We got our little girl baptized on Sunday! Unfortunately, she fell fast asleep in the cozy towel, and when Father Ryan took her out of it and lifted her in the air...
Monday, April 20, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Time
Something about the cherry blossoms falling from the trees at the park today made me feel really nostalgic. I was carrying sleeping Caroline in a sling and watching Sam play with a little 18 month old girl named Frances and I found myself wondering, what was Samlike when he was 18 months old? Do I even really remember? I had started this blog around that time, so I have records of everything, but did I really soak it in beyond what I wrote down?
Time is flying by so quickly now. When Sam was a baby, time just crept. I kept waiting for him to do something, to get past a troublesome phase, to learn to walk or play on his own. Everything felt so permanent and never-ending. No wonder it moved so slowly. THis time, though, I have this little boy to look at and I can hardly believe he was ever a tiny baby, he's just so boy now. I see now that they endless night nursing, the struggles to crawl or walk, the sleep deprived stupor...it all ends. Here is this little, spirited, opinionated, verbal boy who sleeps in his own room in his own bed and can lift a spoon full of tomato soup to his mouth without spilling a drop.
So, here I have this new little baby, just as little as he was. And time is flying. Already, she smiles and coos at me, begging for my attention. She sleeps next to me and I love it, because I know that she won't be there forever and that I'll miss her terribly when eventually she's asleep in her own room. I look down at her smiling up at me with my nipple in her mouth while we're nursing, and I realize that we're already about a third of the way through the time when food from my body will be the only nutrition she needs.
I wonder with some guilt if I just let that part of Sam's life slip by because I was so wrapped up in the timeline in my head. And then, I forgive myself for being a tired, wrinkled, worn-out first time mom and remind myself to enjoy what I have right here, right now. Because once it's gone, it's just a memory.
Time is flying by so quickly now. When Sam was a baby, time just crept. I kept waiting for him to do something, to get past a troublesome phase, to learn to walk or play on his own. Everything felt so permanent and never-ending. No wonder it moved so slowly. THis time, though, I have this little boy to look at and I can hardly believe he was ever a tiny baby, he's just so boy now. I see now that they endless night nursing, the struggles to crawl or walk, the sleep deprived stupor...it all ends. Here is this little, spirited, opinionated, verbal boy who sleeps in his own room in his own bed and can lift a spoon full of tomato soup to his mouth without spilling a drop.
So, here I have this new little baby, just as little as he was. And time is flying. Already, she smiles and coos at me, begging for my attention. She sleeps next to me and I love it, because I know that she won't be there forever and that I'll miss her terribly when eventually she's asleep in her own room. I look down at her smiling up at me with my nipple in her mouth while we're nursing, and I realize that we're already about a third of the way through the time when food from my body will be the only nutrition she needs.
I wonder with some guilt if I just let that part of Sam's life slip by because I was so wrapped up in the timeline in my head. And then, I forgive myself for being a tired, wrinkled, worn-out first time mom and remind myself to enjoy what I have right here, right now. Because once it's gone, it's just a memory.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Expert
I've been feeling quite bossed around lately. I don't mean the typical two-year-old traits, although we have those going on, too. Last week, I told Sam we were going to Fred Meyer's, and, with practically an eye-roll, he said, "Not Fred Meyer's, mom, Fred Meyer." I got the same treatment a few days ago when I told him to "touch gentle" when handling Caroline: "Not, gent-le, gent-ly!" Yes, I am aware of how freaky it is that my two year old apparently knows about the proper use of an adverb. I also get parenting advice on a regular basis. She cries in her swing, and Sam says authoritatively, "I think she needs to nurse" or "she has a wet diaper." And he's often right. I think I'm just going to go on vacation and leave him in charge.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Modern Art
Artist: Samuel James Leen
Title: Sozzy (I asked)
Medium: Art clay, hotwheels and yarn needle
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Ash Wednesday
Dear Lord, I will never, ever, ever complain about my children again. Ok, I probably will, but not for a while at least. I just got home yesterday from 3 days with Caroline in isolation at Seattle Children's Hospital. I didn't expect quite such a visceral illustration of Ash Wednesday to intrude on my life, but that's the way it works sometimes, isn't it? The ashes on the foreheads of some of the parents I saw walking around the hallways seemed a little redundant - like they really needed a reminder of how fragile life is. One man looked at me in the elevator and shook his head with a wry smile: "This place. You're glad it's here, but..." "You'd rather be somewhere else?" I finished, and he nodded tiredly. My own experience seems pretty paltry compared to theirs, but I have definitely had enough of seeing people poke needles and tubes into my little girl. On the night we arrived in the ER with breathing problems and a fever, she had to have a blood draw, a catheter to collect a urine sample, and (the one I really had to sit down for) a spinal tap that took three tries to get done. In order to open up the spaces between her vertebrae, they had to fold her practically in half and hold her there until they got the right spot. When they handed her to me afterward, she looked at me with vacant, cloudy eyes that showed that she had mentally gone somewhere far, far away to deal with everything that had happened to her. I don't think I've ever had a sadder moment in my life.
