Unstoppable 7 months

Happy seven months, kiddo - we cannot believe how much of a little kid you are growing into!

Your Profile
You, son, are growing like a weed!  You weight 18+ pounds, and are approximately 28 inches long.  You are a hunk of adorable, drooly, precious baby chub with rolls everywhere, with blondish brown hair that stands straight on end most of the time.  As usual, you are following the growth charts nearly exactly!  You eat like a champ, sleep very well (most nights), and are crawling and rolling every.where.  You never stop moving these days.  And you have 6 teeth!!

Things you've Learned
Where to begin?  You are rolling both directions, you can scoot/crawl everywhere you want to go - and get to a sitting position from crawling on your own. And (helpful to mommy) you can also get down from a sitting position into a crawling position, rather than getting stuck in the middle of the night like you did for a while.  You're unstoppable, if you want to get to something - especially cords and all things dangerous, choke-able and chewable!  Baby-proofing has begun in earnest.  You're also starting to try and pull up on mommy and daddy and the furniture, and you love to try to walk, holding on to our hands.  You're starting to learn how to feed yourself - although at this point, your strategy is to palm [::pound::] everything and lick off whatever happens to stick.  Bananas are particularly messy/mushy.

Your Firsts

• You were baptized this month - on your six month birthday!  You giggled and laughed the entire time, except for when the water hit your head, when you looked a little surprised... before reaching for it to grab some more.  We were very blessed to have much of our family viewing virtually or in attendance!  
• You went on your first hike - and summited two mountains, including a 4000 footer.  You had a blast, and talked the entire way up (and down) the mountain.   [We're pretty sure you're an extrovert!] 
• You visited your Grandma and Grandpa G this month, at their house in NC and met the horses, visited with Aunt Jen, and saw lots of other aunties and uncles [friends of your mommy and daddy].  You were great on the flights again, but freaked out a bit about the big bathtub (your whale tub is still a safety zone!)
• You are solidly into solid foods now - and eat like a rock star.  At this point, you eat almost anything that we put in front of you, lunging after it like a hungry, hungry hippo most of the time.
• Now that Daddy's semester has started again, you are hanging out with a babysitter about once a week - and you do that like a champ as well!  You love the little boys and girls that you get to hang out with, and always try to hold their hands.  
• You had your first bloody lip, and first solid bump on the noggin, from your adventurous fearless attempts to conquer the house - you took it all in stride; mommy was slightly less put together!  You are all boy, romp, roll, and ready - fearless most of the time!  
• You also had your first major meltdown in the car, on the way back from Regional Staff conference - screaming for an hour and a half, as mommy drove solo en route home, praying and hoping that that never repeats ever again!

Things you Like
You LOVE it when Daddy tickles you, or throws you in the air, or burrito wraps you in your towel - and you love snuggling with mommy when you're tired.  You laugh and laugh when Daddy chases you - which we love!  You love everything about being outdoors, especially eating grass, twigs, and dirt.  You love eating solids, especially banana and avocado - with sweet potato being a new interest.  You thoroughly enjoy being able to sit up in the shopping carts now, rather than riding in your car seat.  And you love Sophie the giraffe, and the musical ball that Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa D gave to you.  You loved Buddy the dog at Grandma and Grandpa G's house - and he loved you, even though you pulled out quite a bit of his fur.


We love you so much, S - and we are so proud of the boy you are growing into!  We are loving this adventure of being your parents and watching you grow and develop!

Letting go of Wonder Woman

Today is a sweatpants kind of day.  The wee one is down for his first nap of the morning, and responsible me so should use the time to take a shower cuz let's face it, its.been.a.while.  But that's just not happening right now, and I don't have a good reason, so sweatpants it is.  Prepare for a bit of a ramble before I actually get to my point.  If there is one.

