Caroline turns one

So typical for the second child. Here it is, two days after her birthday, and I'm finally getting around to posting about it! I am at the moment typing while Sam is engrossed in his Geotrax movie (poor guy has a cold and a fever), and Caroline happily entertaines herself on the floor with a Nerf ball. She's regularly standing up on her own now and we've glimpsed a step or two, but nothing dramatic. She's a very careful little girl - so unlike her brother - and always tests, watches, observes, thinks about...and then she finally tries it. I'm convinced that one day she'll just up and walk across the room.

On the day of her birthday, I woke up early to go for a swim and had some time to reflect while driving in the cold to the pool. I had a lot to digest regarding Caroline's first year.

I was thinking about how gentle Caroline's entry into the world was, how unobtrusive. It was hesitant, too, waiting for just the right moment. She faked me out regularly for about two weeks before she finally decided to come, and even then she took a little break to let me watch Grey's Anatomy the evening I was in labor. Just like her...careful, observant, even thoughtful in a way one wouldn't normally think a baby could be.

I thought about how her infancy will always be tied to losing my mom. Her birth was the very last time my mom would come up to Seattle to visit, although I didn't know it at the time. When she was 5 months, she was a model car passenger and guest on a last family trip to Sunriver. I love looking at the picture our friend Pam took of me laughing with Mom while nursing Caroline. She was so remarkably flexible during our trips up and down I-5 during the fall, and a solid anchor for me to my family when Mom died in October. What is truly amazing, though, is that she has managed to both keep me human and sane during a time in childrens' lives that most parents report feeling exactly the opposite. How this happened, how I was sent the perfect baby for the perfect moment, is nothing short of a miracle to me.

So, Caroline, while I drove to swim and turned all of this over in my head, I saw that the sunrise was coming over the horizon and tinting the scant clouds pink, and the cherry blossoms were just beginning to peek out from their places on the trees. And I realized that every year on your birthday I will remember how no matter how dark and long the winter, spring is coming. There may be a few more cold snaps and surprises, but it's coming just as sure as those blossoms will eventually become flowers. Babies always grow, things always change, trees always bloom, hearts always heal. You have helped me realize that this year. I don't know what I would have done without you.

Sledding day

I've been writing a bit lately about how difficult it has been to mom Sam right now. The tantrums, the testing of boundaries...part of it his intense personality, and part of it is just that he's three (this too shall pass...this too shall pass...). There are times, though, when the urge to sell him on Ebay is not quite so overwhelming.

A few weeks ago, we decided to make the drive up to Snoqualmie and attempt to get a pass for sledding. Since I have the most snow gear, we decided that I'd go with Sam, and Mark would stay with Caroline in the warm lodge. So, Sam and I bundled up and hiked in our boots across the snowy field to pick out our tube and get in line. Snoqualmie has a very well groomed tubing area with about 10 lanes. There's a steep drop and then a long, flat length in each lane. The whole things is about a football field's length.

The first time, we attempted to go together. These tubes are a step up from the ones I used when I was a kid. They have these canvas jacket thingies that zip over them with leather handles, and if you're small enough you can sit right inside the hole in the tube. Suffice to say, I am not small enough. So after one terrifying backwards rocket down the hill with me perched on top of the tube and Sam on my lap, I asked him if he'd like his own tube so he could go by himself. He enthusiastically said yes. So, after I walked by him while he rode up the hill on the rope tow, I helped him pick out his own tube.

One more long wait in line, and we were ready to go. After some pretty specific instructions about hanging on, staying in the tube, etc, I gave him a little push, and off he went. Then, I jumped tummy-down on my tube and rocketed after him head- first.

About halfway down the hill, it became apparent what a little push Sam had gotten compared to my leap onto my tube. I was gaining on him...fast. As he came to a halt at the bottom, I was frantically trying to steer by dragging my feet and yelling, "SAM! STAY IN THE TUBE! STAY IN THE TUBE!" But there was nothing I could do. Bam! I bounced into Sam's tube hard, then spun around, bounced off my tube, and totally wiped out. I frantically turned around to assess the damage...and Sam was laughing. So, I started laughing, too.

