged on.

We arrived at Katy's house about twenty minutes later than planned, so I was already feeling the pressure to get the kids out of the car and onto her door step as soon as possible. Not helping matters was Kara's entrance into Dreamland minutes before pulling into Katy's subdivision. The minute I killed the engine and grabbed my purse I was faced with an issue I hadn't previously given much thought to: When you have a wide-awake, rambunctious one-year-old who can't be trusted to follow directions near a residential street and a two-year-old who COULD be trusted but is snoring louder than any adult you've ever heard in your whole entire life, what are you supposed to do? Which child do you grab first?

In hindsight, I know what I should have done: I should have called Katy on my cell phone to ask if she could take Nathan while I handled Kara. But what can I say? I'm not a stay-at-home mom, and this was the first time I had ever traveled alone with both of my kids, and I was afraid of playing into the stereotype often ascribed to working dads--being too far removed from the trenches of day-to-day parenting to do anything more than run around like a decapitated chicken when presented with the simplest of tasks, like, I don't know, GETTING MY KIDS OUT OF THE DAMN CAR. I was too embarrassed to ask for help.

This is what laid the groundwork for my fatal error.

I grabbed Nathan first.

With the boy perched securely on my hip, I checked to see that my purse was still hanging from my shoulder (it was) and made my way to the other side of the car, where Kara continued to snore. I opened the door, lay my purse down at her feet (DANGER DANGER), hit the automatic locks (OMG WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS), and with my free hand shook her lightly by the shoulders. "Kaaara, Kara, honey, we're here now. It's time to play with our friends!" I chirped loudly into her ear. Silence. I grabbed her hand and kissed her cheek and ruffled her hair, but nothing.  I unstrapped her car seat buckles and even tried to tickle her, hoping all that jostling would wake her up enough to, at the very least, crabbily push me away. Fughettaboutit. "Kara-Kara-Kara-Kara-KAAARA," I shouted, Nathan wriggling like an earthworm, struggling to break free of my grip which was fast losing hold. And it was all in vain. 

Well, shit.

That's when I heard the turn of a doorknob, and Katy stepped outside.

"Is everything OK?" she asked. "Do you need any help?" At least, I think that's what she said. It's hard to recall exact wording at this point, but I trust it was something similarly hospitable and kind and caring.

"Oh, yeah," I called back, trying to sound casual when the whole time I was dying inside, DYING, "my daughter went and fell asleep on me, that's all!" I swiveled to get a better look at my hostess, and before I could process what was happening, my hand instictively pushed on the car door, and the car door snapped shut.

Internally, my slow-motion battle cry was so loud it was deafening (NOOOOOOO), and my eyes grew bigger than Pamela Anderson's double endorsements because holy hell, I done locked mah baybee in the car. In twentyish-degree weather. Almost an hour away from home.

The tears, they were threatening to surface any second, and if this had happened in front of one of my sisters I definitely would have pulled a Sally Field (I WANNA KNOW WHYYYY) but I pushed them away because crying in front of a woman who doesn't even know if you have a middle name is perhaps not the most inviting way to get better acquainted.

I would have stood there maintaining my deer-in-headlights expression a la Uncle Jesse from Full House except Nathan was still in my arms and I needed to call somebody to free my toddler from her hatchback prison. Plus, the car was parked in Katy's driveway in a town with a reputation as one of the safest and friendliest in the Indianapolis area, and the engine was off, and Kara was plenty warm in her winter coat, and besides that she was STILL snoring away, so I pried myself away from her long enough to carry Nathan inside. Katy called a local locksmith, but there was either a communication gap or a sense-of-urgency gap on his end because while the guy promised to call back with an estimated time of arrival, he never did, mother-effing bastard, doesn't he care about the children?!

So I called Luke. The husband who should have been in Kentucky some three and a half hours away with our only spare key but due to a random stroke of luck just happened to be at home.

That was a pleasant phone call. Especially since we'd had a slight disagreement earlier that morning.

Again with the forgetting of specific details, but the phrases "OH MY GOD!" and "I'm so sorry!" were involved. I'll leave you to guess who said what.

He had to dig the Cobalt out of a mountain-high pile of snow, Luke said, but he was on his way.

So, every three minutes for the next hour, I ran outside to check on my girl and make sure that a Wizard of Oz-like tornado hadn't suddenly carried the Outlander away. I imagined her waking up, realizing her predicament, and throwing herself against the window sobbing for Momma to get her out. I feared she would slither onto the floor and hit her head against the base of her car seat. I worried Luke would get lost or stuck in traffic and that I'd have to beg the fire department to pull the door off its hinges. Not that I'm even sure they do that sort of thing, mind you. But you know. I was scared.

I also felt very much like an idiot in front of my new friend, my new friend's husband, and my new friend's children.

After what seemed like an eternity but in reality was just a little more than sixy minutes from the time we called the locksmith, Luke was parking behind the Outlander and unlocking the passenger-side car door. I pushed past him to gather Kara in my arms--my baby, my baby--and brought her into Katy's house, and let me tell you, Sleeping Beauty never even stirred until I started removing her coat. She yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes and seemed generally refreshed from her leisurely mid-afternoon nap. She didn't even notice that her mother was curled into a fetal position on the floor, cheeks burning in humiliation, giving silent thanks to God, already drafting the inevitable blog entry.

Mom in training

Here at work, March 1 kicks off a month-long spotlight on the annual performance review. Instead of being evaluated around the anniversary of your hire date, The Powers That Be decided to make it more efficient by subscribing to a more collective approach, setting company-wide deadlines for completing your self-evaluation and meeting with your manager to discuss what you're doing well, where you'd like to improve, and how the company can help. Last Monday was the cut-off for turning in self-evaluations, and it got me thinking: if there were performance appraisals for parents, what would they look like? Who determines if we're doing a good job? How do we know if we're getting better?

Before I had kids, I had pretty specific (if not slightly traditional) ideas of what it meant to be a good mother. I would stay home with my babies, for one, and spend oodles of time with them every day. I would learn to cook and bake so I could fill their tummies with mouth-watering, nutritious, interesting foods. We would visit the park and check books from the library and go swimming and biking just like the Von Trapps and hang out with friends and family and "talk out" our problems and always, always have naptime.

By those standards, Donald Trump would have kicked me out of the mommy board room at the end of my first maternity leave.

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The most glaring disconnect between the mother I thought I would be and the mother I am is the working. For better or worse, I am and probably always will be the primary breadwinner for my family. Full time, outside the home, Monday through Friday, with occasional travel and evening conference calls and the need to be accessible 24/7. I can count on one hand how many hours I spend with Kara and Nathan on a typical work day; usually I'm home long enough to eat dinner and rough around for an hour before we jump into Nathan's bedtime routine, followed by Kara's, followed by Nathan's sporadic cries and Kara's pleas of "Mommy and Daddy sit with you?" followed by oh, yeah, my husband, there you are, hello, now who gets to wash the dishes? Though really, since Luke cooks, it should always be me washing the dishes. It takes all my reserves just to complete fundamental tasks to get through the day; forget luxuries like updating a baby book or posting to my blog (a fact that doesn't escape my readers, for sure).

My most upsetting fail as a parent, though, is my struggle to stay patient in times of stress: Kara's random tantrums when asked to pick up her toys or brush her teeth; Nathan's restlessness in the middle of the night when bouts of cradling, rocking, and sitting beside his crib all fall short in their attempts to comfort. To me, THOSE are the instances where you demonstrate true growth in parenting, putting your "training" to good use and pushing beyond your natural instincts to achieve new results. I know hissing at Nathan to "just be quiet!" won't help him fall back to sleep; I know threatening to skip stories at bedtime won't encourage Kara to clean her pearly whites. Yet so often I'm the hamster on the wheel, repeating old behaviors, hissing and threatening in the hopes that this time it will resonate, but it never does. Instead, they get upset, and then I get upset, and then I feel guilty because shouldn't I know better by now? Is this really the example I want to be setting for them, that these are the only tools at my disposal?