My man has been in and out of town this week, and I have to tell you - being a single mom is not for the faint of heart.  One week, three trips, and I am tired.  Ready for him to come home and stay for longer than 12 hours.  Even though I really am excited for these trips for him, and am so glad that he could go, and don't have regrets that he did go, I miss him, and this resonates.  [For transparency, I'm somewhere between "tuesday" and "wednesday" right now.]  All you single moms and dads out there, who have to do this on a daily, weekly, every.day.basis, I applaud you.  You are heroes to me; I don't know how you do it.  You have a strength - maybe born out of necessity, but you have it nonetheless - that is impressive, and rarely recognized.  Forgive me, for any times when I have made your load harder, or heavier, rather than lighter.  I have the luxury, the gift of partnership, choice, and rest.  And sometimes I don't acknowledge that in my average weeks.

Little man is crawling now.  One grunt and launch and giant worming, belly-flop at a time.  Kid has a future in break-dancing, let me tell you.  Slowly, so mommy can keep up with him thus far - but put a good, chewy cord in front of him, or some other equally hazardous chewable, choke-able, item - and baby, we have forward momentum.  Oh and he's learning how to pull himself up into a standing position.  In the bathtub.  Nowhere else.  That was a fun one.  Words you never expect to hear coming out of your mouth, "no, 6 month old son, you may not stand in the bathtub", "no more eating bubbles, kid, you've had enough for the day." "Please stop grabbing on your wang and singing at the top of your lungs - wouldn't you prefer to have this nice squeaky (??) turtle instead?"  Who would have thought that I would love motherhood this much.  And be so tired so much.  And simultaneously so glad when 6:30am AND 6:30pm arrive.

Oh, and he also thinks the microwave is the coolest thing ever.  No idea why.

Add in this week in work, as I try to make my decision about whether to take the job offered or look for something else (not working is not an option financially).  How many hours I can give.  How much I want to invest in my own career development.  Or what gets put to the side.  And a week of work that is both incredibly rewarding and reminds me what I am very good at - and incredibly frustrating, by the roles that I have to turn down, the work that I can do in my current capacity, and the balance that I don't know how to strike.  How to balance the both/and.  The desire for a career that is meaningful and enjoyable, the desire to be home when my kid(s, eventual) are young.  The need for income, with the desire to not work, with the desire to work.  The age old juggling act - this is not new; women have wrestled with it for decades now.  And to the best of my knowledge, no one has a clue how to do it well.  Sheryl Sandberg tells me it is possible to have it all, if I have the right partner - which is maybe why I'm wrestling with it again this week, with Jon out of town, 'cuz he is a great partner - but somehow I don't believe her that it's all that simple.

Side note, why do they make coffee tables crawling-infant head-height?  No reason, just curious.

On the news this morning, Debora Spar, president of Barnard College, reminds me that Wonder Woman doesn't exist - that you can't have it all, and should probably stop trying to be so good at everything.   The bacon-frying-perfume-wearing-tick-tock-reading woman does not exist.

I have no idea how to balance work, family, crawling toddling tot, husband, family, love of cooking whole foods, and need for income right now.  All I know is that coffee is probably involved somehow.  And that it's okay if I don't do it all well, always.

As Spar says, "The most crucial thing for women to know today? No one does it all. We each, if we're lucky, will have our chance to leave a mark on the world, but we are trying too hard to be perfect. So don't emulate Wonder Woman; think about what's wonderful to you instead. Then boldly, audaciously, joyfully, leave the rest behind."

So today, I'm going to do what I need to do, what I love to do, and what I can do - to the best of my ability, not perfection.  [And this morning, that means, not showering, wearing my sweatpants, and playing on the floor with my drool-covered, banana-loving crawler.]

It means asking for help when I need it.  And letting some parts of my career dreams go, at least for now, while being okay working hard to keep a foot in the door - because when I am at my healthiest, I am the best gift to my family.  And saying no to some opportunities for work, because my family is most important to me, and it's okay to let the driven part of me rest a bit, for the sake of something better.  But at the same time, being honest, about the passions, desire, and goals that I do have.  Being present, today, to what is wonderful and good - living joyfully, audaciously, without apology in the moment, without wishing it away or worrying about what I'm missing out on.