The diagnosis of RSV meant that we were in a room by ourselves for 3 days. My meals were brought to me, and I spent the days eating, watching TV, sleeping, and rocking her in the chair they found for me. I left the room when Mark and Sam came to visit so I could take Sam to the cafeteria or gift shop to have some time with him. When I wasn't holding Caroline, she spent much of her time in a metal crib, swaddled in two blankets with her little boarded IV arm sticking out at an angle and her oxygen prongs taped to her little face. She went away from me for a day or so, sleeping for almost 24 straight hours while her body fought off the virus, waking up just to eat every few hours (which she thankfully was still doing well), and getting diaper changes. On the second night, the antibiodics they gave her upset her stomach, and she spent most of the night writhing around and fussing, while I rocked her in the chair and nodded off holding her. Finally, on Thursday afternoon she turned the corner, breathing just room air and starting to come back to us. On Friday, she was fully alert and given the ok to go home.
We've been practically giddy having her back and having our family reunited. This was obviously hard on Mark and Sam, too. Mark told me on Thursday that Sam had pointed at a bus on the road and told him that that bus was sad because his mommy was far away. We made up for some lost time this morning by piling on the bed together as a family, reading a book and admiring Caroline. The real reward for me, though, was a moment that we two had by ourselves earlier that morning. She had slept peacefully in her cosleeper for most of the night, but by 6:00 she was fussy and not settling with my usual pats and rubs. So I picked her up and laid her little head on my arm and snuggled down into the bed with her, something I hadn't been able to do for 4 days. She rewarded me with me most gorgeous, peaceful smile before drifting back to sleep. We're all so grateful to have her back.
The diagnosis of RSV meant that we were in a room by ourselves for 3 days. My meals were brought to me, and I spent the days eating, watching TV, sleeping, and rocking her in the chair they found for me. I left the room when Mark and Sam came to visit so I could take Sam to the cafeteria or gift shop to have some time with him. When I wasn't holding Caroline, she spent much of her time in a metal crib, swaddled in two blankets with her little boarded IV arm sticking out at an angle and her oxygen prongs taped to her little face. She went away from me for a day or so, sleeping for almost 24 straight hours while her body fought off the virus, waking up just to eat every few hours (which she thankfully was still doing well), and getting diaper changes. On the second night, the antibiodics they gave her upset her stomach, and she spent most of the night writhing around and fussing, while I rocked her in the chair and nodded off holding her. Finally, on Thursday afternoon she turned the corner, breathing just room air and starting to come back to us. On Friday, she was fully alert and given the ok to go home.
We've been practically giddy having her back and having our family reunited. This was obviously hard on Mark and Sam, too. Mark told me on Thursday that Sam had pointed at a bus on the road and told him that that bus was sad because his mommy was far away. We made up for some lost time this morning by piling on the bed together as a family, reading a book and admiring Caroline. The real reward for me, though, was a moment that we two had by ourselves earlier that morning. She had slept peacefully in her cosleeper for most of the night, but by 6:00 she was fussy and not settling with my usual pats and rubs. So I picked her up and laid her little head on my arm and snuggled down into the bed with her, something I hadn't been able to do for 4 days. She rewarded me with me most gorgeous, peaceful smile before drifting back to sleep. We're all so grateful to have her back.
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