But then Kara will shout "Oh, Mommy! There she is!" and clamour for a piggy-back ride, and Nathan will clench his arms around my neck before plopping into my lap for a story, and I feel so damn good about my relationship with them and how connected we are, and I vow to hold fast to the "quality versus quantity" mindset and stop measuring myself against other women. Even wonderful women whom I love and admire. When it comes to mothering, somebody will always outperform me in one way or another, but I have my own strengths, and my kids seem to like me just fine.

(For now.)

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When it comes to assessing future growth opportunities, I think that for as long as there are children under my roof, I will have to constantly re-grant myself permission to be anything more than "just" a mother--to also invest in my marriage, extended family, community, friends; my faith, work, education, health. How to get it all done? You can't. At least, I can't. So I'm trying to focus my attention on two or three tactical objectives for any given day and appropriately prioritizing the rest, all the while knowing that if my kids don't rank first from that perspective (their safety and well-being is always top priority on a grand scale), they sure as hell are going to come second. I stole the basic idea from our chief operating officer, who says he spends his hour-long commute to the office reviewing what's on his plate and determining where his presence will make the biggest impact. "Some days that means all eyes on human capital and not touching sales and marketing. It's all about making the best use of my time for the people that need me most for that moment in time."

As a mother and not a c-level executive, this translates into leaving my laptop at work to make a deposit in the "mommy bank" even if there's an end-of-quarter presentation looming over my head. Other times it's dragging my ass out of bed and working on my fitness when I want to cuddle with Luke instead. On the days I travel, my primary goal is to make the trip worthwhile for my company, and my roles as wife, mother, and fledgling athlete fall into place where they can. And so it goes, trading long runs for blog time, bedtime for work time, bedtime for date night, and understanding I will never do them all in the same 24-hour period. Some dreams will collect dust for years, dreams like earning a second master's degree or changing career paths or running my first marathon. I am slowly learning that the key to preserving my sanity is treading water when I know I could swim, being just good enough when I'd rather be great.

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When I was a junior in college, on the day a term paper was due, students were commiserating with each other over the hellish writing experience when somebody warned the professor to expect flaws in her draft, explaining her difficulty in managing coursework with on-going family issues and a part-time job to boot. She wasn't making excuses, exactly, more just disappointed for not meeting her own expectations. "If only I'd had one more night," she said wistfully. "Just one more night and I could have really given it my all."

My professor just shook her head.

"You can't look at it that way," she said. "We faculty don't expect our students to live in a bubble. We know you have other responsibilities and that school can't always be your focus. All we ask is that you do your best in your current set of circumstances. If that turns out to be A-level, great. But if not? That's okay, too. Just do what you can with whatever you've got, and show us that you're trying."

Hopefully our children will be at least that understanding when grading our performances as parents--if not now, then at least when they're grown and in the same boat. And if merit increases are involved, may they all be prorated.

Because sharing is caring, as is more frequent posting

Okay, so apparently even the mere thought of writing cohesive paragraphs for the Internet is enough to keep me from updating, so in an effort to get back on track, may I present--bullet points! Also known as The Lazy Blogger's Best Friend.

• Jillian Michaels must have read my last entry wherein I complained about my first yoga experience and then took note of Jen's recommendation to give power yoga a try, because two days ago she released a new DVD called Yoga Meltdown, based on "quickly flowing yoga sequences to burn mega calories," which sounds like just the thing to convert me. I still do the Shred every once and a while on my "Stretch and Strengthen" training days, and I've recently revisited her Banish Fat, Boost Metabolism workout for cross-training purposes, AND the average overall review on Amazon is pretty high, so while I'm still wary of the practice, I trust her enough to shell out $11.49 plus shipping. I know it's early, but has anyone tried this yet? If so, what did you think?
• Speaking of banishing fat, I'm only three pounds away from the weight listed on my driver's license. Go, body, go, quit making a liar out of me.
• Did you know that writing references letters to help your very good friends achieve their dream of overseas adoption is really hard work? Even when they are wonderful people and you just know they've got this thing in the bag. Really, really hard.
• Lost. OMG. Crazy momma Claire! Jack's sideways son! Evil incarnate Sayid! Mind = blown!
• I can't seem to keep my hands off my kids these days: hugging their torsos, smooching their cheeks, nuzzling their necks. Each new skill they acquire makes me more aware that their babyness will not last forever. Kara will not always moan piteously to "try Mommy and Daddy's bed?" when she wakes up in the middle of the night; Nathan won't always insist on sitting on my lap while I eat my dinner. And at the end of a long day, they will not always wait at the kitchen gate for me to come home from work. As excited as I am to increase our mobility and explore new activities as a family and SLEEP THROUGH THE DAMN NIGHT, ALREADY, part of me is sad, hating that the days where they would sleep for hours on my chest are gone. This is what gets to me the most about not having more children, I think: the idea of never experiencing those early weeks of sleep-deprived euphoria again: the moment they are placed in your arms for the first time; the way their body wraps around you like a blanket. Commenter dcmama on Amalah's Bounce Back post on family size summed it up perfectly when she asked, "How do I know that I'm not just missing being pregnant and hoping for a less awful first few months with a baby?" Nathan's pregnancy was such a surprise, and the first year dealing with two babies was so hard. SO HARD. Surely it's not always that difficult; surely I would have an easier time with baby number three if numbers one and two were more self-sufficient. What if, what if.
• I guess that last bullet point could have been an entry in and of itself.

Now let's move on to my second BFF - Pictures With Commentary:

 

This is Kara. Kara is my daughter, a little girl who's made pee-pee in the potty several times in the last seven days and who gets a kick of riding around the living room on Mommy or Daddy's back. She also continues to soak up language and manipulate common words and phrases to sound utterly adorable; if you have something she wants (usually related to food: peanuts, raisins, pretzels, etc.), she'll come up to you and ask, "What do you you say?" instead of actually saying the thing we've coached her to say ("Please"). And no, that second "you" isn't a typo. I don't know, either.

This is Nathan. Nathan is my son, a baby-toddler more commonly known around these parts as Buddy, Little Boobah, Freaky-deak, and Crazyhead, a whirlwind spit-fire who enjoyed his handful of experiences with snow and sledding much more than his sister, except after one unfortunate face plant mid-ride in the backyard. (Here is tangible evidence that I've been attempting an entry for almost two weeks, because not only has all our snow melted, but this Saturday we should see temperatures elevate to the fifties. Better late than never?)

Nathan is still mostly on baby food at this point, not because we enjoy paying for pre-packaged jars of beef and vegetable dinners but because he still has a hard time digesting large amounts of their non-mashed alternatives. He can handle things like bread and pizza and tuna cassarole in small amounts, but anything more than that sends his digestive tract into a tailspin. Luke fed him eggs yesterday and five minutes hadn't even passed before Nathan vomited. This isn't the first time he's reacted to table food this way, so instead of pushing him to play catch up with his sister's milestones, we are allowing him to progress at his own pace. Isn't that nice of us!

This is Luke. Luke is my husband, a grown man who was insanely excited to take a second stab at devouring "The Big Ugly" at Bub's Burgers and Ice Cream, an Indy-area franchise. Patrons who finish the one-pound burger (one pound! fully cooked!) earn the honor of getting their picture on the wall. Being an avid Man vs. Food fan, Luke wanted his picture on that wall, so finish it he did, future stomach pains be damned. Adam would have been so proud.