"Are you guys ok?" asked the concerned teenager who came down behind us.

"Oh, yeah, we're great!" I laughed.

Back we went to get in line for the tow. At this pace, I thought, we were only going to get one or two more runs in before our time was up. It would be so much faster to just walk up the hill and pull Sam behind me...

It was about 3/4 of the way up that I knew I was in trouble. There was no way my rainboots had the traction for the last incline while pulling 30 lbs of Sam. Rather then see him careen down the hill while toddlers scattered like bowling pins, I asked him if he could get out and walk.

"Mmm-hmm!" He said cheerfully, popping out. So I turned and walked...until I heard a commotion behind me.

I turned around to see Sam sitting on top of a complete stranger in his tube on the rope tow, both of them laughing. He had slid down the hill and right into the 20-something's lap. Both of them thought it was hilarious, and Sam happily rode up the rest of the way, thanking him at the end for the ride.

I don't have much experience with other three year olds, but I know enough to realize that that day could have been a disaster. Another child would have gotten scared about getting hit by another tube, or would have freaked out about suddenly sitting on a stranger's lap. Either event could have been a disaster. A cold, wet, far-from-the-lodge disaster. Instead, Sam has a remarkable gift for taking risks, and for managing to charm his way around sticky situations. He has those qualities in common with some of the most successful adults I know. I only hope that I can remember that, and help him shape and nurture those gifts. Otherwise, keep your eye on Ebay.

Quick! Before I forget...

...a few Christmas moments I want to embed in my brain...

Caroline oohing and ahhing at her new baby doll, especially the blinky eyes.

Sam solemnly saying after seeing a Nerf gun commercial: "I can't have one of those. I'll shoot my eye out."

The complete fog that can only be brought about by 17 hours of preparations followed by Midnight Mass.

Seeing my dad and my brother in the pews at Christmas Day mass, and realizing that once again the four of us are together as a family.

Caroline, after crying when he got near all during Thanksgiving, crawling up on Papa's knee.

Papa, Nick, Pops, Craig, Ana, Alexandra, me, Sam, Caroline and Mark completely overrunning our tiny condo from top to bottom on Christmas Day, and me not caring about the mess.

Being able to put together a (mostly) lovely meal for people I care about.

Hearing "I want that on my Christmas list!" for the last time, at least for a few months.

Remembering that, like labor, Christmas preparations are intense, thankless, painful and arduous when you're in the midst of them. But, when you see the result, not only is it worth it, but you somehow find yourself eager to sign up for it again.

Christmassy Christmas...

Today I am feeling: Tired! Mark’s work party was last night, and I’ve now had my fill of the middle aged overserved dancing to funk. I know everyone complains about the spousal work holiday party, but I was actually looking forward to it, and it didn’t disappoint. I’m sure that’s partially because we have a great babysitter in our rolodex now, and, thanks to my new singing gig, the occasional pocket change with which to pay her. That means that in addition to the party, we have tickets to a show at 5th avenue (thanks, Bob!)for next week, and Mark will actually get to come hear me sing at the Choral Arts concert this weekend. Hooray!

I've also decided that I'm done being sad, for at least a little while. Thanksgiving was tough. It was hard to be in the same places and do the same things with the same people, except for Mom. I know it's going to sneak up on me now and then, of course. Last weekend, for example, we were at a toy store with Pops showing Caroline the dolls (Pops got her one for Christmas..shhh, don't tell), and I got a little sad thinking about how much fun it would have been to tell my mom about her cute reaction to them, and how right about now Mom would be doing all of these girly little firsts with her, like showing her dolls, or looking at Pretty Ponies (my personal obsession, btu we won't go into that). But Pops was there, and wanted to buy a doll, and did instead. I am so grateful that there are people in my kids' lives who are and will step up to the plate in those ways when the time is right.

