Two!

Mary,

I woke up this morning right around the time you were born two years ago. I had a lot of work to do to get ready for your birthday. After feeding Bobby and making your breakfast, I started frosting your chocolate cake and layering your strata; roasting potatoes and setting up the table. Why I thought hosting a Cinderella themed party at 10:00 AM was a good idea is beyond me? Luckily, the reinforcements started pouring in at 8:30. Nana, Opa, Aunt Dee Dee and of course Daddy all had jobs and they did them as swiftly as Cinderella's posse of mice.

At 9:50, I still hadn't showered. (Oops - didn't factor the whole getting ready thing in, I guess.) At 10:05, when the first guest arrived, I walked down the stairs with a wet head of hair and no make up. I guess someone had to play the part of the ugly step sister. Thankfully, everything was set up and ready to go though, and everyone seemed to have a great time, including you.

But as you were opening your presents, I realized that I forgot one very important thing - a birthday card. I hadn't written you a special message, and I felt bad. So without one of Hallmark's finest to write on, I'm using my blog ...

Mary, I love you more than words can say, but on your second birthday, today, I will try.
I love your little legs, especially when their wrapped up in tights.
I love your perfect little feet buckled into your party shoes.
I love your big blue eyes and beautiful blond hair, and how you pick the 'blue bow' every morning to hold it back.
I love the little space in between your two front teeth. And how you proudly show it off when you say, 'CHEEEEEESE!'
I love your inquisitive nature and your interest in fixing everything that is broken.
I love how you can build things with Legos that I can't even build.
I love your fear of ladybugs.
I love your voice  especially when you use it to harmonize with me as we sing lullabies together at night.
I love all the funny ways you try to explain your life and all the fun that it holds.
I love when you tell Bobby, 'what's a matter?'
And better yet, when you tell him, 'I love you, Bobby.'
I love when you say the same thing about your Daddy and your Mommy. It just melts my heart.
I love how your eyes light up when I mention your grandparents. And Lyla.
I love reading to you.
Running with you.
Buying you mini donuts.
And watching you eat way too many of them.
I love swimming with you and biking with you.
I love dancing, drawing, and dining with you.
I love that you think the Notre Dame Leprechaun's name is Opa.
And that you can nearly say a Hail Mary and Our Father.
I even love your sporadic tantrums: the little tears that well up in your eye, the frustration that fills your voice, and the meltdown that ensues. I love being the one who can help you calm down.
I love seeing your smile when you wake up in the morning and feeling your head fall onto my shoulder as I put you to bed at night.
I love that you made me a Mom for the first time on a magical day two years ago. And today, on your special day, I wish you a lifetime filled with frosting, sprinkles, family, friends, party dresses and party shoes, and smiles that stretch from one ear to the other.

Happy birthday my little (terrific) two-year old. I love you.

Lo.

Sick Days

When I was growing up, 'sick days' had a distinct definition. They meant going to see the school nurse, Mrs. Byerly, an elderly woman who doubled as the institution's 'resident poet' and made a guest appearance in your English once a year to recite a couple limericks in her signature quivery voice. Her office was a working infirmary, equipped with first aid supplies, a bathroom and a cot. If you were lucky, you would be the only sick kid in school that day so the bed and toilet for that matter were all yours. Otherwise, you might be splitting the difference between a chair and a bed with another virus ridden student, placing bets on who would christen the loo first. 

Hearing that your Mom or Dad arrived, which in my case always took longer than the kids whose Moms stayed at home, was music to my ears, especially if I hadn't broken my seal yet. At home, there was a sick day set up: pajamas on, in bed, ginger ale flattened, saltines prepped, and the yellow plastic garbage can positioned at the head of my bed for easy booting. 'Stomach bugs' typically had one of two life spans: 12 or 24 hours. And for the entirety of their existence, yours was miserable. The only thing that remotely made it better was the kind of medicine that only your parents could provide: hugs, kisses, and knowing that getting you better was the only job they had to do that day.  