 

The romantic outing took place two Saturdays ago while leaving the kids with a sitter, the niece of my old boss who currently interns in my department. Now that our formula days are over, we have a little money to play with in our budget, so Luke's and my goal is to have a couple of dates each month to recharge our battery away from diapers and graham crackers and Nick, Jr. Our next one is tonight, and the plan is to hit someplace in downtown Indy that doesn't sport high chairs. What can I say? We are simple folk.

Okay, now YOUR turn. What's going on with you all lately? It's like we never talk anymore.

P.S. Remind me to tell you about last month's playdate with Katy where I locked a sleeping Kara in the car. Because that was so much fun!

Onward, again

It happened again. For the second time in my bloggy-blog history, I've let what was supposed to be a quick, fun way to keep tabs on my life silence me from addressing other things. 

Current case in point: My monthly write-ups for the kids. They were never meant to be serious literary fanfare, but somewhere along the way they actually became important to me, lessening my guilt over half-filled and untouched baby books because at least the information was still being recorded. And if I were still posting several times a week like I did for Parents, absolutely I would continue to write them. But with increased work responsibilities including more travel, child rearing, half-marathon training, and random household tasks slowly threatening to overtake me on a daily basis, if I'm going to maintain any kind of regular presence here, it has to be without the pressures associated with have-tos or shoulds. So, effective immediately, I'm exnaying the updates and will instead incorporate those tidbits into my regular posts, which I should have been doing in the first place. In the event I do have specific stories to share about the kids, I'll file them under their individual names for easy searching.

Alrighty, then! *Claps hands* Moving on.

Yesterday marked week five of my training for the Indy 500 Mini-Marathon, and if the athletic powers that be were to assign me a grade, it would probably fall somewhere around a C. On the positive side, I'm faithfully running three to four times a week as dictated by my training schedule, which is pretty much a 16-week version of Hal Higdon's half-marathon novice plan combined with the long runs from Katy's plan, which was in turn inspired by Men's Health. I hit my tempo runs on Tuesdays, strength train on Thursdays (mostly), and long run my ass off over the weekend. In return, I've dropped back to my pre-pregnancy weight (range) (damn you, Dairy Queen and your close proximity), and the hollow of my throat no longer burns near the end of a run. In fact, the bulk of my injuries are mostly confined to my knees and ankles, with the occasional side stitch when I start out too fast and the black toenail on my left foot slowly rising to the surface. I've been trying to stay a little ahead of my endurance schedule, so right now my top mileage is 6.5 for a single run instead of five, and once I hit six, I knew, just knew, with every euphoric bone in my body, that I could go the distance in May. Hurrah fitness!

On the negative side, I have not embraced training with my whole heart. I'm constantly switching my days around so there's little consistency to my workouts. I usually skip Monday with the exception of one Level Two shred and a poor attempt at yoga that had me turning off the video twenty minutes in to catch up on All My Children. Eating habits are still spotty. I'm still climbing into bed far too late, thus sabotaging my ability to spring from the covers at five. I have days where I push my morning workout to the evening and then scrap it altogether because I'm just too tired. I have ended runs early.

There is much room to grow. And while it's easy to visualize logging extra miles, it's harder to imagine reaching a speed that will propel me beyond just average. But it's fun, and I love it, and it's mine, mine, mine.

Watching "Pa" break in his new snowplow over the New Year's holiday.

Kara and Nathan are growing fast as weeds these days. They run around the downstairs together, gathering at their kitchen set to make coffee and graze on plastic utensils, respectively. They continue their love of reading and are going ape over a set of non-fiction books we ordered written by one of our favorite children's authors. Kara is chattering up a storm, parroting random phrases and creating even more of her own. The list includes:

"Daddy helping you?" (when she wants Luke's assistance)
"Oh, don't worry, I'll get it!" (upon learning there were cupcakes for dessert)
"Momma coming soon?" (Grab knife, insert into heart)
"You hungry, baby?"
"Nathan, play with this!"
"I've got you, Momma!"

She also pronounces Nathan’s name correctly and even knows the terminology for natural gas. One night after dinner, it was just Kara and me at the table, and after hearing the unmistakable sound of broken wind, I smiled and asked knowingly, "What was that?"

"Fart!" she replied.

In regards to television, she now splits her love between Max and Ruby and Dora the Explorer. She's also sweet on Dora's cousin, Diego, which appeals to Luke's and my appreciation for nature, so we'll give that a go, too. (We are unanimous in our complete disdain for Hey, Gabba, Gabba!)

Afternoon naps aren't a given anymore, but her cheerful mood is no longer dependent on them. She loves watching family videos on the desktop and riding on Daddy's back and pulling Nathan into well-meaning neck hugs and holding marathon conversations among her Little People villagers. She never sleeps without her bunny, baby dolls, or teddy bear - three, sometimes four stuffed companions gathered to her chest as I cover her with a blanket at the end of a long day, on the nights when it's my turn to tuck her in. Bedtime involves bath, books, and a series of kisses blown to each other before I turn out the light. My baby is gone for good, it seems, and yet, she'll never be lost to me.

Sampling at the stove.

Nathan, on the other hand, is still so very much a baby in my eyes, so tiny when compared to his sister at the same age, even though he's more than twenty pounds with six teeth in his mouth and walking and jibber-jabbing with the best of them. Can you blame me? He's still wearing a respectable amount of 12-month clothing and can still be rocked to sleep at night in a cradle hold. DON'T YOU TAKE AWAY MY BABY.

He is growing up to be such a fun little person, though, delighting in snow and pictures of puppies and books about turtles and chicks. His laugh still mimics a hyena, and he still screams bloody murder during diaper transactions on the changing table (as if we hadn't been doing this several times a day EVERY DAY SINCE HE WAS BORN) and still uses a pacifier at bedtime. He is fighting naps with a passion and often skips the one in the afternoon. He is extremely picky when it comes to reading choices and will reject book after book at bedtime with a shake of his head and a turn of his body and a steady stream of no-no-no-nos until just the right one is chosen. He'll sleep with his lion or his puppy but isn't as attached to them as Kara is to her night time crew. He still has only a mild interest in his Taggies blanket. He does not fall asleep in the car, does not want you to move him off the couch, does not appreciate standing on his feet when he would rather be in your arms. He rarely sits still, but so long as he gets to do his own baby thing, he rarely makes a fuss, and he wears a smile on his face constantly, which (almost) makes up for the emotional turbulence.

 

Chillaxing in a transporation device not intended for actual living beings. 

The first quarter of the year is coming to an end, and I find myself restless thinking about all Luke and I want to do this year - build our emergency fund, decorate our house, take some vacations - in addition to pondering new paths for the future. I'm not sure what exactly will cure this sense of dormancy. A new job? New house? New baby (Luke shakes head vehemently)? New state? All of these (eventually)? None of these? All I talked about in 2009 was owning the sense of calm that would be sure to blanket 2010, nothing changing, just building on what we have, and here I am, two months in, already searching for the next big thing. Silly humans, never satisfied. Oh, well. At least I'm grateful.

 

One year, again

For Kara's first birthday, I spent all night sizing pictures in Photoshop and racking my brain to extract stand-out moments for each month of her life. It only took three weeks for me to write her birth story - a four-part, minute-by-minute installment no less. I filled a quarter of her baby book by the time she turned eight weeks old. In other words, I've never had a problem formally documenting her life.

Yet I've been chewing on this post all weekend.

Originally I planned to weave my thoughts into a twelve-month update like I did for Kara's two-year post, but seeing as I published his eleven-month update just last week, I'm not exactly drowning in material there. Then I thought it might be a good time to finally write his birth story, except I haven't been able to purge more than a few sentences before I'm  breaking into a cold sweat because I DON'T REMEMBER EVERYTHING and my observations from the hospital aren't as detailed as they were with Kara. A freaking year ago, and still I need more time.

