Last Firsts

This week, I celebrated my last baby’s first birthday. G is officially a one-year-old. No more telling people I have a baby at home.

I could cry at the drop of a hat thinking about how fast my kids are growing. The days are long but the years are short. It’s truly unfair, especially when they’re little and just so freakin’ adorable. I started writing this post on March 4th, so clearly I’ve been dreading this birthday milestone for a while.

Dreading and looking forward to it at the same time. Here I go again, a complex web of contradictions.

I am tearfully rocking my baby, I mean, my toddler to sleep because she will be ever so slightly heavier and older and more independent tomorrow. At the same time, I’m thinking about all the things I want to do with my life after she leaves the nest 17 years from now. I simultaneously want my freedom back and my children to stay in their preschool years forever.

I can’t believe a year ago we were bringing her home from the hospital. I can’t believe today, she’s walking and climbing and communicating. She’s drinking from a straw and prefers solids. I can’t believe that this is the year she’ll learn to talk, to run, and maybe move out of her crib. Tell me how the first year of a baby’s life makes sense. Seeing her grow from gremlin to a little girl in just 12 months is mind-boggling.

What’s also weird is that I don’t even remember Bub at this age. I had to look at photos and videos to remind myself, which made me terrified that I might someday soon forget what G is like at this very moment. Oh please let me remember her chubby cheeks, the sound of her babbling, her toddling to me with arms open wide. A big toothy grin on her face. I want to remember all of it.

Now I’m crying again.

4 for 4

Bub is now a four-year old. I want to say he’s officially no longer a toddler, but I think that ship sailed when he started school this past fall and became a preschooler. When I think of four years, I think of how I measured my coming-of-age years. The difference between a freshman and a senior is vast. The variance between baby Bub and kid Bub is baffling.

Having a kid has changed my perspective of time. How much G is transforming in her first year is overwhelming. How much Bub has grown in the past year is mind-boggling. I don’t understand how, with kids, time moves slow and fast at the same time.

Bub has 365 days of being four. It feels like a long time when I put it in those terms. But, I know it’ll fly by. Four years ago, he was born. In another four years, he’ll be in second grade. Two years after that, he’ll be 10. And then he’s only a few years away from being a teenager. Most people would say, “Duh Linda, that’s how time works.” To which I’d say, “I don’t like it!”

The week before Bub’s birthday, I found myself hugging him more, staring at him longer. The weekend before, he got up from bed in the mornings without crying, helped make tea and coffee, and entertained G while I cooked. He waited quietly outside G’s room while I nursed her and patiently played with his toys by himself when he’d see me talking to Steve. Knowing that he’s turning four has lit a fire within him to be more independent. He insists on doing things on his own. I know he’s capable. It’s me who needs to get out of the way.

From year three to year four, Bub:

• Learned to put on his shirt and pants

• Learned to put on his socks, shoes, and coat when he leaves the house

• Has grown four inches

• No longer takes regular naps

• Can read and write his own name

• Can do simple math

• Can think creatively and strategically

• Became a big brother

He loves dance parties and chocolate and telling jokes. Gosh, he is just such a joy to be around. He’s fun and hilarious and thoughtful. He’s the best parts of us.

The day of his birthday, I found myself stressing over making a beautiful cake (that split and fell apart), getting a photo of us in our party hats (that we forgot to put on), taking a video of us singing ‘happy birthday’ to him (that we never captured). While I ran around the kitchen frantically, I had to remind myself that it’s not about me. Bub could care less about any of these things. Am I being present with him? Am I letting him eat the cake? That’s all he cares about.

One of the most significant observations I made this past year is that he is no longer a passive stakeholder in this family. He is a voting member of the board, who needs to be heard and whose opinions can sway the decisions we make.

You want milkshakes and chocolate cake on your birthday? You got it, Bub.

35, From Survive to Thrive

Last year, when I turned 34, I remember writing that, “Instead of being just fine, I want to thrive. I want 34 to be more of what I’ve been doing, more of what I want. More prioritizing of health! More physical movement! More ways to fill my soul! And maybe, just maybe, one more kid.”

Well, the kid part certainly happened. I’m realizing now just how contradictory my statement was. The last sentence completely nullifies my first three intentions. Having a kid, for me anyway, meant eating less healthy food, less exercise, and less soul-filling activities. Being pregnant meant spending the first three months bed-ridden, the next three months eating as many pastries I could get my hands on, and the last three months of it barely able to walk on a slight incline on the treadmill. Soul-filling activities were replaced with trying to fit in as much work as possible before my maternity leave. 34, in reality, was really about surviving.

Still in the infant phase with Gertie, I’m recognizing that 35 likely means more of the same survival skills 34 required. I barely leave the house and I don’t see that changing much this year. I try to cook healthy meals and exercise, but I’m not sure how much more time I can devote to the kitchen and gym, especially when I start working again. With two kids now, I have to cram even more into the same hours. Not an easy task.

As I go to bed on my last day of my 34th year, the laundry is piled up on the bed, wrinkled and unfolded. Toys and cushions are strewn across the living room floor from Bub building an obstacle course. (He succeeded. It’s definitely an obstacle to carry Gertie from one side of the room to the other now.) I find myself burnt out from responding to my three-year-old, who constantly wants my attention, and my two-month-old, who constantly needs my attention.

Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have the energy right now to come up with different intentions for this year. Maybe it’s okay that 35 is about letting things simply be, about letting myself live life without pressure for perfection or for big moments. Maybe 35 is embracing the imperfection, relishing the mess, and noticing the tiny beautiful things.

Our Golden Boy

I’m officially a mom of a three year-old. Bub himself tells me these days that he’s not a baby anymore. He’s a “kid” now.

When my nephew turned three a while back, my sister said that the first few years of a child’s life should really be spread out across several years. It would give us time to figure out the whole baby thing and most importantly, give us time to really enjoy them when they’re small and so cute. Because in reality, damn, do they grow up fast.

From year two to year three, Bub:

• Expanded his vocabulary like crazy - when he first turned two, he could string a couple words together and now, he speaks in full articulate sentences

• Learned (most of) the alphabet (he’s still working on his flash cards with Grandpa)

• Learned to count to 20 (almost - he still says “eleventeen”)

• Can pee on the potty and has pooped on the potty a few times

• Lost his chubby toddler cheeks, grew three inches, and gained 10 pounds

• Can sing songs and dance

• Can play with toys using his imagination

• Can run around at full-speed (down store aisles, around the kitchen island, across the soccer field)

• Has watched entire movies and shows (and is obsessed with the Avengers)

A year ago, I could carry him around without my shoulders aching. And, I could carry him wherever I wanted. These days, everywhere we go, whatever we do requires a conversation. He has strong opinions now. He can charm and negotiate. He expresses himself through stronger emotions. Leaner and taller, he can reach and climb higher. He can be trusted to fetch things upstairs on his own, play independently while I shower, and feed Buddha all by himself. He often tells me, “Mama, you stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Being alone with him isn’t as much of a chore anymore. It’s more like spending time with a buddy. This time last year, I didn’t let him watch any TV, nor was he interested. Now, he watches two to three hours a day. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it gives us the break we need as parents. Plus, it gives us another thing to bond over. I now know the names of all of Spider-Man’s friends, his vehicles, and his villains. On the bright side, we read a lot more. Moving beyond board books, we can read for longer because his attention span has grown. It’s amazing what he can remember and help me remember.

These days, one of my favorite things to do with him is cook. He’ll help me crack eggs (still working on keeping the shells separate) and add and mix the ingredients. Steve says the activities we do together will only get more fun.

As each year goes by, I enjoy him more. Not because he becomes more enjoyable, but because I’m learning how to enjoy being a parent. When he first turned two, I still obsessed about feeding him a healthy diet, keeping him away from every imaginable toxin, and making the right decisions all the time. Over the past year, I’ve learned to relax when he eats a non-organic grape, goes anywhere with Steve, or watches one too many hours of TV. Perhaps because he’s older and not a baby anymore. Perhaps because I really am letting go of the facade of being a perfect parent.

I’m not sure what year three to year four will bring. I am sure, however, that it’ll involve more patience, more awareness of my own downsides, more letting him figure things out on his own. It’ll require calming myself down when he goes to school for the first time. It’ll demand me releasing feelings of guilt when his little sister is born and I can’t focus all of my attention on him. It’s truly bittersweet to watch him grow, but more sweet than bitter as I watch him discover more about himself and the world. Thanks for choosing me to be your mama, Bub. Happy three years to us ❤️

34, Excited for More

As the temperatures cool and my wardrobe becomes more layered, I am in disbelief that the summer is over and that my birthday is here. Wow, another year around the sun and I can’t quite wrap my head around it. This birthday came up fast. I swear it was July yesterday.

Let’s see - what did I do in my 33rd year…I traveled to both coasts with my child and we made it home in one piece; I started taking sunscreen more seriously; I tried herbal supplements, Xanax, acupuncture, hypnotherapy, and craniosacral therapy for my panic attacks; I treated myself to a week-long retreat sans husband and kiddo; and I progressed with my anxiety and health in ways I didn’t think possible.

I’m typically very sentimental this time of year, nostalgic for what has been. But this time, I’m finally feeling appreciative for the chapter I’m in right now and excited about what’s to come. As my cloud of anxiety and depression clears, I am optimistic - a word I haven’t used to describe myself since before I was pregnant. I’m enjoying my not-so-little Bub and excited to try for one more - something I thought I’d never say. Having one is exhausting enough. There is no rationale for wanting another. It’s not reason that makes me want another baby. It’s purely emotional.

Not too long ago, I wanted everything to be perfect before having another kid: perfect house, second car, Bub in daycare, a trusty sitter on speed dial, a few career projects checked off my list. It’s been a journey this year to realize that there is no perfect time to have kids or to do anything big in life. You do the thing and trust that you’ll adapt. I’ve been doing it all my life. I can do it again and again and again.

Instead of being just fine, I want to thrive. I want 34 to be more of what I’ve been doing, more of what I want. More prioritizing of health! More physical movement! More ways to fill my soul! And maybe, just maybe, one more kid.