1:23 on the 4th

Joseph, it doesn't appear that I'm going to be able to stay awake until you turn one. We have traveled a long way over the course of the past two days and I think the road weariness has caught up with all of us.

Tonight we are back in Atlanta, with the exception of Poppa who just got off a plane in Washington, D.C. This is the town of your birth so it does feel right to be back on Zimmer Drive where so much of the action took place. Earlier this evening, when I had you on my hip on a trip out to the van to find our sheets, I decided to retrace a few of my steps from this time one year ago. Your Poppa, sister, Peanut and I took one last good walk just before we decided it was time to head to the hospital. Tonight, I held you in my arms as I made that same short journey up the street. I sang a little song as we went along -- you do like music -- and briefly told you the story of your birth. I thanked you for making the trip so easy on me and told you how happy I was that you decided it was time to come out and see your momma's face.

Your birth still feels like a miracle to me. It seemed one minute I was wandering through labor thinking you might never come and the next minute, you were practically here. I say practically because I remember quite clearly thinking, as I was pushing, that there was just no way this (meaning YOU) were going to come out. Many studies show that women are able to remember details of the births of their children with the same amount of clarity no matter how many years have passed since the actual event. I hope that this is true; there are a few memories that I would want with me at the very end. The birth of you and your sister are the two that I would hold onto with dear life. I can remember the sensation of the warm water lapping against us as I held you against my chest, the sound of you voice (loud!) and the joyful surprise of finding you a boy. I was nearly certain you would be a girl.

One year has gone by at the speed of light. I said just tonight that it feels like you've always been here, or at the very least you've been around ten years or so. But the fact that you don't say many words (other than "ut-oh" which was your very first and still your most distinct word) and you're a little unsteady on your feet (but you are most certainly walking more than you are crawling) betray the fact that you've only been with us a short while. Still, it seems like I've known you longer than this.

You are such a happy little person, already you seem to find it easy to be entertained by a leaf on the floor, the sound of a spoon banging on a table or whatever it is Marian is doing at the moment. She makes you laugh like none other and the sound of two children laughing together has got to be one of the sweetest in the world. When she does something that makes you laugh I think my heart might explode. Your smile is impossible to turn away from and your eyes smile as often as your mouth. Sometimes, when you are nursing, I will tell you have stinky feet just to watch the corner of your eyes crinkle up in laughter. You think that's hilarious. Sometimes, I'm actually telling the truth.

I've almost made it to midnight. But it's time to turn in for the evening because we have celebrating ahead of us tomorrow, a continuation of today's four-generations birthday party. I love you beyond any ability to put it into words. I will continue to try, however, each time I pull you in close and kiss your neck. You are my sweet baby boy and this year has been a gift (and sometimes, I'll admit, a challenge). You are mine and I am yours forever and ever. Happy birth-day, thank you so much for finding your way to me.

On The Night You Were Born- Take 3

I just arrived home from a childbirth class, hoping to wrap up my doula certification before my two-year deadline passes. It wasn't until I was pulling away from class tonight and caught a glimpse of lightening across the sky that I realized that I might have shared with all these anxious women where I was three years ago tonight. Funny, it was the streak across the sky that reminded me of sitting in a bathtub in D.C. watching a storm roll in and out as I waited for you to arrive.

The past year has been miraculous. I'm not sure what I expected from a two-year-old but I know I'm writing this tonight simply amazed by what you've turned into and how you've grown. Since I've done such a poor job at keeping this blog, I'll offer a few general observations about the past year and things I've learned from you.

You love to go. Nearly every morning when you wake up the first question you ask is, "Momma, where are we going today?" Of course, you have your favorite places, the park in particular, but you are happy to hear we're going anywhere. You love the grocery store (Trader Joe's is a true destination) and if we slip into Richard's Variety Store you nearly explode with excitement. I love that so many places can be of interest and that you are able to find the unique in the ordinary.

This past weekend we went on a hike in the Smoky Mountains with our friends Roy, Julie and their twin girls Riley and Frances (8.5 year olds). The hike wasn't terribly strenuous but it was hot and we made a short trip last a long time with continuous side trips off the trail into the mountain stream where moss covered rocks made easy paths from bank to bank. You had the stamina of a mountain goat and you were so eager to get in the water and climb the big rocks. I've mentioned before that you seem to take after your father when it comes to aversions to sticking to well marked paths. This trait does not seem to be fading away the older you get. I did tell Poppa that if you end up free diving or rock climbing without ropes, I will blame him entirely.

