Moving
Oh it all started with smiles, it did. Doesn’t it always? Smiles spread from ear to ear created by thoughts of a welcomed change and a promise, to ourselves, of new beginnings.
It’s been rough since my surgery. To this day, my recovery impacts all of us on a daily basis. The thought of starting anew brought with it the same aura that accompanies the start of Spring; an awakening, new birth, calm skies. And we needed that, I think.
They say beginnings are messy but this beginning started like a new season, seamless in it’s transition and without break in routine. We laughed, giggling about how easy it was all happening. After all, it was the first home we looked at and we knew instantly that it was the right fit; the perfect space for our family. And as if one good stroke of luck gives way to another, the first day our home went on the market, an offer – we later accepted – came in.
Like I said, it was an easy beginning.
Slowly, we started preparing. I had our nanny help me clean out each of the closets and we made several trips to the Salvation Army and Goodwill. I listed most of our furniture on Instagram and Craigslist and one by one, as things started leaving our home, the idea of moving became more real.
I’ll spare y’all the lets-not-hire-a-moving-company-because-we-don’t-have-that-much-to-move bologna coupled with losing Sarah on our very last day at the house and say this: hire a moving company. Just do it and don’t ask any questions.
Slowly beds disappeared and were replaced by blow-up mattresses, big boxes took the place of dressers, outdoor toys welcomed the new open space and quickly became indoor toys, and things got – well- messy.
By the time all was said and done, Willy walked over to our neighbor’s house and found her sitting in a chair we had left out in front of our house with a sign that read “free” in scribbled permanent marker; her cigarettes on a little side table that at one time housed our records but ultimately landed in the same pile as the free chair. He handed her $50 to clean up the left behind garbage, mostly wood from neglected projects we had started but not finished. She took the $50 with a grin that would even make the Grinch suspicious and concluded that she’d use the wood during their next camping trip. In the five years we lived there, I’ve never seen the RV leave the driveway.
And just like that, we said goodbye to our first home with a rejected full-sized mattress on the side of the curb visible in the rear view mirror and the scene of Sarah’s accident behind us.
Sometimes it’s the endings that are messy. Here’s to new beginnings…
An Ode to Sarah
Every story has a beginning, middle, and end. Sarah, this is your story. I love you, girl.
We brought you home just over four years ago. It was Superbowl Sunday and we had no intentions of bringing a dog home that day. We were newly-ish married and couple of months in to trying for our first baby. Willy’s parents were in town as were his brother and my a-couple-years-later-to-be sister-in-law.
I don’t usually share the story of how you came into our lives because it’s not one I’m particularly proud of. But we didn’t walk in to that pet shop with any intention of bringing an animal home. I blame my in-laws (said with a “who, me?” look on my face), who we followed in the pet shop doors.
You were the only boxer in a sea of chiwawas and other little dogs that fit in designer hand bags. And you were absolutely stunning. Even to this day, we’ve only seen a few with your same coloring and even fewer with your same petite size. Sensing that you needed some time away from that glassed-in cage, we brought you out to play. I had on a pair of leather sandals I had bought in Mexico and you nibbled at them non-stop. With your significant underbite (something we’d tease you for numerous times in the years that followed by tucking your lip under your bottom fangs so you looked more-or-less ridiculous) your nibble wasn’t anything more than a tickle and Willy and I both found you amusing.
We left the store and headed home and couldn’t get you off our minds. All that pent up energy, all that beauty. We always talked of getting a dog, eventually; Willy grew up with “Mark” and me with “Casey” and neither of us expected to raise our future children without a four-legged friend. And all that talk of a baby to come made the timing for the addition of a four-legged friend feel more right.
So we called the pet shop. And a few hours later you drove home, curled up in a ball, on my lap. We wondered where all that pent up energy went as you laid so contently there for the entire ride. In time, we would learn that your sweetness could rival your playfulness on any given day.
Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant with Hooper. I always attributed my luck in getting pregnant so soon to you.
We dealt with kennel cough and giardia, which paled in comparison to the vet bills that would come in the following years. We had you spayed because Bob Barker told us to and when you developed aspiration pneumonia afterward, we saved your life. We were totally unaware how many more times we would save your life in the years to come.
I took you to the dog park often in those early days. You were always the fastest dog in the park. You got slammed in to a tree the first time we ever took you and were checked out about a week later for what the vet was thinking was some weird neurological disorder; I think that was one of the few things that mysteriously disappeared on its own. But still, it was one of the first of what would turn out to me many heath scares.
Shortly before Hooper was born, we hired a dog trainer to help us get you under control. You had so much energy. Even taking you for a walk was difficult. We couldn’t go down the street we coined “squirrel alley” without dislocating a shoulder. And there were many, many of times we ran around the neighborhood like chickens with our heads cut off chasing after you. You loved bolting out that front door. In hindsight, it had more foreshadowing than a Shakespearean play.