Exercise: Blah. And again, blah. I went exactly once last week. Since Sam switched to the Tues/Thurs preschool (more on that later), it’s been somehow easier to find other things that just must be done during that time. I’m thinking about just sucking it up and still going M/W/F and paying double childcare for both of them. I know I’ll feel better.

Caroline: Cruising! Pointing! Saying stuff that might be words! In English! And eating. My golly, the girl is an eating machine. She will no longer let me feed her with a spoon and instead prefers to just grab handfuls of mash off the highchair tray and smash it into her face with her little palm. We got weighed again, and although she’s gained well, she’s still in the 25th percentile. Our doc isn’t worried, and said that she’s going to be burning off a lot of fat now that she’s moving around so much, and this just mioght be her new track. So, I’ve got a petite little lady who can really pack it in.

Sam: So, as I alluded to, we’ve switched preschool days. Same preschool, different class. Basically, there were a ton of boys, several older, in the class that were basically riling Sam up, as he tends to get around lots of high-energy kids. I had a fabulous conference with all three of his teachers, and they very nicely suggested that I bring him to both classes in one week so they could more directly compare, and I came and observed, too, on Thursday. He was indeed calmer, and the kids seemed more in line with him developmentally. He’s talked about one of the girls there a bit, so I think he’s made a little friend, too! More completed art projects are coming home, and he’s not a super-crab when I pick him up. All good things.

Sam also just received a letter from Santa. Since I’m assuming that no kids read this blog, I think it’s safe to tell you that Sam wrote a letter and put it in a large envelope, I addressed it to “The North Pole” (actually a post office in Alaska listed on www.usps.com as participating in this program), and then when he went to bed I wrote him a letter from Santa and popped it in an SASE inside this larger envelope and mailed it off to the Alaskans. And darn those nice Alaskans, they postmarked it from the North Pole and sent it right on back to us! Sam was thrilled, and it’s now sitting on our piano in a place of pride.

Projects: Christmassy Christmas things! We have baked lots of cookies, made stockings to hang on the piano (no fireplace,of course), decorated the tree,

In store: Pictures with Santa! I may whisper in Santa’s ear that he should ask Sam if he got his letter....

Caroline crawls (sort of....)

Ok, now for something happy! Caroline makes her way toward me in her own Carolineish fashion. Listen closely, because I think there's a "mama" in there, too...

Warning shot

I don't know if this just applies to me, but I find that when I'm in the middle of something intense, I don't see the big picture. Ok, now that I write that, it sounds totally normal. But I'm trying to forgive myself for it.

Caroline had her 9 month checkup on Friday, and, apart from being happy, healthy and smiley, she actually lost weight from her 6 month appointment. She dropped from the 75th to the 25th percentile in 3 months. Our doc didn't seem too concerned because she is otherwise thriving and just wants her back for a weigh-in next month, but I can't stop beating myself up about it.

Yes, I had noticed that she was fussy, and refusing solid food on many occasions. While frantically running up and down the I-5 corridor and back and forth between various hotel rooms and my parents' house, I would frantically nurse her before running off, then forget to even bring solid food to offer on our many restaurant meals. Our store of frozen baby food ran low, and I relied on store-bought fruits, with very little variety or calories. I figured she would nurse more, and usually she did. She also still sleeps right next to me, with an open buffet all night long if she chooses to partake.

She was teething, I thought, or her cold was affecting her, or she was just "off" because of all the travel. What scares me is that it never even crossed my mind to think about this even further. And really, I'm trying to not beat myself up about this. But, this is exactly what I'd feared would happen in my dark moments...that my grief would eclipse the needs of my children. There it was, writ large on the baby scale. And I didn't even notice it was happening.