It's a hard pill for me to swallow, the fact that Kara's received so much literary fanfare while Nathan waits patiently for me to get my act together. I know he's only a toddler (a toddler!) and doesn't care a whit about such things; as a boy, he may never even ask about his baby book, but I am his mother and it matters to me. I made time for these rituals for Kara. Why is it so hard for me to do the same for him?

Trying to answer that question could very well eat me alive, so instead of rushing into some neatly packaged entry just to bring my son up to par with his sister, I'm just going to say what's in my heart.

Which is this: I have an amazing boy. Amazing! He is walking and chattering and eating pizza and drinking milk and just this afternoon we donned him in winter gear and pulled him around in a sled in the backyard. A year ago I couldn't have imagined this day, I was just nervous and excited to have another baby, and it was impossible to fathom that one day he would grow up to be older, to not be a baby, to become his own unique person instead of "just" my second child. I knew the basics of dealing with a newborn, I dreamed about the kids being eight and nine and the four of us having incredible adventures, but I have never been able to see Nathan as any age older than what he is. Even now with hair brushing his forehead and four teeth fighting to break through his top gums, I can't picture what he'll be like at two years old, or even eighteen months. I can see Kara, sort of, probably because she's a girl and bears such a strong resemble to me, but also because for as long as I wanted to be a mother, I have visualized having a daughter. Everything about Nathan - from his personality down to his very conception - has been a wonderful, complicated surprise.

To be honest, though, sometimes complicated outweighed the wonderful. Those first few months were some of the hardest of my life. Before Nathan was born, Luke and I thought we had it all figured out, having already parented one baby and experiencing all the ups and downs of that tumultuous first year. We knew we didn't have to follow every single piece of advice doled out by a medical professional, knew the importance of sleeping when the baby sleeps, knew it was okay to trust our gut on which routines and choices would best work for our family. What we didn't know was how truly easy we had it with Kara - her willingness to sleep, her ease in taking to the bottle, her acceptance of having her diaper changed without breaking glass with the volume of her cries. And on top of all that he was screamy and gassy and I was already paralyzed with guilt over not wanting to nurse anymore and we weren't sure if it was the formula or the bottle or what. All that knowledge gleaned from Kara and still we had to start over.

 

If you can't beat 'em, sob with 'em.

But it was a good lesson to learn, that parenting will always humble you, that children in the same family can be different in ways you never expected and battling through each challenge will make you appreciate their individuality even more. Nathan didn't sleep like Kara, didn't read like Kara, didn't even grow like Kara, but his character traits have been equally endearing nonetheless. His vocabulary at twelve months is larger than Kara's was at a year and a half; he's more adventurous with new foods (so far, anyway) and more spirited overall, thriving in chaos and noise, especially if he's the one making it.

I may not document all his quirks and mannerisms as often as I should, or even remember important facts as vividly as I should, but oh, my goodness, do I love my little boy. I love his bright smile and grabby fingers and cuddly neck and infectious hyena-like laugh. I love that he wants to sit on my lap at dinnertime even if keeping him from turning over my plate turns into an Olympic event. I love that he clings to me so much despite us being apart for such a large chunk of the work week.

Have I told you how much I love my son?

Happy birthday, Nathan, my favorite little handsome.

Month One

 

 

 

Month Two

  

Month Three

 

Month Four

 

 

Month Five  

 

 

Month Six

 

 

 

Month Seven

 

 

 

Month Eight 

 

 

Month Nine

 

 

 

Month Ten

  

 

 

Month Eleven 

  

 

 

Month Twelve (aka today)

 

And last but not least...

The One-Year Recap

And what a year it was.

It's our birthday, get busy

Well, really it was only my birthday. Kara turned two three weeks ago, and Nathan won't be one until the end of the month, but we did have a joint party for them today, so it counts. Anyway, the celebration started yesterday, when I came upon my office to find pink streamers on the ceiling and a red feather boa taped to my door, courtesy of my coworkers.

 

Luke e-mailed the picture (and more, I'm told!) to my boss at her request two weeks ago. Thanks, honey.

 

Festive yet work-friendly.

The two biggest accomplishments of my twenties.

It was a great day. Luke and I decided to go with a pirate theme for the kids' party, which we loved. For Kara's first birthday, decorations never even crossed our minds, we were so frazzled (and broke) preparing for Nathan's arrival, but this year since we were doing two for the price of one, we figured the expense was worth it. We didn't get everything, mainly a banner, tablecoths, candles, and food and drink stuff, but it was just enough to make the house feel festive.

Luke and I originally wanted to get something to do with monkeys, since Kara and Nathan both love them with the passion of a thousand suns, but Party City didn't have monkeys. They did have Winnie the Pooh, Dora the Explorer, Spongebob Squarepants, Seasame Street, and The Little Mermaid. The kids are still too little to really care much, and we like pirates a whole lot, so there you go.

There was birthday cake:

And the eating of cake:

 

And lots of laughing with family and friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

I couldn't have asked for a better way to jumpstart my thirties. What a wonderful day.

(Up next: reflections on my twenties.)

Not like the ones I used to know

When it comes to celebrating the holidays as a parent to small children, I struggle. Luke and I, we get so bogged down by day-to-day rituals that it's hard to find energy for "extra" things like gingerbread houses and Christmas caroling. It's funny, because growing up my family didn't do those types of things, just did the basics like Santa Claus and stockings, and that was good enough for me, but now as an adult I feel all this pressure to step it up a notch for my own kids. Kara was barely a week old for her first Christmas, so it wasn't an issue then, but I definitely felt guilty last year when pregnancy invaded every fiber of my being and it was all I could do just to get her presents wrapped and under the tree. No cookies in the oven, no wreath on the door, no snowman in the back yard; we didn't even go to church. Not that Kara noticed any of this. But I felt like a failure in terms of maximizing her Christmas experience.

This year, I was easier on myself. Two babies in two years takes a lot of adjusting to, more than I realized, and I figure it's okay to skimp on the extras while we're still getting our sea legs. There's plenty of time for crafts and baking and any other traditions we may want to take on in the future. So until then, Luke and I are keeping things simple. This year we focused on decorating our house early in the season, enjoying the chaos of Black Friday while Luke's parents watched the kids, and introducing Kara to Santa Claus and the story of Jesus's birth.

The actual holiday was also low-key; thanks to all the half days I took in October and November to care for sick babies, I had to work on Christmas Eve, but we still managed to get ourselves to church that night (thankfully there was a service at seven geared towards families with kids) and leave our first snack of milk and cookies for Santa when we got home. We gave the kids baths and dolled them up in festive pajamas and gathered them together for a reading of The Night Before Christmas before putting them to bed. And once they were asleep, Luke and I finished wrapping their presents, made some popcorn, caught up on some TV, and went to bed, visions of a full night's sleep dancing in our heads, instead of sugarplums.

The kids were up by six-thirty the next morning, ready to start the day.

 

Kara observing evidence of Santa's arrival. Santa was a big fan of Mrs. Fields' chocolate chip cookies.

 

Checking out the goods.

 

The kids go ape over snowmen these days, so the wrapping paper alone would have been enough to occupy them for hours. Why even bother with presents?

 

Yessiree Bob, that is some pretty spectacular wrapping paper. We could sit here all day and just hang out with this here wrapping paper. Momma and Daddy aren't in for a long morning at all!

Did you know that stockings could actually be used for their original intended purpose? Here, let Kara model one for you.

Time for the adults to reclaim Christmas. Open your presents already!

What, doesn't everybody pull off three inches of paper at a time?

Finally getting into the spirit and enjoying their puzzles. The Little People house you see in the background was Kara's birthday present.

 

Luke examining Kara's fire truck. She is still all about transportation and it showed in her gifts.

