On The Night You Were Born- Part 4

Sweet Girl,

From the day you were born perfect strangers would stop me on the street, take a look at you, and then say (with a kind of faraway look in their eyes), "it goes so fast." At first, I was annoyed by the interruptions, even a little hostile to the idea that someone would tell me how I was going to experience my time with you.

Oh little one, they were right.

How could it possibly be that tomorrow we will wake up and celebrate your fourth birthday? A few minutes ago I was changing your diaper and trying to snap up your onesie. Now you dress and put your sandals on the wrong feet all by yourself. You have ideas about fashion and food that every so often collide with my notions about the same and you've become a savvy negotiator. You have big ideas, you make up stories, you don't want me to stick around at play dates. All this happened so fast it makes my head spin. But I've always like hanging out with four-year-olds; they were my favorite age to babysit back in the day. What good fortune that I now have a live-in four year old!

This hasn't been the easiest year for your momma. We left Atlanta in September and moved back to the place you were born. It was a really, really hard move for me as I mourned the distance we would live from Mata and so many of our friends in Atlanta. I cried nightly about the fact that you would be leaving Glenn School and Anna Kate and Sara Harper. About the only thing that kept me glued together some days was the fact that you seemed to roll with all the changes so well. Packing your toys didn't faze you, saying final goodbyes to friends was a genuine, but not overly emotional, affair and you were excited about the possibilities in our new home. Your sense of adventure and flexibility got me through some rough days. It sounds crazy to say that I watched and learned from you; but I think that's what happened. I tried to see the exciting possibilities through your eyes, I got giddy when the potential of new, lasting friendships sprung up in our path and I tried to live in the present, with you as my role model. So thank you, Marian, for helping me through a tough time. And in the face of all my worrying, I sit here tonight writing from Mata's house (you're downstairs sleeping in her bed), preparing to send you to Glenn School camp tomorrow and gearing up for your birthday party with Sara Harper and Anna Kate tomorrow evening.

Since this blog seems to have turned into a birthday blog (alas) it seems like I should offer a broad outline of the past year. To say that you've spent the last year becoming more of who you are sounds odd but it feels right. When I look back and think about the year from two to three I see constant movement and bold steps forward in development. This year feels like the softer, gentler version of the year before. This is the year you put finesse on your language skills, built subtle interpersonal skills and discovered the ability to sit and entertain yourself for long stretches of time. I love to sneak into a room, or hide around a corner, when you're playing by yourself and just listen the worlds you create and marvel at your command of language. You often sound so grown up that it makes my heart ache a little bit.

You're still an avid observer of the world around you careful about jumping into new situations and meeting new people. I've stopped thinking of you as shy or bashful. Instead, as the woman who rang us up at Trader Joe's said this week, "it just shows that you have good sense not to talk to every person you meet for the first time." It doesn't take long to win you over, but you do take some time to watch and observe before you engage. Good sense, indeed.

You are crazy about play dates. Last year I wrote that every morning you woke up and wanted to know what we were going to do. This year, you wake up and want to know who you will play with. I try not to take it personally that you would prefer I not be present for your play dates. You have new friends at school and outside of school that have enriched our lives. You have become especially good friends with Naeem, also a newcomer to DC and the son of my new friend, Tanory. Naeem doesn't play well with every kid his age, he's what many old southern women would refer to as "a handful." But you, Marian, bring out the best in him. His parent's relief at having a friend who plays so well with him is evident every time we get together. I love that you have the patience and the skill to navigate a friendship that would be frustrating to many other kids your age.