We referred to you often as the “beauty queen” because you were so beautiful, but not that bright. You would have referred to Iraq as “the Iraq”, I’m sure of it. You let your nose lead you, no matter what. You were bit by a rattlesnake on two separate occasions and stung by a bee twice as well, sending you into anaphylatic shock both times. I ran red lights to get you to the best vet in town each time. We saved your life all four times. You spent your first two to three years on antibiotics for various and numerous infections.
You loved the boys and were great with each of them from day one. And when Hooper started eating solids, we quickly discovered the true benefit to having you around. With the exception of spilt, thrown, or spit out blueberries, I’ve never had to clean under the table.
You earned many nicknames and one seemed to morph into the next; “Sarah-berra” became “berras” which became “berra-solnz” which became shortened to “solnz”, and ultimately slightly changed to – what the boys knew you as – “Golnz” (pronounced with the slightest hint of a Spanish accent).
We fell in love with you and we fell hard. And that’s why the end of your story is harder to write. My eyes are teary and that lump just won’t leave the back of my throat.
We started Thursday just like any other day, albeit a later start compliments of daylight savings and with a packed agenda that included packing up our entire home with hopes of being completely moved out by the following day.
I opened the front door to start putting the boys in the car (they were going to spend the day with my parents so we could get the packing done) and you bolted out after a squirrel. Though not entirely uncommon, in the more recent years this behavior has lessened considerably. It was not uncommon for you to hang out, unleashed, in the front yard while the boys played.
You ran clear across the street without any thought or care in the world. I yelled for you to come back and the hysteria in my voice brought Willy out to help. I told Willy how you bolted across the street and would be dead, for sure, had a car been coming. I started putting the boys in the car in between yelling for you to come back and as we both stood there calling from the curb, a minivan started coming. It happened in seconds but when I replay it in my mind, it runs only in slow motion. I turned, after seeing you get hit, knowing I would not be able to emotionally handle seeing the aftermath. Confused, you tried to bite Willy. I yelled a yell that brought neighbors out of their homes. I heard you squealing, in obvious pain and distress. I saw the helplessness and shock on Willy’s face as he fumbled to get the keys to his truck and drive you to the nearest vet.
Before you left, I came over to the side of the truck to see you. Something in me knew that it would be the last time I’d see you alive.
As a nurse I’ve dealt with a lot of people “circling the drain”. I’m called to act fast and act smart often. But when it was my own, I became a coward. My emotion overtook me and it took everything I had in me just to look at you.
You took your last breath in Willy’s arms, on the way to the vet. It’s a part of the story I’ve had to beg and plead for. It’s been difficult for Willy for share and difficult, though necessary in my own healing, to hear.
Willy watched as they tried to revive you and when he couldn’t stand watching what appeared to be a fruitless effort, he asked them to stop. By the time I got there, you laid on a table with a white sheet covering you, your collar with a dog tag in the shape of a bone with a dent in it, at the end of the table on top a paw print the technicians had made out of a piece of clay.
We pulled the white sheet back so we could see your face. You looked so peaceful. No longer fighting, no longer in distress. I stroked my favorite spot, just behind your ear. You were still warm and I wiped the blood from your nose. It was the first time since that accident that I actually felt good about something. I thought it would be hard to see you there, lifeless, but it was incredibly empowering and beautiful and peaceful. The only hard part being that it had to end.
And so we left with your dog tag, your paw imprint, but not you. And that hurt so bad. It still hurts.
People tell you the pain will get better with time, but in that initial shock, you know nothing more than that moment.
We went on with the day because we had to. It felt like the whole world stopped and I cursed those empty boxes for not being able to fucking fill themselves.
It’s taken me a few days to write this because the words don’t always find their way out so easily; they hide in the crevices and slowly start seeping until they more-or-less torment you to give them a voice.
They say everything happens for a reason. It’s taken me a few days to sit on that cliche and think about why this had to happened and I still don’t know the answer. I’ve tormented myself with replaying the situation over and over in my head. Maybe we should have stood in the street as we were calling you so that the car would have seen us? I feel guilty for not doing so. I feel guilty for not living more carefully; guilty for allowing you the freedom of romping in the front yard – something you’ve done hundreds of times, but I’ve learned only takes one time to be a disaster. I curse the man in the minivan for speeding and can’t help but think had he been going slower he would have clearly seen the situation unfolding.
I spent that day packing thinking of the boys often. Suddenly everything felt unsafe to me. It’s during times like this that you urge your loved ones to slow down, to drive safely, to take extra care because suddenly you see just how precious and how fragile and how down right mean life can be. And I couldn’t shake Hooper and Van from my mind. I mean, what if… I can’t even bring myself to write the hypothetical… What I will say is that when my neighbor heard my yells for help, his first thought was our boys…
Someone told me that they once read somewhere that moving is second only to divorce in terms of stress in a relationship. And I totally get that now. There are a lot of things to argue over and a lot of things that need to be done. But sadness filled our home instead. There was no arguing and no bickering and in it’s place were loving moments of embrace. In between filling boxes, we’d hold one another and sob. And so, the sadness took precedence over the stress. And, in a weird way, I am grateful for that.