Luke reading one of several new books, Sandra Boynton's Barnyard Dance!, which is freaking awesome.

Nathan checking out his new phone among piles of mega blocks, Kara's feet swinging in the background.

Me and the kids. The picture quality is just meh, but Kara's pucker is priceless.

Mother and son mugging for the camera. To say I felt more myself this Christmas than the past two combined would be a severe understatement, and I think it shows here, how content I am.

The loot. Luke and I had such a fun time picking out gifts this year, working hard to find the right balance of plastic crap with handmade dolls, puzzles, and books. Initially there were two more presents in the mix, a tea set for Kara and trio of Melissa and Doug vehicles for Nathan, but the night before Christmas Eve I had everything grouped together and was overwhelmed with the feeling that it was all too much for children so young. So we put the tea set aside to return to Target and took away Nathan's vehicles, to be included as part of his birthday present. And yet it STILL took us an hour to get through everything, and it was hard to remain patient, but one day when they're school-aged and tearing through their stuff in ten minutes, I will look back on this day and be thankful for the chance to savor it all: the ability to spoil our kids without breaking the bank on trendy clothes and gadgets, their joy in discovering new things, adults finding peace amid chaos. A merry Christmas, indeed, overall.

My two-year-old... (she'll make her way)

... made pee-pee in the potty this month! It happened last Monday while I was at work (of course) during her regularly scheduled potty time with Luke. It was much in terms of volume, but he said that afterwards she was so taken aback by the experience she totally freaked out. There have been no repeat performances since then, but her interest is definitely piqued.

... still relies heavily on a lovey for naps and bedtime. Bunny came to us when she was around six months old and originally purchased as a back-up for a similar stuffed animal she received from Luke's brother's family when they came to meet her at the hospital. We wanted to be prepared in case it ever got lost or destroyed in the wash, but instead of keeping it in a safe place we tossed it into one of her toy bins, even switching out the bunnies at bedtime occasionally to make sure she was equally comfortable with both. Somewhere along the way she became more attached to the back-up bunny, and now he's just Bunny and she loves him with the passion of a thousand love letters. Not even Nathan at his young age favors anything as much as Kara does Bunny. God help us the day we leave him behind in Chicago or drop him at a rest stop, because isn't that just the way?

... has expanded her vocabulary beyond simply picking up new words; now she's stringing them together to make simple phrases, among them being "stay home" and "no froggies" (courtesy of Max and Ruby), "sit here, "night-night," "there you go," and "I sorry." And just today she said her first three-word sentence; when Luke inquired about Bunny's whereabouts, she replied, "There he is!"

... makes loops when she draws.

... always wants us to draw with her. Luke is known for owls, cats, and dogs, while I can be counted on for fish, flowers, and hearts. We both do letters, numbers, and shapes.

... seems to like the color blue best.

... is finally engaging in small talk on the phone. She's always had a thing for telephones, but now she'll actually say hello. Last week when I called from Tampa, she threw in a couple of "Mommas" just to tug at my heartstrings good and proper.

... remains a finicky eater. It's to the point that she will reject foods simply for the fact that they've been offered to her. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich can grow mold in front of her but becomes a hot commodity in the pieces coming from Luke's or my plate. Though last night at dinner she did attempt to eat corn off the cob. Breakfast food still remains the top fail-safe option for any meal of the day.

... is still missing two canines on her bottom gums.

... can get in and out of the tub without breaking her neck or needing too much help.

... wears size 3T pants and 4T shirts, mostly, depending on the brand (Carter's reigns supreme, thanks to the outlet store in close proximity to our old apartment).

... is learning to pick up afterself. She likes to help me wash off the crayon marks in the tub after bath time but needs more coaxing when it comes to putting her toys away.

... loves Little People play sets, as evidenced by her parents' choice of birthday gift and several of her Christmas presents.

... was so patient with Luke and me this year as we learned how to parent two small children and I regained my footing as a working mom taking on more responsibility. I'm so glad we have Nathan, and there are no regrets about their closeness in age at all, but I know he arrived earlier than siblings normally do and sometimes I wonder how different 2009 would have been for her had she remained an only child just a little bit longer. But what she's gained by having Nathan as a companion overrides any of the extra attention or experiences Luke and I would have given her without him in her life. That's not true for everyone, but it is for us. I know that now.

... continues to enjoy reading as much as she did when she was a baby. Current favorites include Snow, Bear Stays Up for Christmas, The Little Red Hen, The Best Nest, A Fish Out of Water, Let's Play in the Snow, Noodle Man: The Pasta Super Hero, My Big Girl Potty, Little Monster's Alphabet Book, Ten Apples Up on Top, and the original version of Where the Wild Things Are.

... still falls asleep to instrumental music every night.

... likes being tucked in.

... thinks Eskimo kisses are the funniest things on Earth and will swivel your face back and forth with her hands to get them on demand.

... recognizes every single letter of the alphabet.

... loves getting blanket rides back and forth in the living room (with Nathan in tow, of course). It's a little more taxing for her parents.

... will have a joint birthday party with Nathan in early January, which will also be taxing for her parents, but at least it'll be cheaper for them and less overall travel for their guests.

... still ends up in our bed several nights a week, sometimes as early as midnight, other times as late as four-thirty. Either way, from that point on, rare are the moments when actual REM sleep takes place because she'll start out at the end of our mattress (where Luke and I have a pillow waiting for her), then squeeze her way between us, then curl up in a ball on the floor, then come back to bed and jam her head into my side while draping her legs over Luke's hip. After all that, still she wakes up at whatever time I'm able to drag myself out of bed for work, always with a smile on her face, making a beeline for the master bathroom so she can rest her cheek on the toilet seat cover. (I don't know, either.) I feel like it should bother me, her constantly interrupting our sleep, but the truth is that I'm keenly aware of her growth and development these days and how fast time is passing, and I will take her physical closeness any way I can get it. Last night, just for a few minutes, her restlessness unexpectedly placed her right next to me, her neck resting on my arm, her body curled into mine, and for the first time since she was a baby, I was able to hold her to my chest without the constraints of a rocking chair. It may be her birthday, but I'm the one with the best gift a mother could ask for.

... is loved more than she will ever know.

-------

Enjoying crisp fall weather.

 

Playing with her brother. Observing their antics is one of my favorite pastimes.

Napping with Grandpa before Thanksgiving dinner.

 

Basking in the glory that is Max and Ruby.

Surrendering to kisses from Momma. 

The winning photo for our holiday card, thanks to our tripod and insanely good luck. This was the very first shot we took to benchmark positioning on the staircase. After that, bodies were twisted, faces were blocked, and there may have been screaming by a certain someone over Luke's attempt to wear a Santa hat. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to neither confirm nor deny these allegations.

-------

I want to say something deep and reflective here, but the words are catching in my throat. Motherhood is simultaneously the most rewarding and most frustrating job I will ever have in my life, and being the oldest, Kara plays a unique role in that. I will always be a rookie with her. She is my first baby, will be my first child out of diapers, first kindergartener, first slumber-party goer, first teenager. She opens my eyes to new ways of thinking, forces me to re-evaluate processes and goals when my patience is on the verge of running out and I'm not sure how to move forward. When she's thrashing about on the changing table because she suddenly can't stomach a diaper change, I have to pause and remember what I'm trying to accomplish--the goal isn't to restrain her and prove who's in charge. It's just to change her diaper. Yes. That basic.

It's not that Nathan doesn't inspire these feelings, too, because he does, but my reflections on his uniqueness are better suited for his birthday post next month (dear Lord, why are you doing this to me?). The difference is that Kara's the one catching my heart off-guard when I'm completely unprepared. As a result, I often find myself so overcome with emotion over each new milestone and each new challenge that I can't even put one foot in front of the other.