And most importantly, naming the lie that I can have it all.  Letting go of what doesn't matter.  Holding on to what does.  Acknowledging the juggling act that that is - and continuing to wrestle through it, with honesty, joy, and in partnership.  And while I'm at it, having that second third [heck, let's not limit ourselves with a number] cup of coffee.

anchors and wings

Prompt for this week: Small

go.

Those days, when the world feels too big, and you feel too... well, too whatever.  The days when you can't quite find your footing, or your wings feel a little too retracted, trapped, and your boots a bit too stuck in the mud.  Those days when you feel too light or too large to stay anchored.

Like a Zeppelin anchored by the smallest of mooring lines, it's the little things that keep you rooted, focused, lofted, or anchored.

The newspaper lady in the T station, on your longest commute and your best and worst days, whose eyes light up with recognition when she sees you.  And who, no matter what day it is, wishes you a happy weekend. I don't know her name yet, but on Thursday, I'm going to ask.

The baby who grabs onto your hand and pulls your fingers close, as you desperately pray, please Jesus, let this sweet baby go back to sleep.  Who grins up at you at 4 in the morning, as he makes his rounds of his crib, too excited by new skills of crawling and sitting to stay still.  But for a moment, your fingers and his, intertwined, reminds you that these are the moments to hold dear.

The collapsing in those fits of belly-shaking, never-stopping laughter, after an unfortunate run-in with the squeaky Sophie the Giraffe who frightens the pants off of you on a daily, and mostly nightly basis, when she's accidentally trod upon.

The moments of balance and perspective, seconds really, when you see the hardest parts of life in the rearview mirror and there's the freedom to breathe and say, "oh yeah... I see what you did there." Even, there are parts of that time that I miss.  That I hold dear.  And you realize, I'm through that.  I'm okay.  Even,  I'm better for it.  And yes, even, I'm grateful.

Keeping me grounded, giving me perspective, lifting me up - it's the little things that give me anchors and wings.

stop.


Written in participation with #FiveMinuteFriday over with lisajobaker.com.  We write for five minutes flat. All on the same prompt.  No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation. Unscripted. Unedited. Real.  Want to join in?  Full details on how to participate found here.

[loss]

How do you miss someone that you never knew?

How do you mourn what is missing, when it was never had, but the loss is deeply felt none-the-less?

I've debated writing this for a while, because honestly, I've wondered if its okay for me to - whether it's my story enough, or just me relating other people's memories.  And that's never mine to do.  But the sense of absence, of missing, is mine.  And the reasons for that sense of loss are in the details.  So I'm cautiously writing it.  Grace, please, friends.

Last week, we marked the five year anniversary of Dad D's death (my husband's father). I never had the privilege of meeting him - Jon and I met about 5 months later - and I will never get the opportunity to know him, this side of heaven.  And yet, I miss him deeply.  Grieve his absence.  Feel the loss.  And am daily grateful for his character, his influence, and his life.

He's the one that we named our son after - his first name is S's middle name.   Because when we thought about what we would pray for S – the type of man that we prayed that he would be – we could think of no higher honor for him than to pray that S's character would mirror Dad's – that S's love of God and desire for God would mirror Dad's – that S's love of family, and care for his wife and children would mirror Dad's – that S's work ethic, intellect, and leadership, his humility and gentleness, his strength, and his legacy, would mirror Dad's. Dad was not perfect, and neither will S be perfect – but he daily strove to honor the Lord and care well for others around him in every aspect of his life - and that's what we pray for S as well.

I never met him, but I know his legacy.  And I am impacted by his testimony of life.

He was the man who gave great hugs.  Whose wife knew that she was treasured and deeply loved.  Whose sons - my husband included - grew to be strong men of character, who strive to love their wives and their kids with gentleness and strength, to be good friends, and to do their best in the work that they have been given.  The man whose faith was strong and steady, even through years of cancer, pain, remission, and resurgence of the disease.  Whose faith, in the midst of cancer, included Psalm 27:13-14

I remain confident of this:

I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Wait for the Lord; 

Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord. 