After your pest had died its slow, painful death, you were still under quarantine for a day or two, and although depleted of your insides, the following sick days were really rather enjoyable. The fizz returned to your ginger ale, saltines became toast, bad dreams were replaced by a line-up of daytime game shows, everyone continued to treat you with extra care, and you got an extra day to study for the Reading test on the book you never got around to reading. But, freshly cleaned from the day before, the yellow garbage can still followed you to the couch where you were stationed for most of the day as a precaution. If that poor yellow garbage can could talk ... 

It's been about 20 years since I've had sick days like this. And there was part of me hoping that I would never have them again.

***

There are some moments when I still can't believe I'm the 'mommy' Mary references. That it's me she's so enamored of. Sometimes, I still feel like the kid and there were parts of this week when I really wanted to be.

There is a reason why the title of this blog is plural. There wasn't just one sick day this week, there were a whole slew of them. And it wasn't just a common cold that plagued our residence, it was one of those hateful stomach bugs that prey on small children. 

Over the past couple days, I've been trying to pinpoint the culprit: it was either the girl who stole the puzzle Mary was doing at the library, or the neighbor who stopped by to play, or the boy who aggressively hugged Mary without invitation on the playground. Regardless, a 24-hour bug made the leap from one tot to mine, and the moment Mary spit out her Hershey kiss after dinner on Tuesday, I knew something was wrong. 

A half an hour later I was sitting next to a puddle of puke on my comforter, holding a crying toddler, and telling her that it was okay that she 'spit up like Bobby;' then laundering sheets and PJs that made me want to vomit at the smell of them. There was part of me that wanted to run and hide, much like I did when I was babysitting a sick kid, leaving the parents to clean up when they got home. But I knew just like my Mom and Dad, I needed to be there for my little girl. To clean her hair and wash her stuffed animals that happened to be in harms way; to cuddle with her and hope that the Bibbidy Bobbidy Boos of Cinderella's Fairy Godmother would make her illness pass a little faster. 

The kicker was, twelve hours later, I was sick as a dog too. Up all night, freezing with the chills, not even able to keep water down; far more miserable than I remember. And with Peter and Bobby quarantined and the realization that being the Mommy meant I not only had to take care of my sick kid, but myself too, there's nothing I wanted more than for my Mom or Dad to come walking through the front door, ready to hold my hair back and take the fizz out of my ginger ale.   

We all woke up healthy today. But it was one rough week - at times, it seemed almost traumatic. Seeing your daughter upset and scared. Not being able to help your husband as he cared for a newborn two nights in a row. Praying that your poor nanny wouldn't become the bug's next victim. And then feeling like I was loosing the precious days of my maternity leave.

But I forced myself to see the silver lining today. I woke up thankful for our health and all of our ability's to beat this seasonal virus. I felt thankful that for the first time since I left the hospital with Bobby six weeks ago, I completely rested. And I felt thankful for the care giving team helping to raise Mary and Bobby. My husband. And my brave, loving nanny - who not only helped Mary, but helped me get better this week, while keeping Bobby healthy, happy and snoozing away. 

And with this week past, I'm so ready for spring.

Lo. 

My Special Day

This week, between planning Mary's second birthday party and celebrating the fourth week of Bobby's life, I turned 33. (Thirty-three!) The juncture between my early and mid thirties. Suddenly, it's been fifteen years since my high school graduation, eleven since my teammates and I walked off the field together for the last time, and eight since I met a fisherman from Cape Cod named Peter. All the moments in life that seem like yesterday are quickly becoming history, and as I blew out yet another candle on Monday, I was left wondering where time has gone.

Lately, the answer has been my children. What seems like a blink of an eye in my life is the entirety of theirs. My 31st, and 32nd and now 33rd just slipped by, huh?