Tomorrow we will have a dress-up/ballerina/pizza party at Mata's house. That's if you stop throwing up. You were feeling fine today, chasing Joseph around the house at full speed, when you suddenly stopped and starting puking. Later, through runny eyes you said, "I don't want to be sick on my birthday." Oh lord, please don't be sick on your birthday. The minute it was evident you were sick tonight I felt this incredible protective instinct kick in. I wanted to protect you from all the ill, from all the yuck and, most of all, from the disappointment of having your birthday party at camp and at the house tomorrow called off. This kind of desperate feeling is not unlike some of the feelings I felt in those first few days after you were born. It's a scary thing to hold a little tiny being in your hands and realize that you can't protect them from every cold germ, every sad goodbye and every bump and bruise along the way. But if you're lucky enough you get a kid who says, as you did tonight, "I don't want to make other people sick." If you're lucky enough you get a kid who can pick up where she left off with old friends and make new friends with ease. If you're lucky enough, you have a kid just like you.

I love you, Marian. If there's any justice in the world, you'll wake up feeling fit as a fiddle and ready for a cupcake.

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.

Joseph's Journey

I have no idea what to name this blog now. This has kept me from writing, although to be honest, it is more than my inability to name the blog that has kept me from updating. It feels like such a big job to introduce a new life, and I am intimidated by big jobs. Although I did birth you, and believe me, that was a big job.

Joseph, you joined us on October 4th, 2009 at 1:23am. You were born underwater with Margaret and Anjli (the midwives), Susannah (the doula), and your poppa in attendance. Your labor was a breeze but pushing you out I found to be downright uncomfortable. It turns out that pushing 9lbs. 14.5 ounces would make just about anyone uncomfortable. I did start writing your birth story just a few days after you were born and because I have yet to post Marian's birth story, I don't feel so bad about not finishing yours.

I began your sister's blog on the day that her umbilical cord fell off. It felt like such a holy little moment that I couldn't help but sit down and write. Sweet Joseph, your umbilical cord fell off in the bathroom of Jason's Deli as I was changing your diaper after a whirlwind trip to the Center for Puppetry Arts with Marian, Nona, Mata and Aunt Katie. I heard something hit the floor and almost didn't take the time to look down. But there it was, the last little piece of the cord that connected me to you, on the cold tile floor. I picked it up and carried it around in my diaper bag until just yesterday when Marian found it and said, "This is Joseph's?"

Things are different when you're the second child, as I'm sure you'll come to discover in your own time. There is a little less time for the kind of sitting around and staring at each other that induces wonder. You got hauled around to Glenn School, the grocery store, cultural attractions and the park (and that was just in the first four days) and rudely woken up from nearly every nap you managed to catch. I was worried about this at first, thinking that maybe we would not have the chance to bond in the same way that I did with Marian in her first few days on earth.

But then there were those moments in the middle of the night when you would wake me up with your squirming (you're already a much better sleeper than Marian ever was) with a smile spread across your face. You and I would steal away to the living room and curl up on the couch under a mound of blankets and just cuddle. You, nursing yourself to sleep, fit perfectly in the curve of my body and my chin resting on top of your head felt exactly right. The love would wash over me all at once with an intensity that is hard to describe.

Today is Christmas Eve and we are at Nona and Grandaddy's house in Mississippi. The house is gorgeous, there are already a zillion wrapped boxes under the tree and I'm writing this to the sounds of Marian and Nona decorating a gingerbread house. You are being passed from arm to arm, thrilled with the shiny lights, the patterns on pillowcases and fans whirring overhead.

I have been thinking, over the course of the past few weeks, that this would be a good night to write. Technically, you are named after Poppa Joe but I have always been a little partial to your biblical namesake as well. Afterall, some two thousand odd years ago, another Joseph was on quite a journey. The star of the show tonight is, of course, the baby Jesus, with Mary coming in as a strong second. Joseph, we hear, cleared a place in the stable but beyond that, his role is pretty secondary. But I like to imagine him as a man who was so confident in his love for Mary, so sure of his love for this small child, that he could live with the ambiguity and endless questions of the child's birth. Joseph, at least for me, has come to symbolize what it means to be a gentle and loving soul in a world that poses far more questions than it supplies answers.