Whose faith has given my husband certainty, that God is still good, even when the unthinkable happens - even when we don't understand, that His goodness does not change.  Whose friends and students to this day, still tell stories about being under his leadership, and rave about his wisdom and ability to impart knowledge.  The man whose friends knew that they were loved, and still, five years later, miss his friendship - and whose sons never doubted their father's love for them, even when they had to be punished or reprimanded.  The father and husband whose love gave my husband a model for fatherhood and husband-hood, with gentleness, strength, and compassion - of which my son and I are daily recipients.   The man that my husband still wishes was here, when he has a question about fixing the brakes or stock options, or when he needs to talk through something hard.  His go-to-guy.  This is what I know, of the man that I never knew. And it is a gift to me, every day.

And I miss him terribly, even though I never met him.  I miss his presence, his balance in our family.  I miss having a party of four, when mom comes to visit - the two and twos, and four all-together.  I miss having to roll my eyes at Jon, when he and his dad stay up way too late playing video games. I miss seeing mom look at dad and roll her eyes too.  I miss introducing S to his grandfather.  I miss the conversations we might have had, about boost-phase interception of ICBMs and my paltry attempts to code in matlab what he worked on in real life.  I miss actually getting to know him, in real life, not just know him through others' stories.  And I miss having my own stories.

It's strange, weird even, to feel grief for what you never had.  To miss a person that you never knew.  But I do.

I don't have a conclusion.  I don't have a pithy takeaway.  All I know is that I am grateful for him, even though he was never in my life.  And I am grateful for all the ways that he will always be in my life.

And, Dad, I'm really looking forward to finally sitting down with you in heaven, when that day comes.

Letters to my Son: I saw in you his humanity

Dear son,

This morning I rocked with you, as you began to get sleepy, in those early morning hours after sleep but before your first nap, your mind still fighting sleep, even as your body gradually began to sink into mine, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier, and your little twitches and fiddlings slowly down.  Those moments, those snuggles, are precious to me, because already you are a man on the go.  Already you want to move.  To be off exploring every dangerous element of our house, one backwards crawl-scoot at a time.  You're sitting, scooting, rolling, moving constantly.  And when you're not, you're babbling in full-baby dialogue, telling us about every move that you have made or want to make.   You're growing up oh so quickly...

You're sleeping now, bottom in the air, one leg pulled up next to you in crawl-ready position, with your little arms - with those precious little baby rolls upon rolls - one holding your pacifier, stroking your lips with it, the other holding Mr. Moose and patting him as though he were an old friend.

Yesterday morning, on my way to work, mommy passed another boy who was sleeping in exactly the same way that you are now.  One hand by his lips, the other cradling and patting his snuggle buddy.  Bottom in the air, one leg pulled up into the ready-to-crawl position.  For just a second, when I saw him, he reminded me so much of you, sleeping peacefully in your crib.

Except that this boy was in his late 40s, and instead of a soft crib, he was sleeping on a cement bench in a bus terminal.  Instead of a blanket, he was wrapped in a dirty jacket.  Instead of a onesie, he was wearing clothes that smelled of days without washing or relief from the heat.  And instead of a snuggly Mr. Moose for a buddy, he was cradling his backpack, assumedly containing most of his possessions.

And yet, for just a instant, in the midst of my own very stressful day, my own busyness, concerns, and worries, I saw him.

In him, I saw you.  Saw someone's son, not one abandoned, but one that at some point in time, maybe even presently, was deeply loved.  Cuddled, held, rocked.  Treasured.  A son whose mother felt his kicks and wiggles and heartbeat before he was born, and bore him into this world in the same ways that I delivered you.  A baby growing up into a little boy, whose mother couldn't believe how quickly he was growing.  A son who slept ready to crawl because he was so ready to take on the world on crawl-scoot at a time.

We never interacted - he was sound asleep, I was late to work.  And more rapidly than I'd care to admit, my mind moved back to my own pressing issues for the day.  But for just an instant,  he wasn't dirty, homeless, and aging to me - he was someone's son and I felt my mother's heart beat within me.