I think about the fact both Willy and I were there, curbside, to see it happen and how traumatic – for both of us – that was. But I also think about how hard it would have been to have come home and heard from a neighbor. Or I think about my grandma, who is in her 80’s and thinks rules and laws are for the birds, and how she would insist on walking you without a leash saying, “She never runs away when she’s with me“, and how I would have to deal resentment and anger and her with guilt had it happened on her dime. In the end, even though it was traumatic to watch, I’m glad we were with you in your final minutes.
On the brighter side, it feels good to feel. Not only a part of being a live, but actually feeling alive, is allowing tears to run down your face. The taste of those salty tears feed my soul in a way I cannot describe except to say, maybe I needed this sadness. The lady who cares for the elderly couple from across the street came over when she saw me giving some stuff away to the drunk guy in the pickup truck who comes around the day before trash day to scavenge through the filled trash cans. She saw your food and water dish sitting next to a pile of garbage (I had made Willy take it out because every time I walked past it I kept getting the urge to fill it and the thought that filling it would be pointless was causing more tears). She asked if I was getting rid of it and I told her yes and explained what had happened that morning. I started to cry. Through broken english and tears coming from her own eyes, she confessed that she often told the elderly couple how nice of a dog you were and how you protected our boys. We hugged and cried more, together. And, well, maybe I needed that random human connection; a reminder that we all share one another’s sorrows. Sometimes sadness is a blessing; when you’re content and life’s waves are neither big or small, nothing – good or bad – really knocks you off your feet. Again, maybe I needed this sadness.
The last night we spent in our house, you and I spooned. It’s something that happened most nights for a few hours before Willy would kick you out into your own bed but this night was the best cuddle we had ever had. You was under our covers, your head on my pillow next to mine. And though that memory brings tears and sadness to my heart now, and perhaps a little anger for what will no longer be, I trust that in time it is memories like that that will put a smile on my face.
The night we moved, two of our friends came over to help us load boxes into the cars. And, as they were doing so, a dove – with an olive branch, no less – landed on fence just outside the door. When I heard that, Sarah, I knew you were safe and at peace.
You will be in our hearts, always.
Recovery
I remember a time in college where I was bending over to get something out of my book bag. A guy approached me and asked if I was a gymnast or a dancer. I was shocked, for two reasons really; first and foremost, um, get a new pick up line and, second, how the hell did he know I was a gymnast? He went on to say it was the way I bent over with ease and grace and I continued to be a bit weirded out. I wish I could end this short story with “then that man became my husband” but really, I don’t even remember what he looked like.
The point being, there was a time I moved uninhibitedly.
I was a gymnast, a competitive one at that, for years. I was that girl that would do handstands on walls that enclosed the Grand Canyon. I may have done the splits at a bar after being dared and, of course, after throwing a few back. I could also beat my husband, with ease, in a push up contest.
I’ve always taken pride in my body. Not so much in terms of appearance, but in terms of ability.
None of that changed when I gave birth twice to very large babies. I recovered and I went on doing handstands around the house and so on and so forth.
And then came back surgery. I’m far enough along in recovery now that I can do things. To the naked eye, my life may seem more or less normal. My thoughts, however, are plagued constantly by my aches and pains and limitations. I’ve adapted to not bending by bending instead at my knees. And, now, every time I squat down to pick something up, my knees ache and my thighs burn. My body is failing me, yet it’s not that at all. My body is healing and it feels like it’s taking forever. It feels like I live everyday in the body of an elderly woman. I need breaks, I need to rest in bed, I need to ice, hell, I’m two shakes of a lambs tail from switching from Advil to Alieve which would surely put me in the senior citizen category.
Learning to listen to your body; knowing when to push, when to give up, when to ask for help… It’s all a challenge and it’s all a careful balancing act.
Recovery is still very much a part of my life.
*As a side note, thank you to each of you who have also endured a spinal fusion and have reached out to offer advice or encouragement. It’s your words that keep that light at the end of the tunnel lit.
A Guest Post: A letter to my future possible child
I love you, already, but I’m afraid of you. As in, terrified.
It’s not that I worry about being a good parent to you. I know I’ll be a good mother. What worries me is the immensity of what I’ll feel for you. It will consume me, overwhelm me, swallow me whole. It’s threatening, the power you’ll have over me. The meaning you’ll have to me. How will I stand it?