You have a way with words. There were times this past year when I couldn’t imagine that the words I heard coming out of your mouth were really yours. Like the time, several months ago when you were outside swinging from the magnolia tree and you looked at me and said, “that’s really unattractive.” It wasn’t really the words that surprised me but it was the pitch perfect delivery. The sponge metaphor is overused but it holds true; you soak in everything and find ways to use your newly minted vocabulary whenever possible.

One of the greatest developments recently is your love for make-believe. You’ve started naming things and using made-up words to describe things when you can’t easily think of the appropriate word. Your favorite names, at the moment, are Poinky, Sota, and Hader (sounds a little like Hater but you assured me the other day that your dog, Hader, was not grouchy). In an interesting twist, you’ve decided that Joseph’s name is Marshall. The genesis of this name is a complete mystery to me but you’ve stuck by it steadfastly. One day when we were playing make-believe and I told you that my name was Poinky and my little boy was named Marshall you dropped your jaw and exclaimed, “I have a brother named Marshall, too!”

You are a good friend. Our first parent-teacher conference was such a joy. I’m afraid that each child is allotted only a handful of perfect parent-teacher conferences and I would hate to have you peak too early. But for a first preschool conference, I couldn’t have asked for more. Your teachers said that you are the kid that most often engages other children in play; that if one of the children is having a tough day and finding it hard to plug in they will often tell him or her to find you and join in your activity. I have watched your friendships develop over the past year and I have been so impressed with your patience, your willingness to share and your compassion. I see other children gravitating to you and I watch the way you welcome them to play with you. Granted, you are a cautious observer yourself initially, but once the ice is broken you are a ton of fun to be around. We have been lucky to find such good friends for you. Then again, maybe you found them yourself.

Each day that I get to spend mothering you is a blessing—the very definition of grace. Sure, we have our moments. It turns out you have a bit of a stubborn streak and are willfully independent (secretly, I treasure these traits as well, even though I can’t afford to encourage them on a daily basis). But the feel of your hand in mine as we cross a street, your arms around my neck for a good night hug or your smile first thing in the morning are gifts beyond measure.

Happy Birthday, Marian. I love you to the moon and the stars (and, as you sometimes offer, “all the way up to the shower curtain”).

Laughing Matters

Once again, I'm writing from the living room at Nona and Granddaddy's house. This does not bode well for the future of the blog since the last time we were here was six weeks ago and I'm not sure when we're scheduled to be back. I must learn to write from our house.

We are here for our third annual Mardi Gras trip and it's fun to watch you, Marian, figure out how to score loot. We went to the Pass Christian parade yesterday and you were not at all certain that it was going to be fun. But a few shiny neck bobbles and one stuffed bear handed to you directly from someone on a float, seemed to change your attitude. By the time we left, you were running back and forth from the curb by yourself and sitting comfortably atop your Poppa's shoulders waving your hands above your head and saying, "Throw me some beads, mister!" Joe, you fed and slept through the whole affair.

Marian, you are a devoted and loving older sister. Whatever we expected from you, jealousy or indifference, has not come to pass. Joe is who you reach for when you wake up and who you demand to kiss before going to bed. Joe-Boy, a name you've coined, is equally devoted to you; although he seems to know when you've hit manic territory and has perfected his "get me out of here, now, and I mean it!" scream.

It is fascinating and heart warming to watch your relationship develop. Yesterday, as we drove back from the parade and Joe was screaming at the top of his lungs, I asked you to sing to him. Within minutes he was happy, a wide grin stretched across his face, as you clapped and made funny faces. You seem to be able to turn his mood around better than anyone and every time it happens if feels like the world rights itself and peace settles in.

Joe, you laughed for the first time on your three month birthday. This is,to the day, the exact same time that Marian laughed. We didn't catch that first giggle on video but we did catch your first laughing fit and as that's what I've posted here. There are no words to describe what happens to parents when they hear that sweet sound for the first time. It's an explosion; literally, it feels like your chest might just burst open. And it feels like that the fifth, sixth and tenth time too. You laughter stops time.

Two babies has pushed me to the brink of sanity several times. In fact, your Poppa will tell you that on his first day back at work full-time in January I called him in tears. Every parent of more than one child has warned me that it's way more than two times the work. But it's also full of more than two times the wonder and joy. I am thankful, every minute, for this bounty.