There's one thing, though, that isn't colored by her age for me, and that's my admiration of who she is at her core. Her headstrong personality, her affectionate nature, her very existence on this earth is cause for me to thank God every night. I am not perfect, but what I lack in grace I try to make up in gratitude and a willingness to learn how to do better. And that started with her.

Happy birthday, baby.

(Video courtesy of Luke, as usual. Amazing job, honey.)

Fireside chat, Internet-style

I think my children are trying to kill me.

For the entire month of October, it seemed, Luke and I were staring into the pit of hell. We slept in couple-hour patches as Kara and Nathan found various reasons to cry their bloody heads off in the middle of the night. Kara was sick three times, the most recent ailment rearing its ugly head over Halloween weekend in the middle of hosting Nathan's baptism. It was especially scary because her highest temperature clocked in over 105 degrees, and she felt so hot I swear I could have fried an egg on her forehead. We debated taking her to an urgent care center or ER but decided the drawbacks of being stuck in a waiting room with the possibility of receiving zero guidance in terms of treatment outweighed any possible benefit. Instead, we made an appointment with our pediatrician for Monday afternoon, where I was privy to the joyous experience of observing my toddler daughter's catheterization to make sure her recurring fever wasn't a symptom of a raging bladder infection. Her culture came back negative for a UTI, so apparently it was just another virus doing a number on her immume system.

So that's (mostly) why I've been MIA 'round these parts, what with the crying from all four of us and no sleep and taking off work to keep a cold washcloth on her face while ingesting hours of Max and Ruby episodes with the occasional Little Bear. As a result, there's a week and a half of unwatched All My Children episodes on the DVR and two layers of dust on this here blog. The hodge podge of images in this entry were uploaded and saved in draft form more than two weeks ago, with the intention of publishing them shortly after my last post. This means you're getting up-to-date content married with outdated photography, which was slightly outdated to begin with. But you're a go-with-the-flow type bunch. You can handle it.

 

Kara, Nathan, and me in the dolphin dome at the Indianapolis Zoo in September. Ah, memories of healthier days.

Let's transition from talk of sick children to my biggest piece of news, an idea that has consumed the majority of my non-parenting-related thoughts almost the entire time I've been away. You know that whole "half-marathon next fall" plan I came up with after my first 5K? Deliberately shelving it until next October so I would have plenty of time to train without overexerting myself? Yeah, well, I've since decided that moderation is for the birds. Not only have I upgraded my registration in the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon from a 5K to the real deal, I also signed up for all three training races that take place beforehand--a 5K in February, 10K in March, and 15K in April--as tangible motivators along the path to race day, set for Saturday, May 8, 2010. According to the Web site, "The Mini-Marathon is the largest half-marathon in the U.S., and overall, the fifth largest running event in America. The 2009 event sold out on December 26, 2008."

And I'm going to be part of it.

When I first learned about the Mini through work (God bless my employer for covering registration fees to such things), I was perfectly happy with running the 5K and absolutely terrified of committing to anything more strenuous than that. I'm new to running and swamped with responsibilities at home and still spotty when it comes to hitting the pavement on a regular basis. Of course I needed more time, right? Surely there were more appropriate endeavors to consider before taking on a lofty pipe dream. Not to mention that it's already November and the race is in the spring and how in the world am I going to train when the sun sets by five and there's snow and ice beneath my feet? It's not like I have a treadmill at home or free time to hit the gym.

So I went for the 5K, and encouraged Luke to do it, too, and that was that. End of story.

Luke and the kids in front of the elephants, Kara doing her best imitation of a stageshow diva.

Except that it wasn't the end. Suddenly I couldn't go a day without learning about somebody finishing their first half-marathon or training for that half-marathon or taking on a half-marathon in New Orleans four months from now or an entire group training for the race together. Marry that with the knowledge that a local blogger was willing to run the race with me, and my coffin was sealed. Suddenly I went from "Oh, HELL, no," to "Why the hell not?"

I've got some programs to review and some races to run before the end of the year, and in January I'll start training hardcore. I have no goals in regards to performance or rank or how much to run and how much to walk, and I still don't know where I'm going to find all this time to train. All I know is that I want to do this. So I will.

These years with young children and modest earnings are full of joy but also limitations. Luke and I won't be tackling an overseas trip anytime soon. We have at least five years before we can think about moving into a nicer house or investing in a better family car, and I don't have the intellectual gumption to focus on learning another language or picking up another degree, despite their attractiveness on my dream list. But completing a half-marathon? That's attainable now. I can run on the trail in my neighborhood or on the streets within my subdivision. I can take advantage of the free gym membership I'm offered at work and come up with a schedule to get myself there. I can train in ratty old tee-shirts and pants or I can pick up some gear from Target. I can change my eating habits. I can cross-train at home with The 30 Day Shred and other videos. I may not win this race, but I can definitely finish it. Is there a better way to celebrate your thirtieth year on Earth?

 

Nathan and I at the White River Gardens, adjacent to the zoo. He's excited about the race, too.

Last week, for the first time since before Kara was born, I clocked in below 140 pounds on the scale. This monumental achievement happened mostly by accident--when Kara got sick this last time I was too busy freaking out to remember to eat three meals a day--so when I weighed myself last Monday and the second number held steady at three, I was like, "Huh. Whadda know," and didn't think much of it. I figured it wouldn't last. Eating and running well enough to stay below 143 pounds is easy; it's pushing myself over the hump to shed another eight to ten pounds that seems impossible. But as of this morning I weighed in at 139.2, so maybe it's not a fluke. My current pair of jeans--size-fourteen, Old Navy jeans that were originally purchased after Kara was born, post-partum transitional jeans that I couldn't button without gasping out loud yet still had to wear to have lunch with my boss the week before I went back to work in March--are distastefully too big. I can put them on and take them off without undoing the button while the butt cheeks sag and reveal the waistband of my underwear when I bend over, so maybe it's not a fluke. There is still Halloween candy in my house a full week after Halloween.

So maybe, just maybe, it's not a fluke after all.

 

Luke and Kara at White River Gardens, admiring some lily pads.

One of my big projects for work last week was to itemize my budget for 2010, and one of the most notable changes from last year is the increased focus on travel. The second half of 2009 has me reaching into different sales territories for field visits and presentations, and that will continue next year, in addition to attending some conferences for my industry and for professional development purposes. Ninety-nine percent of them will be short overnights not requiring even a full day away from home, and I actually enjoy getting out into the field and learning more about what we do, not to mention being able to indulge in a book for hours at a time while I'm waiting at the airport/in flight/passing time at my hotel. Still, though, the thought of missing bedtime even one night a month (roughly) makes me a little sad. I went to Chicago this weekend with Nathan to visit with my sister Ryan, who was in from Germany, while Luke stayed home with Kara since she was so recently sick and also not sleeping well. And even though I had a blast with my family and enjoyed the extra one-on-one with my son, who turned out to be quite the easy travel companion, part of me felt so off because Luke and Kara weren't with us. I never realized how dependent my own personal balance is upon simply having the four of us together.

Kara and I looking for airplanes during one of our after-dinner walks.

That said, I think a key component of 2010 will be placing a stronger emphasis on Luke and I spending more time together as a couple outside of being Mom and Dad. A lack of family nearby and a very tight budget means we haven't solicited baby-sitters unless there's an evening work function I need to attend (awards dinner) or the occasional non-work-related event that doesn't allow for children (Billy Joel/Elton John concert in May, Tori Amos concert in August). And frankly, I am starting to feel the effects. I miss my husband. I want us to spend time together outside of watching Man vs. Food while we fold a load of towels in our pajamas. I want to go out with him wearing boot-cut jeans that fit my ass properly and a little eye shadow and talk over a nice steak and see a movie. Hell, at this point, I'll take sporty sneakers and soup and sandwiches at Panera. I just want us to have the occasional luxury of just paying attention to each other.