The existence of you means that something–the loss of you–could destroy me. Obliterate me. There has never been something in my life with that capacity. I have always prided myself on strength, but you could bring me to my knees. And I’m not sure I’d ever be able to stand up again.
I will want to protect you with a fierceness that will shock me. Every possible catastrophe will go through my head in the moments you’re away from me–from the time you take your first steps and wander into the other room, to the day you go off to college with only your own thoughts and plans to keep you warm at night. It’s crippling, really, the worry. The love. It must be a thousand times what I feel for my dog, for my cats, and I come to tears leaving them alone for a long weekend.
How will I function with what I’ll feel for you? How will I be anything when you are everything? I don’t worry about losing sleep due to those predictable fits in the first months of life. I worry about all the other nights, when you are resting soundly but I am up wondering what will become of you, if the world will be kind to you, if your heart will withstand inevitable heartbreaks.
If I give you life, know that it’s the most courageous choice I will ever make. If I don’t give you life, know that part of me will always wonder who you could have been and, also, who I would have been.
With love,
Your tentative mother
Kim Hooper | Copywriter & Novelist | Also, my sister
Mothers & Daughters
“You will never have this day with your children again. Tomorrow, they’ll be a little older than they are today. This day is a gift. Breathe and notice. Smell and touch them; Study their faces and little feet and pay attention. Relish the charms of the present. Enjoy today, mama. It will be over before you know it.” -Jen Hatmaker
In the spirit of Mother’s day, I’m offering a reduced rate when you book your mother-child session within the next two weeks: ashley {at} thestorkandthebeanstalk {dot} com.
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A portrait of my boys, once a week, every week in 2014
Van: Has been coming up and thrusting his pelvis onto my leg with threats of peeing on me. Something he learned from his brother.
Hooper: Asks every now and again to see Sarah in a very matter-of-fact tone and is more or less confused why this makes me cry every time. Also, he is eating a booger in this picture.
Click here to check out the series, in its entirety
Bits + Pieces
Carla and the boys // Janet and Carla // A visit to King Gillette Ranch // A snippet of our home, pre-move // The way Van runs with his arms out like a chicken // The neighborhood donk, on our neighborhood walk when Sarah was still with us (insert tears here) // Hooper will not stop licking around his lips and, thus, looks like Ronald McDonald // Scooter wars // Hoop takin’ a rest on Sarah’s bed is an image I treasure dearly now, more than ever // The boys playing at dusk // More of Janet and Carla // Watching the rain.
Wishing everyone a beautiful weekend.
A Family Session
My beautiful friends Marin & Evan, and their new baby, August.
Interested in booking a session? Email me: ashley {at} thestorkandthebeanstalk {dot} com.
What kind of mom are you?
There’s loads of different ways to mother a child but I like to break it down to two categories: those who prevent the mess or those who clean it up later. A while ago, my dad suggested I read a story called “Spilled Milk”. I’m not sure where the story came from; leave it to my dad to hand me a neon yellow sheet of paper that has a story about spilled milk on one side and suggestions for password security on the other.
In any case, the story was about a boy who lost his grip on a bottle of milk he was trying to remove from the refrigerator. In true childlike fashion, the milk ended up on the floor. Rather than scold her son, the mother turned the spilled milk into a lesson by stating that when a mess is made, it must eventually be cleaned up. She then gave her son different options for cleaning it up, suggesting a
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sponge, towel, or mop. The boy chose the sponge and they cleaned up the mess together. When the mess was cleaned, she brought her son outside and allowed him to practice carrying the milk without spilling it. The lesson of the story being that we must not be afraid to make mistakes, that with each mistake comes an opportunity for a valuable lesson.
Sure, it’s all kind of cheesy and if you could read, verbatim, the language used you’d have cheese seeping out your ears (I know, it’s a lovely visual). But as I was busy the other morning wanting to ream Van’s neck for throwing ice all over the floor, I thought of this story.
And when he insisted on drinking from a water bottle in my car only to have half of it spill all over himself, I thought of it again.
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And when I needed to use the boys’ clean bath towel to soak up all the water they were spilling out of their bath, I thought of it again.
And when Hooper took my perfectly folded laundry and insisted on helping by picking it up and throwing it in his brother’s room (where it actually did need to go), I thought of it yet again.
And when Hooper started copying me in the yard by cleaning up Sarah’s turds (I had a bag over my hand, he did not), I thought of it again.
I can’t say that each and every one of these scenarios turned into a thoughtful lesson that ended with them practicing cleaning up dog shit, for example, but a lot of them did end with a shoulder shrug, a “thank you for helping”, or a good hand scrubbin’.
That’s because I’ve accepted that I can’t win them all. In fact, I don’t even want to win them all. I love the idea of a child being a child. I love watching my boys explore their world. I see their admiration for me every time they mimic my behavior.
So sometimes spilled milk is okay. Just so long as it’s not spilled breast milk, right?!