I don't know his story - I don't know what brought him to that point, finding rest snuggled up on that bench, during my morning commute.  I don't know what his family was like - and I don't know what parts of his circumstances were of his own choosing or as a result of his past.  But I do know that he was someone's son.  That someone loved him enough to give him life.  That he grew up, from baby to little boy to man.  And that you, and I, and he, we're made from the same material, no matter where our paths or choices take us differently.

And so son, as you sleep peacefully in your safe, comfortable crib, I want to entreat you, as you grow from a baby to a boy, to a bigger boy, to a man - to recognize with me, and to remind me to remember, this common humanity of every person that we encounter.  Everyone, no matter how smelly, dirty, crude, rude, mean, or frustrating, is someone's son or daughter.  We might not like everyone, or agree with everyone, and that's okay, but at very minimum, we must recognize their humanity, and treat each person with the same respect and dignity that I would want them to treat my sons and daughters, or you would want them to treat your brothers and sisters.

And son, Lord forbid, but if, by some horrible turn of events or choices made, you ever find yourself sleeping on a bench, out in the cold, or caught up in a cycle that you cannot break - I want you to know - and really know - that you are loved, and wanted and will be welcomed.  Whether I agree with you, or all of your decisions, whether there is hurt or anger or brokenness in our relationship between now and then, and no matter how messy your life may be, you are loved, wanted, and welcomed, as you are.  Please come home, or call me, and I'll come where you are.  Please don't every let shame, or messiness, or dirt, or stuck-ness, or difference of opinion keep us apart, or keep you away.  And I will promise, here publicly, that I will do endeavor to let strong love always win, to keep my arms and my heart open and welcoming, come what may.

I love you, sweet boy.  Your Daddy and I are so proud of all of the ways you are growing and learning.  And we pray daily for the man that you are becoming.

Love,

Mommy

sanding down the veneer

This week's prompt: Present

Go.

Have you ever noticed, that when we blog, we often take on an entirely different voice?  Somewhat removed, third-person, polished perspective?

We paint pictures with words, we create beautiful illustrations, and we tell detailed, wonderful stories.  We're writers; words are our craft.  And they're beautiful.  And that's a good thing.

But the reality is, my blogger voice often times has a very different pitch and tone from my real voice.  I don't (thankfully) always talk like I write.  My words are far more muddled, far less well-crafted, and far more... well, first-person human.   And that's a good thing.

But sometimes the veneer has to come off here too - in our process of being "real" and "present" even in the blogger world.  The smooth, shiny gloss of life-on-blog has to be replaced with the real, gritty, imperfect verbage, and non-colorful illustrations that actually make up real life.  Just so that we remember that oh yes, we're human too.  No matter how pretty the picture, or crafty with words the blogger, sometimes life just is as life often does.  So, in the name of being present, of sanding down the shiny veneer and artistic verbage:

... It's been a hard week.

... I've felt torn between being at work, and being at home.  And had a really hard time being at work.

... Work has been stressful as we navigate the merger - everyone, me included, is anxious and waiting.  Which can be the worst, because it means living in the completely unknown.

... I have started the last three mornings this week being pooped on.  The explosive, nasty, cannot-get-it-out kind of poopy diaper that goes EVERYwhere.  Not once, not twice, but three times.

I have been Snappy. Tired. Lazy.  Angry.  Anxious.  Grateful.  Loved.  Lonely.  Tearful. Laugh-filled. Torn.  Covered in poop, with no humorous conclusion or awkward story to tell.  Heard.  Unheard.

Raw.
Real.
Just me.

Present.

Stop.


  Written in participation with #FiveMinuteFriday over at LisaJoBaker.com.  We write for five minutes flat, all on the same prompt.  No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation.  Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.  Want to join in?  Full details on how to participate found here!

why I [don't] live each day as though it were my last...