Of course, to make this happen, we need a baby-sitter we trust completely who won't charge us an arm and a leg to watch our children, and I still get weirded out at the idea of bringing a stranger into my house. However, the longer we go without spending any real quality time together, the closer I get to believing even that option isn't unthinkable. There are coworkers I know and trust who are willing to do this for us, but they live on the other side of town and, well, they're ADULTS, not twenty-year-olds looking to score extra money for gas or the junior prom. It's hard to muster up the courage to take them up on their generosity, as if they have nothing better to do than keep an eye on kids they aren't even related to. If only we had family nearby to hit up once and a while. If only we lived closer to where they are. But right now, we are here, and we need to embrace it, and I need to stop being afraid of what other people think and start doing whatever is necessity for my family to live a life full of color. And right now? That means finding a baby-sitter.

We have been making an effort to attend church more regularly, and my hope is to find someone there who takes to my kids instantly and is looking to sit at least one night a month. That's not so much to ask, is it? My marriage is worth at least that, right? (God, I'm looking at you. Hook a daughter up.)

Luke and the kids on the way to our walking trail.

There are so many posts brewing inside of me--a nine-month update for Nathan, Christmas shopping, ramblings about my house, more reflections on family planning and life with two children--but on my lunch hour I'm more inclined to click through my blogroll than hammer out a substantial thought track, and when I get home my top priority is to throw on my running clothes, stretch, and get out the door as soon as possible (and it still only happens twice a week!). Then it's bedtime and dishes and tallying receipts and comforting a child who is sick/teething/wet/poopy/determined to see that Luke and I sleep no more than five or six hours a night. I know it'll get easier, but I find myself growing impatient with the timeframe. Will I ever again blog with any sort of consistency, or will it always be feast or famine? Will the puzzle pieces ever just fall into place, or will I always have to work this hard to score any time with myself/my husband/my friends/hobbies, etc. etc.?

 

Don't ask this guy. He's one of them. 

Looking for my easy button (your mom's easy!)

Ever since posting my dream list, I keep coming back to the gaping disconnect between many of them in terms of importance. Short-term is one thing, but come on. Something about mentioning "Organizing my filing cabinet" in the same breath as visiting a foreign country or, saying, ADOPTING A CHILD didn't sit well with me. So on Tuesday night, once the kids were in bed and the dishes were done, I lugged out my Huggies box full of paperwork containing receipts, bank statements, household documents, and other randomness dating back more than a year, and got to work. Two hours later, I was done. Done! Finished with a project I've been obsessing over for months, bitching and moaning about never having enough time for things like filing, what with all the clothing and feeding and bathing and general erranding I do in my role as mother. I just need to hole myself up for one afternoon and let Luke play point with the kids, I'd say. An entire afternoon, when really all I needed was one night away from the damn TV. Why do we make things so hard for ourselves? Or, more appropriately, why am I so lazy?

Anyway. All of that to say that it only took four day to cross off my first dream from the list. And Jen sent me an e-mail over the weekend outlining how to turn off the stupid box that appears next to Typepad comments, so that's two. At this rate, I'll need a whole new dream list for 2010.

Moving forward, my goal is to refer to this list and conquer new action items as I'm able to take them on. In fact, I'm already hard at work on a new one--"Relearn to crochet"--as Luke and I are taking a more creative spin on Christmas this year. To be honest, we'are still adjusting to the loss of my Parents income, and when we examined our proposed budget for the holiday season, we realized it just wasn't possible. In this new age of financial transparency, it's all about keeping things real and not being ashamed of the limits you have to set for yourself. It doesn't mean that we're "in trouble" or that we can't pay our bills or we don't have anything left over for savings. We're not, we can, and we do. We are fine. We just can't afford huge expenses that fall outside of our normal day-to-day spending without running up a balance we can't pay off at the end of the month. So hi, my name is Frema and I can't (read: won't) blow $700 on Christmas this year.

ANYWAY. A few of my coworkers were meeting during lunch to work on their knitting (shockingly, they are younger than 80), so at first I thought I would take the opportunity to just do that. But after one session, I was throwing my hands up at the chore that is navigating two needles and pulled from the depths of my closet my not-touched-in-years craft bag, which, when I say "craft bag" I mean "outdated tote containing two half-started crocheting projects back from the year 2000." I was a sophomore in college in 2000, and rooming with a certain domestic diva willing to divulge her secrets. She taught me and another friend a simple stitch, and we'd spend hours every week watching old movies and zoning out with our needles and yarn. I started with a blanket and then got bored and moved on to a scarf and then got bored with that and eventually put everything away, "until I was feeling inspired again." That was nine years ago.

Understandably, I'm a little rusty.

Now that I'm a couple of weeks into it, I'm learning more and more about what I don't remember and what I never actually learned how to do. There's a crocheting 101 classs at the local Joann Fabrics that I thought about taking at the beginning of November, but in reviewing our expenses I realized I could either take the class or get my hair cut, so now the new plan is to visit my local library and grab some reference books until I can take the class when it's offered again in December. I learn best when there's a physical teacher around to show me the ropes, but I'm willing to broaden my horizons a little and see what I can accomplish on my own. I don't want to flake out on this again. I want to make something of my half-assed blanket and scarf and also create something completely new. I added a brand-new category and everything! So this will not be the last time you are subjected to craft talk from me. (Crosses fingers)

My sad little blanket and Winnie the Pooh tote. College Frema was really into Winnie the Pooh back then.

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Since the last entry was all about Kara, I thought I would share a few photos of the other scene-stealer in our house. I'd tell you about all the things Nathan's been up to lately except that then I won't have anything left for his nine-month update. I will say that his baptism is this Sunday and that we decided to go with a spiffy sweater-corduroy pants combo for his ensemble, and as part of the most perfect surprise ever, my sister Ryan will be joining us from Germany! My brother-in-law, Jason, is in Russia for training, so Ryan will fly into Chicago on Thursday and hang around for the next few weeks. She and Nathan share the same birthday, and she hasn't been home for a visit since Christmas, so she hasn't even met him yet. I am super psyched to see her and introduce her to my beautiful boy.

Nathan's excited about it, too.

Is Auntie into sippy cups? Because I totally dig ladies with a working knowledge of sippy cups.

 

 A favorite pastime: Holding onto furniture for dear life.

When did my widdle tiny Boo Boo graduate to a full-fledged blend of baby and toddler with a dashing young smile to boot? Do you see the tooth parked on his bottom gum? It's like he's a real live boy!

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Okay, okay, since you twisted my arm, here's a little Kara goodness for you. Presenting: Greetings and Salutations, toddler-style.

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Finally, here are the two monkeys side by side. What fun they have, exploring the world together.

Luke and Bree plus three?

Now that the kids are a little older and every second of the day isn't solely focused on survival, Luke and I are finally in a place to start putting the finishing touches on our home. We made the move last October, and yet we still have walls that are bare, pictures that are outdated or missing altogether (didn't we give birth to a son in January?), knick knacks that need staging, files that need organizing, boxes that need sorting through.... You get the picture. As a result, we're now re-evaluating the usefulness and/or necessity of every piece of furniture, every stitch of clothing, every picture, file, and knick knack that we have, the goal being to keep only those things that bring us the greatest joy, meet our basic needs, and make our lives a little easier so we can spend less time picking up after ourselves and more time doing. Yesterday, I gave an armful of clothes, five pairs of shoes, and several old duffel bags to Goodwill, and looking at all the new space in my closet was not unlike going on a first date that involves dinner and second base. Not that I could recite the technical definition of second base, mind you, but in my head, it's some pretty good stuff.