What kind of mom are you? Do you embrace messes or try your hardest to prevent them?
Photo Field Trip
I’ve written and erased this post about a hundred times and, for a bit, settled on letting the pictures speak for themselves in an effort to leave out any negativity. But, I always keep it real on here and I don’t want this experience to be excluded.
I had a great time, I did. I met some fantastically amazing people – some that I have met before, others that I felt like I knew because we’ve forged such a strong friendship already through instagram alone, and others that I met for the first time and loved.
Photo field trip was something that started as a small-ish gathering. I remember emailing the person in charge about my picky eating (I eat like a 5 year old, in case you didn’t already know) and she personally assured me that if I couldn’t find something I’d like that they would order me pizza. Not that I thought that would actually happen, but I liked the idea of it being small and personal. The event blew up, however, and not long after that email they opened up several other spots and what was once a not-so-big-event suddenly became a 300+ person event.
If you didn’t know anyone, ie. if you are not active in the instagram community, I imagine it carried the potential to be a lonely event. There was that same anxiety present as when you walk into the lunchroom at a new school and wonder where you are going to sit and who is going to talk to you.
I took several different classes; some were great and others were just okay. In the end, I walked away more stoked on the social aspect than the educational aspect.
I feel like this all has to be said because it has yet to be said. It’s not said to discount anyone else’s experience, as I too came home motivated and on “on a high”. I know others who did not, however, and that makes me sad.
In any event, I hope to return next year if for no other reason than to meet up with a handful of other photographers that I now call real-life friends. I also hope to return and put my nerves to the side and branch out and meet more people and perhaps make some of those that are less familiar with the community feel a little more welcome.
Tidbits…
Hooper has really picked up on right and wrong. I suppose we have preschool to thank for that. The other day I pinched his butt. It was an oh-my-god-I-can’t-help-myself-your-toddler-butt-is-nearly-edible moments and the little booger called me out and reprimanded me, “no pinching, Mama!”. I shrugged it off and to this day find it rather cute. What’s not cute is when Willy and I took him on a bike ride and he decided to be a total tantrum throwing sour puss. Willy made him come off his bike and grabbed him by his arm and just as some people were walking to their car he says, “no grabbing me, Papa”.
Crazy cool images of unborn animals in the womb. I think the elephant is my favorite.
An interesting article on the importance of birth order. I couldn’t agree more… my sister, who is older, is the “planner”… I’m the “I’ll buy a jacket when I get to the mountains” type. Does the assumption that first born = achiever, second born = peacemaker, third born = life of the party hold true in your family?
Jennifer Senior, author of “All Joy and No Fun” was on the Colbert show. I kinda wish he would have stopped interrupting her and just let her talk. I also wish someone would have put a guitar on her lap and made her sing (I love me some rasp).
The other evening was one of those evenings where Willy and I were both looking at the clock and wondering if we could move bedtime up to the present time. It had been a fun-filled day complete with missed naps, which truthfully never ends well. I always envisioned being a “carefree” mom who said “boo-hoo” to schedules but the childless day dreamer that I once was knew nothing of the consequences for missed naps. In any event, we contemplated throwing the boys in the car and just going for a drive to get out. It’s hard for them to push, hit, or bite whenever when they’re restrained by their seat belts. Instead, we opted to hide. No, really. When they weren’t looking, we made a break for it and sat in the shower; Willy with his glass of whiskey, me with a glass of wine. And you know what? It was heavenly. For whatever reason, they played together peacefully. It was as if when the referees weren’t there they just instinctively knew they had to play fair. We must have sat in that shower for at least a half hour; long enough for Sarah to curl up on the bath mat and join us. So next time they’re pissin’ me off, you can find me in the shower.
The wonderfully talented Amy Grace invited me to participate in both her “grown ups” chorus as well as her ” ” chorus. You can read all the beautiful entries and browse all the lovely images by clicking here and here. Many thanks to Amy for giving me a voice. I hope to meet her one day, live and in person.
One of my favorite photographers, Dera Frances, was featured over on the Childhood Unplugged blog. Her work is always an inspiration to me and her daughters are just so beautiful. I love what she chooses to capture and how she captures it. You can check out the interview here.
I was invited to share my 5 favorite things for the boys over on the Simple Savvy blog. I went with the practical things we use everyday.
Remember that really cute post of Van behind the wheel of Willy’s truck. Well, following that the battery died and $850 dollars later (somehow the cables or something got damaged) we decided the boys are no longer allowed to play in the cars.
I went on Photo Field Trip in El Capitan the other weekend. It was a blast to meet some virtual friends in the flush. Perhaps my favorite part of the weekend was an inspirational speech given by Dallas Clayton. I still can’t seem to shake his energy out of my blood stream and I’m so thankful for that. He’s nothing short of extraordinary. You can check out fellow photographer Kelly Christine’s amazing images from the weekend here. I’m hoping to get around to posting a few pics I took during the weekend as well, though truthfully I didn’t take many. It rained for much of the time and schlepping my camera around wears on my neck and back.