I've heard this adage a lot recently - from pastors, teachers, friends, and public figures.  Live every day as though it were your last... and I understand the heart of it - the wisdom of it - honestly I do.

Life without regrets.
Don't put off till tomorrow what needs to be done today.
Purposeful life - without getting bogged down by the little things that don't really matter.
Treasured life - where all parts are valued.
Relational life - where people know in this day, not later, that they matter to you.

And in those things, there is deep wisdom.   I fully affirm that.

But even so, I will not be living every day as though it were my last.

Why?

Because life, for most of us, while it should be regret-free, lived-well, purposeful, treasured, and relational - always - is not a short-haul.  It's more than a week of memories, a day of overflowing fullness, or one last year of endless adventures.  It is both the ordinary, day-to-day life, as well as the long-remembered moments. For most of us, life has to be lived in light of both the short-term, and the long-haul.  And living as though today were my last, I neglect the long-term perspective.  And that matters.

Because there are some fights worth having... the tenacity of hope, the desire for better in yourself, your marriage, your kids, your relationships.  The long-fought wrestling-through-it, wading-through-the-muck, standing-in-the-trenches, not-settling that says, I have hope that what is broken can be made whole, even though it will take time and will be messy.  This - you, me - this is worth fighting for, this is worth pressing into.  The kind of fight that, if this were my last day, there simply wouldn't be time for - but for the long-haul absolutely matters.

Because there are some things that actually are healthier to wait for... my son is 5 months old now.  He's right on the verge of crawling, even though he thinks he's ready to walk.  He sometimes thinks sleep is unnecessary, especially when bedtime rolls around - even though his eyes are heavy with sleep and his reasons for crying become increasingly irrational.  Even though I should - and do - treasure those moments and snuggles with him, to do what is in his best interest, sometimes I have to make a decision for tomorrow, not today.  To help him wait.  To help him sleep.  To look forward to playing tomorrow, for his sake, rather than indulging his desires for today.

Because even though we never know how many days we have left - and today might be my last day, any day - hope is a good thing and looking forward to those things to come.  Even as I strive to live purposefully, without regrets, or procrastination - I still look forward to watching my son walk.  To cheering him on from the sidelines, the front row, the bleachers.  To going back to grad school myself.  To seeing my husband learn how to fly [airplanes].  To Thanksgiving with my family or Christmas dinner with Jon's, as long as we have it.  Even if I don't actually get to see those things, it is still worthwhile to hope and to look forward with anticipation.

Because life isn't a series of highs.  It has to come with lows and mundanes and the totally ordinary dance of day-to-day living which is beautiful. 

Because there are some risk worth taking, failures worth having, mistakes worth making...  In high school, I was an exceptionally good public speaker.  I was a fast runner.  I was a gifted soccer player.  I was absolutely horrible at basketball.  On the first day of practice, my coach asked me if I'd ever seen a basketball before, let alone played.  I did, in fact, almost knock a teammate out with the ball, inbounding it into her face in a crucial game.  I made a grand total of two baskets all season the first year I played.  I think they might have been mercy shots, honestly.  Or free throws.  You better believe I kept that bench darn warm.  But you know what?  I learned more about myself, about life, and about perseverance by playing basketball, than I did in doing any of those things that I was good at.  I learned how to stick with things when they're hard.  How to cheer on my teammates without comparison or shame.  How to fail gracefully, and get up again.  Not my idea of fun - never something I would choose to do on my last day - but oh so worthwhile in the big picture.  

My list could go on - of risks that I've taken, mistakes that I've made, failures which I have had - which certainly wouldn't be my choice in terms of "final days" - but have beautified and enriched this life that I have, for however long I have it - in ways that I would never exchange.

So, I don't live each day as though it were my last.  Rather, I try to live each day fully.  With hope for a long-haul, and long-term perspective - knowledge that there are no guarantees - but hope.  And fullness.  And no regrets.   But pressing in, in the hope of tomorrow.  Willingness to engage for the long-haul, willingness to fail, desire for growth and change, willingness to wait, gratitude for the mundane.

Life to the full.

- KD