Right after the appointment, I went to the Ballard Market and bought ingredients to make up a plethora of healthy, filling, yummy food for her. The moment I walked in the store, no fewer than three people cooed at her, how cute she was, how good. I walked over to the bulk food section and started discreetly bawling. She is good, she is so cute, and I hadn't been taking care of her. Not only that, but I realized I was desperately missing calling my mom, something I did after every doctor appointment. This was the first time I couldn't. I also realized that while I so badly wanted her reassurance about all of this, the very fact that she was gone was the reason the situation existed. Somewhere in a parallel universe existed a baby who had been well fed and nursed, who wasn't under a tremendous amount of stress over the physical and emotional absence of her mother, and who had a grandmother who would be answering the phone to hear about how much she'd gained and grown, and how enchanted the doctor had been with her in every way.

I was so angry.

And then, I gathered myself and my purchases up, went home, and cooked like a fiend. I made rice and lentils cooked in broth and blended, sweet potatoes, avocado, yogurt and bananas...I cooked and blended until almost all the produce was gone, and the freezer was full. I still don't feel completely better. But Caroline is smiling, and eating, and shoving apple and pear pieces in her mouth, devouring a half-cup of plain yogurt in a go, and smacking her lips for more lentils. All I have to do is take out the Cheerio box and she grunts and waves her arms in her seat. She gets all the food I can possibly offer her, and nurses whenever she wants. This is all much, much better. But the warning shot grazed a little too close.

All Saints Day

This space has been empty for a long time. What does one write after one's mother has died? There's everything to say, and nothing to say. I told Mark last night that I feel like somewhere in my soul there's a deep, dark pit with my mom's name somewhere in the bottom, and I keep walking to the edge and peering in, then skittering away. Someday, I may fall in. But by then, it's possible that the hole will have filled a bit with dirt and time, and the fall won't be as great. Maybe it will fill completely, and I'll never fall. But the scar of the hole will always be there.

I've felt it already in the last couple of weeks since she left. Taking a picture of Sam, and suddenly realizing that I'll never show it to her, or Caroline cruising along the couch, and thinking about how she'll never see her walk. It's so easy to get caught up in the unfairness of it all. But is this what I'm supposed to do? Is this how grief is? All the books make you think that it's one long linear process, but now that I'm in it, I don't know at any given moment where I am in it, and what's next. I've already had so many surprises, good and bad, to believe any more in what to expect. I thought, for instance, that I would be sad, but mostly relieved when she finally died - mostly happy that she's finally free from pain. And there are those thoughts. But the overwhelming sadness that I've felt...I was totally unprepared for it. I was also unprepared for how grateful I was during the time leading up to the funeral to be busy and rock-solid, providing strength for others, even enjoying all of the old friends who came to her service. But now that life has returned somewhat to normal, I'm a little adrift. I think I just need to accept this feeling for now.

Funny how my kids have provided the most guidance on this strange path. Leading up to mom's death, both seemed edgy, unsettled. I prepared myself for the onslaught of emotion after it finally happened, and I told Sam about it, holding him in bed in the morning of October 20th. The amazing thing, though, is that it's almost as if a weight has been lifted from Sam. It's easy to forget sometimes that he's three, and three-year-olds like tangible, understandable, definite things, even if those things are negative and undesirable. Grammy has died. He went to the funeral and sat quietly and peacefully all the way through it, perhaps grateful that, finally, this was something permanent that he can understand, not the iffy, mommy-might-go-to-Portland-this-weekend, something-might-happen-to-Grammy-soon land he's been living in for the past year. He's talked about her a lot, easily slipping into the past tense that I have so much trouble with. And, blessedly, he's been liberal with the I-love-yous, the hugs, and the snuggles. My little man knows how much I need them right now, I think. Caroline, too, has become more settled, happy to be back in her routine, settling back into easy, milky smiles and grateful to be in my arms. And I think this is how my mom would want this to be happening with them.

I know it gets easier. The hole beckons, and I let myself look a little bit at a time, knowing that I have to manage this so I can still mother my kids and be a decent wife. The sucker punches to my gut when I think about how she no longer exists in this world will lessen, the ache when I look at pictures of her eventually will soften, too. This will all pass. But God, I miss her.