I just adored this post from Jessica. I stopped following many of the blogs I used to read; partly because I just don’t have the time and partly because I just can’t stand the in-your-face sponsored posts. I love that she approached the topic from a place of sincerity. I also can’t wait to check out her new project.
Ama sent me this video and pretty much made my night. If you knew how many random tractor videos I have to watch in a week, you’d know why I find this so hilarious. Thanks for the laugh, Ama.
One of my very kind readers recognized a photo I had posted as coming from Alain Laboile. I checked out his work then and there and have gone back several times since. He is amazing.
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Thursday morning, as I was getting the kids into the car, Willy and I watched helplessly as Sarah was hit by a car in front of our home. There have been lots of tears and lots of replaying of a horrific event over and over in our heads. I have no words, only tears and a lot of them. When I can find the words, I will share. She deserves that much, and more.
Van @ 19 Months
Growth & Appearance: At your well-baby check-up this month your height was 35 1/4 (96%), your weight was 28.5 (70%), and your head circumference was 19 1/8 (70%).
Eating: You love food. It’s still so interesting to compare the differences in eating habits between you and your brother. I’ll put two scrambled eggs on each of your plates, for example, and you’ll literally shove 1/3 of what’s on your plate into your mouth and swallow it within seconds while your brother will spit out a small bite protesting that the bite was “too big”. The other day I gave you a hamburger and held off on giving you any french fries until you were done with the burger. I waited until you put your last bite in and then put a fry on your plate. You literally took the burger out of your mouth, and I swear you had half
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of that burger shoved into every little crevice of your mouth, and proceeded to eat the french fry instead. So while you love eating just about anything and everything, you definitely have preferences.
When you’re done eating you throw everything off the table like one of those crazy musicians who breaks his guitar at the end of his show. The other day you threw your sippy cup at my glass cup which broke into a thousand pieces on the floor.
You love to eat ice. So much so that you now open the cupboard and pull out one of the tupperware bowls that I typically put it in and hand it me requesting for “ice, ice” over and over again until I give in. After every meal, you climb up onto my lap and try to get the ice out of my cup.
You also love Altoids.
Sleeping: You’re doing well in your big boy bed. For the most part, you take your naps without much fuss. The other day, however, you protested and by the time you were finally quiet I peeked in and was unable to open the door; you fell asleep right up against the door.
You are afraid of the dark. You don’t even like walking at night and whine to be held or reach for one of our hands to hold.
You took off your pants and diaper the other day during your nap and wiped your shit all over the pillow and sheets. That was fun.
Talking: You started saying “no” and shaking your head and, at times, even crossing your arms across your chest in defiance. It’s so darn cute that we often ask you things we know you’ll say no to just to see you wildly shake your head in protest. Othertimes, it’s not so cute. The terrible twos are approaching quickly.
You say a ton of words that mostly only those who take care of you on a regular basis can understand. You say “please” and “thank you”. You probably have somewhere in the ballpark of 100 words in your vocabulary but you are not stringing them together in sentences.
Development: You’re warm and welcoming and friendly. You’ll go to anyone, like the other day when you went up to the guy working on our house and requested for him to hold you. Or the other day when someone was over to pick something up that I had sold on craigslist and you grabbed her by the finger to accompany you outside. Then there was the day you tripped and fell outside a restaurant and went to the first person you looked up and saw for comfort; it was a complete stranger.
All the sudden you became a champion scooter rider. You can go fairly fast and without stopping. You lead with your right foot and push with your left.
You have a new found insistence in wanting things to go your way. You have your own ideas of what you want to do and how you want to do them.
You love spraying spray bottles filled with water but you often mistakenly hold it in the wrong direction and end up spraying yourself in the face.
You can jump with two feet off the floor but it takes some pre-jumping warm ups to get it going. You love trying though.
You love latching your belt of your high chair together and putting t
ogether your carseat buckle as well.
I allowed you to paint with Hooper the other day and aside from the few brush strokes that you put on your paper, most of the paint ended up in your mouth and hair.
You can point out all the different animals in your picture books, including bunnies, horses, dogs, cats, penguins, fish, frogs, and so on and so forth. You fold your hands up into your armpits and quack when you see a picture of a duck.
Favorites: You still love to read. Goodnight Moon is still one of your favorites. You love cookies and candy. You love music and dance like no ones watching. And, really, anything Hooper is playing with becomes a fast favorite.
My Baby
It was Valentine’s Day, a day we typically don’t celebrate. Not as a couple, anyway. We have lots of love for one another and our love is rooted deeper in a genuine friendship and we’ve both always considered it a bit silly to dedicate one day – and the same day as everyone else, no less – to express our gratitude for one another. So, when Willy came home with flowers and red vines I looked at him perplexed and awkwardly apologized for not having anything tangible to give him in return.