Basically, for the past three years, I've been counting up (and counting down for that matter) in the developmental milestones that make up my kids' lives. Each week and month are more or less defined by their advancements: as they grow from the size of a pomegranate seed to a watermelon, as they add pounds and inches and move into the next size up; as they trade in random smirks for social smiles, roll over, and finally sleep through the night. As they crawl, cruise and walk; say a word, then a sentence, and then sing a whole song. My personal proof points seem piddly in comparison.

Take this week. When I pragmatically reflect on what I've accomplished, I'm at a loss. I slept (or tried to.) I ate. I bathed. But for the most part, I spent my days breastfeeding and filling bottles, changing soiled diapers and laundering teeny tiny outfits marinated in spit up, reading Curious George and watching movies that aren't on your Oscar ballot. There's a reason I've been having writers block - in my fatigued fog, I feel like I don't have much to write about.  

I've heard people say that having kids means putting your life on hold. That essentially, as your time is reallocated to your offspring you surrender your momentum. While I agree that I've let much of my ego stray as a mother, I have never felt that my personal or professional trajectory is on pause. Rather, I believe I have added a new dimension to life and with it, placed it on fast forward. Yes, like anything in life that diverts us, there are days when I want to balk at the things I've lost or replaced or can't quite get to. But in the end, I remember that the work I'm doing these days has only made my life and the lives of the people around me that much richer.  

But I have to admit, that the moments dedicated to me - the 'special days' from my husband, the weekends where visitors make my house a little cozier and my load a lot lighter, and the parties with extra crusty bread, triple chocolate cake, steak frites, and a little bubbly to celebrate me, help make time stand still again. And help me remember just how much I crammed into another amazing year.

Lo.

My Daddy Valentine

Last night, I went through two t-shirts again. The first was retired after being drenched with a combination of hormonal sweats and spit up. The second lasted me through breakfast when I was once again showered with more regurgitated milk.

After breakfast, I went through several other maternal skin care regimens. I was peed on three times. I exfoliated with gold fish crumbs. I took a chlorine bath with Mary as I attempted to give her a swim lesson. I did shower, but didn't get a chance to brush my hair. And I dressed for dinner tonight reliant on a natural glow as I am on day, hmmm, 21, no actually 22 without so much as a smear of lip gloss on my face. So ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

As Cupid's arrow gets ready to aim and fire at our household tomorrow, I feel like my dapper husband, who Mary calls 'handsome' every morning as he heads off to work, deserves something a little more glamorous.

But then I remember that look. The one he gave Bobby on Saturday as he told me to rest a little longer. He leaned into the baby's bassinet, mouth agape in the biggest, loving smile, and said, 'let's go buddy.' I saw him walk out of the room, no strut out of the room, beaming with pride at his mini me.

And then I remember the look he gave Mary on Wednesday as he was dipping her in concert with Cinderella as Prince Charming waltzed her up and down the grand room of the Royal Ball.

And then there were all the looks he gave me over the past several weeks: As we hand children off from bathing to diapering to PJ stations each night; As he steals a peak at me out of the corner of his eye when we're reading as a family before bed; And as he asks to help me through dazed eyes in the middle of the night as I move Bobby from bed to boob to placate his hunger. Despite the lack of glamour in our life right now, each of these looks tells me one thing: that our household is filled with nothing but love.

Several months ago, as we were evaluating the arrival of Robert into our lives, and calculating the costs that we would incur with two children as our dependents, my mind wandered into a world without kids. Peter said there was a name of it: DINKs. Double income, no kids. Ah. Weekender vacations. Neiman Marcus binges. Five-star restaurants. And a little more champagne than normal.

Instead we have replaced the luxuries that we might be able to afford with diapers and bottles; tantrums and time outs; and a whole lot less sleep. But there's something about all these rigors that has brought my husband and I closer than ever. It's a bond, a private reservation for two, that no VIP couple can beat.

Thank you to my Daddy Valentine for always giving your three babies all your love. Happy Valentine's Day.

Love.
Lo.
And Mary.
And Robert.