Anyway, when I received word that my Parents job was ending, another goal was thrown into the mix: make a little money. In this economy, it's all about the Benjamins, y'all, one man's trash is another man's treasure, and I've got my mind on my money and my money on my mind. (If you can think of other personal finance cliches, knock yourself out. Bonus points for those born from early nineties rap.)

ANYWAY. Enter the baby clothes.

As Kara (rapidly) outgrew each stage of (her precious, adorable) clothing, everything was laundered and folded and blessed and placed neatly into Tuperware bins to use for the next baby. Items ranged from onesies she practically lived in to a three-month winter suit she wore maybe once on a stroller ride with Daddy to a newborn coming-home outfit she never wore at all because as it turns out, eleven-pound infants were not built to wear such tiny things.

 

Another Parents.com gem taken about ten days after Kara was born, just in time for our annual Christmas card. In case you're wondering, the sleeper and the Santa hat both made the cut.

Since Nathan's closet is smaller, we've been going through his things every couple of sizes, but except for one major purging before we moved into the house, Kara's things were left relatively untouched. As she is our first precious baybeee, it was emotional for the both of us, going through those bins, and there were tears and heartfelt talks over what we wanted to hold onto and what we were okay offering to the world (for cash), and as I sniffled sadly into the sleeve of my shirt and lamented the possibility of never being in this exact stage again, I wailed for the zillionth time, "Do you really think we're done?"

My husband blew me away by replying that he really wasn't sure. However, he added, "I think we're sad for different reasons."

"What do you mean?" I said, recovering from my latest Ugly Cry.

"I'm sad about Kara never being this little again, not about not doing this again."

 

Kara at eight months, watching me leave for work on a random weekday morning. I can't remember if we kept these pjs or not. I hope so.

The topic of more children was revisited Saturday morning, after I reorganized Kara's closet to store our bassinet, which until today had been residing in our master bedroom, serving as a drying rack and/or storage unit, take your pick, and isn't THAT exactly what you want in your line of vision as you get ready to...well, you know.

As I refolded the few baby blankets we decided to hold onto and placed them on the bassinet's mattress, I asked Luke again, "Do you still think you're okay not having another baby?"

And he sighed, because hot damn, is he married to a woman with a one-track mind or what, but once again, he conceded, "Maybe not. I don't know. I don't mean to leave you hanging, but I really don't know," adding, "...but probably."

The conversation rarely ends here. There's been a lot of talk about other ways to add to our family; the door is currently open to either adoption or foster parenting, though Luke isn't ready to do any soul-searching on either one. Which is totally understandable, seeing as our oldest isn't even potty-trained and our youngest can't stand on his own two feet without assistance. Why do I keep pushing for an answer to a question that doesn't need an answer right now? Why can't I just be happy with the family we have and let the future work itself out?

 

Me at 40 weeks with Kara. If a third pregnancy isn't in the cards, I certainly won't miss looking like an item of interest on a whale expedition.

I'll tell you why. Because I don't want to worry about contraception for the entire length of my thirties. Because I don't want to drag out my child-birthing years with large age gaps between a second and third child. Because I know Luke wants to go back to work someday. Because I know we would want a parent at home with any kids younger than school age. Because we have other plans for our life, plans that don't include changing diapers, washing bottles, or rocking babies to sleep at two o'clock in the morning, and I want to know when those plans might possibly become a reality.

When it comes to physically producing another baby, Luke is very, very hesitant, not just because he's quite happy with the two we already have, the two who are extremely close in age and who try his patience on a daily basis, but he's also concerned about what a third pregnancy might mean for me. I developed pre-eclampsia with Nathan, and in hindsight, I think I probably had it with Kara, on a low enough scale that the doctors just missed it. If that's actually the case, I got it the second time around a little earlier, so who knows when it would rear its ugly head with number three. Plus, you know, gestation, so tiring, so draining, and recovery from a third c-section? I don't even want to think about it. Breastfeeding/pumping/weaning again? I DON'T EVEN WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT. It's just been in the last few months that I've finally started feeling like myself again. It started with the 30 Day Shred back in May and has climaxed these last couple of weeks as I build on my training for my upcoming 5K. I am 29 years old. I want to look and feel 29. I don't think that's unreasonable.

But then I think about never getting a positive pregnancy test again, never seeing a baby of mine on an ultrasound again, never feeling kicks and flutters inside my belly again, never having the most perfect human being I've ever seen in my life be removed from my uterus again, and I am filled with sadness. I remember being in recovery with Nathan a couple of hours after he was born, resting in bed, holding him in my arms, nuzzling his cheek and kissing his head, and telling Molly, "I understand why some women have eight babies." And I did understand. Those moments of getting to know him were worth every ounce of discomfort, every minute of confusion. I knew it with Kara and confirmed it with my son.

 

Nathan at eight or nine weeks, I think, donning a sleeper that Luke wore when he was a baby. I don't care if we get our next child at eight YEARS old, he/she is wearing this sleeper, damn it, family traditions and all that.

In the event, though, that we did close the pregnancy chapter of our lives and expand our clan using alternative methods, I think adoption or foster parenting would be a wonderful fit for Luke and me and the kids. I've always been drawn to the idea of taking in a child who needs a loving home; when I was in middle school, I told all my friends that I would never give birth to a baby, not ever, because there were too many children already in the world who didn't have anybody to love them. I spent half my junior year thinking about becoming a nun because I adored the sisters at my high school so much, so obviously lil' Frema's decision-making processes were a little extreme back then, but I still agree there are too many children who need parents and love and education and quality medical care, and Luke and I have such a good life to offer another child that I can't imagine not doing it. Though I can imagine not doing it, because of the oodles of money you have to shell out and the hoops you have to jump through and the fact that patience has never been my strong suit and it's already spread thin with two kids. A third might very well push me over the edge, however he/she gets here.

Nothing is set in stone either way, and like I said, Luke really isn't up for talking about this in-depth right now, but so far it seems like we might lean more towards foster parenting with an open option to adopt. I attribute my feelings to reading The Pinballs in fifth grade. What? It was a really, really good book.

 

Nathan around four months, probably, because he's still in his swing. Actually, it's Molly's swing, but whatever, we're all family around here.

Finally, I haven't written off going along with Luke's initial thought of just being happy with the two beautiful children we have. There's something to be said for leaving these early years in the past and enjoying the new experiences that come along with getting older. Luke and I have loved watching Kara come into her own, increasing her vocabulary, showing interest in potty training, delighting in chapter books, going down kiddie slides at the park. And Nathan is in one of my favorite baby stages--he can transport himself to any area he wants and entertain himself for longer periods of time, he's smiling and laughing and snuggling and kissing (read: sucking on your knee). And while he's once again taken to waking up at night, we can still count on getting in a respectable block of sleep. His newborn days were hard, so very hard, and it took us completely by surprise because Kara was such an easy-going baby, no gas problems, no screaming for hours a day despite being nestled safely in our arms. Who knows how a third child would rock our world?

We also have big plans for retirement savings and 529 plans and traveling the world and being charitable, and all of that takes money. The bigger our family, the smaller our financial nest egg will be for all of these areas.

 

This is a recent, non-Parents shot of Kara and Nathan oohing and aahing over the Lost A Sock family's shiny, red fire truck. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, bestowing my mad mothering skills only upon them.

The hardest thing about this decision is that there's no right or wrong answer. All of the reasons I've given for having another child are just as valid as the reasons for being done. In the end, it's not really about money for your golden years or nursing difficulties or your personal reserves, it's about what you feel called to do in your heart. All I can do right now is think and pray and continue to share my feelings with Luke and also SHUT UP ALREADY, because holy hell, the last thing we need as we work this out is pressure. Sometimes the best action plan isn't to search for answers, it's to let them come.