Then I requested that we go for a drive. Get out. Enjoy what was a beautiful day. And so, we did.
We headed to the canyon, a short 5 minute drive from our home. Hooper fell asleep in the back seat and as we got out to watch the sun set behind the rocky hills, we decided to leave him be. I snapped a couple shots of Willy with Van before asking Willy to place Van in my arms.
It’s been over four months since I’ve held either of my boys. And, more times than not, I’ve found that my need to hold them coupled with my inability to do so has been an unwelcome lesson in patience; when they are not cooperating or when they’re throwing tantrums or when they decide that climbing off their beds is more fun than climbing into their beds or when they get hurt and look to me to comfort them and I can do nothing. When Willy placed Van in my arms, I expected squirming and a full-fledged protest of confinement. What I got was my youngest son, my baby, in my arms. All to myself. His head on my chest, even if for just a moment.
We got back in the car after the sun went down. Hooper was still asleep in the back sleep, dreaming dreams of french fries or firemen- I’m sure. And as we drove away, I told Willy that that moment and the photo that captured it was the best gift I could have received.
The flowers died and the licorice got eaten, but this right here, these images – these memories – will always live on.
Today, I’m feeling grateful for my family.
March Madness Sale
When I was pregnant with Hooper, I use to scour the thrifts and Etsy for cute vintage boys clothes. I’d frequent a lot of the same shops over and over again because I found a few of them consistently had just what I was looking for. I was so stoked the other day to open a package from the lovely Alisha of LishyLoo Vintage and find these adorable pants that she has so generously handed down to us. They appear handmade, with love, with some fraying at the waist that makes me think of all the cuties that have worn these pants before Van, her three adorable children included. In any event, it got me all sentimental.
If you’re looking for some awesome vintage finds, do yourself a favor and visit her shop. She’s currently having a march madness sale and you can get 20% with the code MARCHMADDNESS. Here are my favorites: This adorable two piece outfit from the 60’s (mostly for those amazing shorts, I mean get outta here!), these Health-Tex overalls (my favorite vintage brand), these Minnetonka moccasins that I wish were in my size, and… waittttt for it… THIS children’s folk jacket that I’m basically drooling over and almost didn’t include because I want to just snatch it up for myself.
Side note: Many congrats to *Misty* for winning the giveaway to Little Pim. Thank you to all who entered!
The hysteria that is motherhood
A snippet of my time with the Kraus family
Sometimes it’s just so hard getting out the door. By the time all are fed and dressed and bags are packed, it feels like it’s time to go to bed and do the same thing all over again; all without ever actually walking out the door. So when the car is packed and all but one member of your gang has piled in, you turn a blind eye to your youngest member who comes out holding his shoelaces to his oversized shoes in his hands like a stilt walker holds his poles. You just do.
With a chuckle and a giggle and perhaps a slight shake of the head; that’s how you get through motherhood.
Ramblings on my postpartum body
This post is long, long overdue. But, here goes nothing…
-I lost all my pregnancy weight, and then some, while breastfeeding Van. The same happened with Hooper. I know that many struggle to lose the “baby weight” and while this is not a problem of mine, I do feel emaciated. My face looks deflated and I feel like a pole. Hate me for being thin all you want, but I feel far from sexy. And my muscle tone is for shit.
-If I could have any body, I’d love to have hips and butt. Curves are so feminine and beautiful.
-Despite the weight loss, I have a pooch. It feels weird to be so scrawny everywhere else, but then have a protrusion. I hesitated doing any sit-ups in the beginning because I have diastasis recti and read that doing sit ups could make the separation/protrusion worse. I waited for that gap between my abdominal muscles to close, but thanks to my 9+ pound babies, that has yet to occur. I’m not convinced sit-ups would help anyway. Nor am I currently even able to do a sit-up due to my restrictions following back surgery.
-Speaking of working out, I used to think doing some push-ups and sit-ups here and there would be beneficial but now-a-days it seems that people have it down to some complicated recipe of doing a variety of exercises and drinking weird drinks and putting powdered shit into their gross smoothies. I can’t seem to bring myself to board that train. So for a long time after giving birth, I did nothing and felt bad about that too.
-I’m not sure if it’s related to my scoliosis, but I’ve had more back pain since becoming a mom (I’m talking pre-surgery). I’m sure there’s many factors to this (working as a nurse, picking up kids, carrying heavy loads) but, without a doubt, I’m at a greater risk of back pain due to the lack of abdominal support I now have. With my abdominal muscles separated, my back has poor support. I felt very unbalanced prior to my surgery and my spine felt very unstable.
-I battled bad skin for the first part of my pregnancy with Van and had a few bouts of the same prior to starting my period. One pimple is enough to put me in a bad mood some days.