Joseph, I hope that you will be able to live with ambiguity, that you will find people to love beyond all reason and you will find bringing people out of the cold, making them feel comfortable and safe, is a job worthy of what I am sure will be your immeasurable talents. But on this, your first Christmas Eve, it is your job to be a baby. The rest of us can stare contentedly into your blue eyes and remember the promise represented by the birth of a babe born in a manger. Peace on earth. You make it seem possible.

On Being an Only Child

Sweetest Marian,

Things are going to change around here and before they do I feel this pressing need to write to you. It has been months, three to be exact, since I've written on your blog at all and not once over the past 9 months have I mentioned that you will be a big sister soon. But it's true, and it's imminent, and I thought it would be good to write one last time before we start sharing this space with another member of the family.

Today we went to the zoo one last time, just the two of us. Mata swears that the zoo is a good way to bring on labor but I'm really in no hurry to get this show on the road (I've got a bad case of allergies and I'm hoping to get that cleared up before embarking on any feat of athleticism i.e. birth). Really, I felt like going to the zoo with you today because it's something we've been doing together since you were itty-bitty and every time we go it's a totally different experience. I love watching you take it in, gauging the way your reactions change from visit to visit and the way your vocabulary has expanded to talk about what you see.

Today, the two of us sat on the benches overlooking the gorilla exhibit and ate apples and studied the movements of our now-familiar friends. I can so clearly remember sitting on that exact bench, breastfeeding you and watching those gorillas (although the baby gorillas were a lot smaller then too) and feeling so at one with the world. Today, I felt that feeling again and yet so much has changed. Instead of being curled at my breast you were sitting up straight by my side chomping on a whole apple and talking me through the movements of the gorillas from point A to point B. It struck me that we will have so many fewer of these moments in the coming years and this made me just a little sad.

For two years and three months you have been my only baby--the total focus of my daily attention and, together with your father, the center of my universe. The universe is expanding to include one more and I can only trust that there is some infinite wisdom that allows our hearts to expand in unison. There are many wise women in my circle that assure me that this happens without effort.

There will undoubtedly be times, especially in these first few months, when you feel that you've been somewhat displaced by this new, needy little being. So before he/she is even on the scene I want you to know how very much at the center you stand. I want you to know that love does not diminish because it is shared and that you will always, always be my sweet baby girl. Of course, I'm saying this because I believe it, and because it's just nice to be reminded that it's true.

Tonight you are an only child. There's no guarantee that will be true tomorrow night but what I do promise is that I will love just as fiercely tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I love you, Marian.

On the Night You Were Born, Part 2

This morning you woke early, it was still dark outside, and your Poppa scooped you out of your crib and brought you into bed with us. You fussed for a minute, kicked around the covers and then settled down between the two of us as we all sank into a deep sleep. I awoke, this time with sun streaming in the window, to feel you kissing the back of my shoulder and sweetly inquiring, "Mama 'wake now?" How could I not wake up with a smile on my face? How could this day, two years from the day that we labored together to bring you to this place, be anything but joyful?

It seems impossible that two years ago tonight I was sitting in a bathtub with you inside of me. Tonight you sat all by yourself in a bathtub telling me that you were pouring water on your turtles feet and you needed a washcloth to keep the soap out of your eyes. How did you manage to grow from a seven pound 12 ounce, squirming little newborn to a child who can express empathy, rage (I want snack, RIGHT NOW!), love and tenderness so quickly?

Tomorrow we will celebrate your second birthday with Nona and Grandaddy. But tonight I sit and marvel, in much the same way I did last year, at the passage of time and the beauty of it all. You were meant to be here; I was meant to be your momma and poppa was meant to be your poppa. And every day we learn together how to fill our place in each other's lives. I wake up every morning so thankful that I call you my sweet baby girl and you call me Momma.

The night you were born was the very beginning, a stunningly beautiful beginning, and every day that's passed since has been a journey of discovery. I can't wait to find out where you take me next. Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl. I love you.