-My boobs feel like balls you can wobble to and fro now that they’re empty.
-Not entirely postpartum related, but my legs are always bruised from something toddler or toy-tripping-over related.
-I grew up doing gymnastics. I spent everyday in the gym, Monday through Friday, for four hours for several years of my child and adolescent years. Even in my college days, when I was coaching competitive gymnastics, I’d mess around and tumble or flip around on the trampoline. Now, I’ve never felt so stiff. I don’t feel flexible and I’m pretty sure that if I jumped on a trampoline, pee would come out. Surgery has made this even worse. It took weeks before I was even able to lift my arms above my head.
-Even before pregnancy, if I could kill for a head full of thick luscious locks and you have a head with thick luscious locks, locking your door at night would be a good idea. I would have starred on one of them 48 Hour Mysteries a long time ago. Leave it to postpartum to take something you hated beforehand and make it worse. Nothing chaps my ass worse than postpartum hair loss. I’m still growing in the bald spots.
-Then there’s the post-surgery shit to add to it… like the scar running all the way down my spine, the burn mark on my left shoulder I sustained after laying on an unwrapped part of a heating pad and could not feel due to the complete (as in, are you touching me?) numbness that covers about half of my back, the fact I cannot work out at all (not that I want to, but it would be nice to strengthen my core to help my back along), my inability to bend (you know how good it feels to twist in such a way that stretches or pops your back? I have that itch constantly but never scratch it… sometimes I think my pain would be substantially less if I could just stretch properly)… but still, there is the good too… Like having a straight spine.
I’ve read other mommy bloggers complain about their postpartum bodies and then end the post with a reminder of all their bodies have done and all our motherly bodies are capable of. Sure, it is pretty spectacular. I still struggle with self-acceptance.
How do you feel about your postpartum body?
10/52
A portrait of my boys, once a week, every week in 2014
Van: Eats his bagel
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with cream cheese and dirt on top
Hooper: Looks for monsters on top of hills and behind trash cans
Ha! Remember the days when I tried to include Willy and myself in this series? They’re gone.
Click here to check out the series, in its entirety
A few things about boys
As the mother of two boys, I cannot speak on behalf of raising a girl. What I can say is that when I was a teenager, I told my mom I hated her. More than once. I remember a senior trip to Mexico that my friends and I all planned on going to to celebrate graduation from high school. High school, as in I was seventeen and wanting to go to Mexico… where they flip you upside down and shake you after taking shots of tequila so it gets to your brain faster and where you can buy just about anything you need a prescription for here without a prescription, like Viagra. Not that I wanted Viagra or to be shook upside down for that matter. I couldn’t understand, at the time, why my mom wouldn’t let me go (somehow my dad got out of these things scotch-free… all my disgust was always directed toward my mom even when the decisions – like not allowing me to go to Mexico – were made between the two of them). Every boundary felt so personal; it never felt like a decision made for my personal well-being but instead like a decision made to ruin my life. In hindsight, it was out of love, of course.
When I became pregnant with Van a lot of the other nurses at work were hoping it was a girl. People told me I needed a girl. I couldn’t, and still can’t, wrap my head around needinga daughter. Karma is a bitch, so-they-say, and – well – the idea of having a daughter who will eventually hate me when I won’t let her go to Mexico because of fear she’d be gang raped doesn’t sound so peachy. When I found out Van was indeed a boy, there was a lot of sighs and encouragement to have a third. Willy wanted Van to be a girl as well. I always wanted him to be a boy. I always knew, even before becoming pregnant, that I would be a mother to boys. And yet, I felt this weird sort of disappointment when I found out Van was a boy; it was a feeling similar to “another husband?”… “but I already have one of those“. As the reality sunk in, it hit me that my disappointment was not disappointment at all but rather projected disappointment that others were feeling for me. It clouded my own excitement for what I instinctively knew all along: I was going to be the mother to two boys.
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I cannot sit at my computer for more than five minutes without one of my munchkins climbing onto my lap and requesting to watch a tractor video. These are not cartoons, but literally tractors working on construction sites. I know all about excavators, vacuum trucks, impact hammers, bulldozers, and dump trucks. Every Friday, you’ll find the three of us sitting curbside as the garbage trucks go by. Outside our front door is a beloved pile of sticks. I’ve had a worm in my bed. Hooper has told me he likes the dress I have on and he rubs my arm in a sweet loving embrace and tells me he loves me multiple times a day.
Sure, there will be hard times with boys too. It isn’t always going to be easy and fun. It isn’t always easy and fun even now. They too may hate me one day when I don’t let them go to Mexico. The point being, I don’t think I’m missing out.
I think of having a third often. The more my body heals, the less daunting it seems. I’ve always said I wanted three. And, for the record, it won’t be a final attempt at having a girl. I would love three boys.